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It wasn’t until he reached the Shire that it occurred to Thorin that he should have written to let Bilbo know he was coming.
Perhaps if he had planned it better, he would have. Perhaps if he hadn’t simply woken in Erebor one morning with a gasp, a knot of dread deep in his stomach that he could no longer ignore, a certainty that he had made a grave mistake in letting Bilbo go, he might have talked it over a bit longer with Balin and arranged things properly. To Balin’s credit, he didn’t seem all that surprised when Thorin dashed into his study, fastening his traveling cloak around his neck and shouting that he was leaving for the Shire at once. It seemed Balin had planned for this possibility in advance.
Thorin had set off that very morning, joining a small caravan of traders on their way to Ered Luin. Dwalin had caught up to them by the evening, muttering darkly about Thorin running off alone and carrying quite a few things Thorin had forgotten in his hurry. Thorin had clasped Dwalin’s neck and rested their foreheads together, thankful for his friend.
“As if you’d be able to find the way yourself,” Dwalin had growled at him in annoyance. “Ach, but love makes fools of us all. Let's go get your lad.”
When they broke from the caravan in Bree and their ponies finally crossed the Baranduin and into the Shire, there were many curious stares and whispers, and more than one hobbit who scurried back inside and slammed the door as they passed. Thorin was reminded again of how suspicious the hobbits were of outsiders, and that was when he realized he probably should have sent a letter ahead to warn Bilbo of the mess he was about to bring down on his head. Well, too late for warnings now, he thought, and tried to quell his nerves.
Word traveled fast in the Shire, but not so fast that it beat them to Bag End. Thorin dismounted at the gate and handed the reins off to Dwalin, his heart hammering in his chest as he looked once again on that round door and knew who he would find behind it.
Except he didn’t find Bilbo - not at first, that is. After several minutes knocking and waiting and wondering if perhaps he’d come while Bilbo was out, he started to turn back to Dwalin when he heard a burst of laughter from around the back of the hill. Dwalin had tied the ponies by then and they both started around the hobbit hole toward the voices.
Thorin’s first look at Bilbo nearly made him stumble. He pulled up short, unable to do anything but stare. Bilbo spotted them a moment later, and his mouth dropped open into a little ‘o.’ He promptly dropped the teacup and saucer he’d been holding, shattering it on the ground. He didn’t seem to notice the tea spilled all over his feet as he took a step forward - thankfully not on the broken china.
“Thorin?” he said softly, disbelievingly, before a smile grew handsomely across his face. “Thorin!”
Thorin couldn’t help the grin he returned as Bilbo hurried up to him and hugged him tightly. Thorin’s breath caught in his chest to have Bilbo back in his arms again so suddenly, but it was over in a matter of seconds. The hobbit’s hands fluttered as he pulled away, not seeming to know where to go, and his eyes darted around Thorin’s face like he was trying to take in every detail. Thorin couldn’t even get a word out before Bilbo spotted Dwalin over his shoulder and hurried to hug him as well, taking the old warrior by surprise.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you both!” Bilbo exclaimed. “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? You aren’t just passing through, are you? You’ll stay, at least a few days? Oh, the whole Shire must be buzzing!”
“Aye, we’ll stay,” Thorin said softly, unable to take his eyes off of Bilbo. He looked much the same as when he’d last seen him, and Thorin itched to reach out and pull him back into his arms. He’d gone nearly a year without seeing him, and now his whole body sang to be close again. His affection for the hobbit had only grown over their separation.
He was about to explain further, when someone cleared their throat behind them, and Bilbo jumped. “Oh! Hamfast! You must meet Hamfast!” Bilbo turned and waved over another hobbit. This one was maybe a few years younger than Bilbo, with a kind if cautious expression. He had surprisingly well-muscled arms for a hobbit, but was still round around the middle, as most of them were. His curls were only slightly darker than Bilbo’s, and his face was square and comely. Thorin stiffened, immediately suspicious of this strange hobbit who was spending time in Bilbo’s company.
“Thorin, Dwalin, this is my gardener and very dear friend, Hamfast Gamgee,” Bilbo introduced, his voice full of warmth. “Hamfast, this is Thorin, son of Thrain, and Dwalin, son of Fundin, two of the dwarves from my adventure.” Bilbo’s hand rested against Hamfast’s arm as he introduced them. Hamfast stepped forward and held out a hand in the way of hobbit greetings, and Thorin took it, resisting the sudden, odd urge to rip it off. By the wince in Hamfast’s face when he shook Dwalin’s hand, the other dwarf was feeling likewise inclined.
“Do come sit,” Bilbo told them, ushering them back toward town garden benches. “Hamfast and I were just having tea. Let me go get a few more cups,” he said, and dashed back into his hobbit hole through a back door.
Thorin, Dwalin, and Hamfast stood in the garden, sizing each other up. Hamfast cleared his throat again, sitting down and making the first valiant attempt to break the ice. “It must have been quite the journey here,” he said with a polite smile. “Are you planning on staying long?”
Thorin surveyed him under his severe brow. “It depends,” he said, refusing to give more details. He and Dwalin sat slowly down on the opposite bench.
Hamfast twisted his gardening gloves in his hands nervously, trying again. “Well, I hope you’ll stay for the Hobbit-Bywater Fair. It’s quite the event here in the Shire.”
Before Thorin could respond, Bilbo bustled back out with three fresh cups, a teapot, and a selection of biscuits on a tray. “Here we are, then,” he said happily. He quickly poured tea, offered Hamfast a top-up, and handed cups to the dwarves, which they held gingerly in their large hands.
“Did I hear someone mention the Fair?” Bilbo asked, sitting down beside Hamfast with his own cup of tea.
“I was just telling Mister Thorin and Mister Dwalin that they should stay to see it,” Hamfast said, relaxing a bit now that Bilbo had returned.
“Oh, yes, you must!” Bilbo said, turning pleading eyes on Thorin. “It’s set to start tomorrow. I’ve got my tomatoes entered, of course. I’m hopeful for a ribbon this year, thanks to Hamfast here.” Bilbo patted Hamfast’s knee fondly, and Dwalin elbowed Thorin in the ribs right as Thorin took a sip of tea to disguise his glowering. He sputtered, coughing and throwing an indignant look at Dwalin.
“Oh dear, are you alright? Is it the tea? Did I make it too strong?” Bilbo fussed, oblivious to the silent exchange between the two dwarves.
“No, I beg your pardon, the tea is fine,” Thorin answered, stomping discreetly on Dwalin’s foot. “I, ah—I look forward to…seeing your tomatoes,” he continued, unsure exactly what kind of sport these tomatoes were to be a part of. It seemed an appropriate enough answer, as Bilbo beamed at him.
“I’m sure it’ll be unlike anything you’ve seen before. Hobbits can throw quite the frolic when we want to. There’s always enough food to feed the whole Shire for a month. And the contests! Those are always worth showing up, just to see everyone trying to win over their sweetheart,” Bilbo grinned. “Why, Hamfast here has promised me he’ll compete this year!”
Thorin was ready for Dwalin’s elbow this time and blocked it with his own. “These contests…are to prove your worthiness to a suitor?” Thorin asked, trying to sound casual about it.
Bilbo laughed. “Well, I don’t know about worthiness, but they’ve certainly gotten more than one Shire couple off the ground before. It’s all a bit silly, I suppose, but it’s common for a hobbit lad to ask someone he’s sweet on to wear his winner’s ribbon. It’s a way to say he’s interested in her, and if she accepts it, that she’s interested back. Many a fight over a pretty girl has been settled by who won the most ribbons in the contests.”
Thorin nodded. It wasn’t all that different from dwarf courtships, then. Generations of dwarves had settled who they would marry by competing to see who could throw hammers the farthest and still hit their target, or who could lift the heaviest boulders. Thorin glanced at Hamfast again. He may have been a particularly fit hobbit, but he was still no match for a dwarf. This was going to be child’s play.
-
Hamfast left a short time later and Bilbo ushered the dwarves to collect their things and stable the ponies while he readied a couple of guest rooms.
“Who does tha’ Hamfast think he is?” Dwalin growled as they dumped their bags by the door and stomped back to the ponies to take them down to the public stable. “His gardener? Wha’ exactly does Bilbo need with a gardener? Seemed good enough at doin’ his own gardenin’ to me.”
Thorin shot Dwalin an anxious look as they led their ponies down the lane. “You think he’s…interested in Bilbo, then?” he asked darkly.
“Tha’s exactly what I think,” Dwalin spat. “We were off settlin’ things in Erebor, and here he’s been the whole time, coddlin’ up to Bilbo! Is a good thing we got here when we did, Thorin, I tell you tha’. There’s still time for you to show that upstart that Bilbo’s already spoken for.” He stopped, turning to look Thorin fully in the face and prodded a finger into his chest to stress his point. “You’ve got to follow this eejit around tomorrow. Enter every contest he does, and beat him. Dinnae let him win a single ribbon. Make sure it’s your ribbons Bilbo’s wearing tomorrow, ye hear?”
Thorin nodded determinedly. He wouldn’t let Hamfast win over his Bilbo without a fight. He only hoped Bilbo was still receptive to his suit after he’d been gone for so long.
The dwarves left their ponies at the stables, tossing a few coins to the stable boy as they left, and headed back up the hill to Bag End. Bilbo welcomed them back warmly and showed them their rooms, then scurried off to make dinner while they brought in their things.
Bilbo had given Thorin the room next to his own, done up in pretty blues that complimented the wood accents well. There was a large, soft bed and a wide round window that looked out onto the garden and let in the sun. As Thorin dropped his bags at the foot of the bed, he spotted a bouquet of fresh flowers set on his bedside table and approached them for a closer look. They were beautiful flowers, exotic-looking in white and pink and purple with brilliant long green leaves.
“Is the room alright?” Bilbo asked, coming in as he wiped his hands on a dishcloth. “This one was always my favorite.” He spotted Thorin at the flowers and smiled. “Like those? They’re alstroemeria. They’ve been growing here for years; my mother planted them.” He approached Thorin and reached a finger out to pet softly against a petal. “They’d nearly died while I was off with you lot. But Hamfast helped me bring them back.”
Bilbo looked up at him as he said this, something both sad and hopeful lingering in his eyes for a brief moment before he smiled again. When his hand left the flowers, it went instead to Thorin’s arm, resting lightly there. “I’m so glad you’re back, Thorin, I really am.”
Thorin felt his breath catch as he looked back at his hobbit. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but Bilbo’s mention of Hamfast seemed to plug them all up so he couldn’t get them out. He wanted to reach up and tuck Bilbo’s wayward curl behind his ear. He wanted to run the pad of his finger over the point of that ear and watch how Bilbo reacted. He wanted to cup Bilbo’s face in his hands so gently and show him in no uncertain terms how he’d longed for the hobbit over the past year.
The shrill whistle of the kettle boiling broke the spell of that moment, and Bilbo blinked back to himself and pulled his hand back quickly. “Right,” he said in a high voice with a nervous laugh. “Dinner will be ready shortly. Don’t forget to wash up!” And with that he was back out of the room in a flash, and Thorin felt his hand clench around nothing.
Dwalin stomped in a moment later, a smirk on his face as he took in Thorin’s flustered appearance. “Aye, I’d say you still have a chance,” he said. “Just make sure you win those ribbons tomorrow, and he’ll be all over you.”
Thorin scrubbed a hand over his face, smoothing his beard down with a nervous look at his friend.
“Ach, you’ve nothing to worry about,” Dwalin said. “I bet tha’ tosser cannae even lift a boulder bigger than his head. You’ll have Bilbo on yer arm before sunset tomorrow, mark my words.”
-
As it turned out, hobbit contests were a bit different than dwarf contests.
They walked to the fair grounds with Bilbo the next morning, Thorin carefully toting the basket that held Bilbo’s best tomatoes. Bilbo was in high spirits, having put on his second-best waistcoat for the occasion, a beautifully embroidered green one that set off his eyes. Thorin had to pay careful attention to keep from tripping into the wagon ruts lining the road and sending the basket flying every time Bilbo turned his handsome face up at him. He felt like an adolescent again, clumsy and stuttering, taking his first crush to a gem dig.
The fairgrounds were crowded with more hobbits than he had ever seen in one place before - all ages shouting and running and haggling and laughing and carrying or leading all sorts of barnyard animals. They waded into the din, turning many heads as they did, Bilbo looking for the produce contest tables as Thorin and Dwalin followed behind, their heads conspicuously sticking up over the crowd, which parted around them with obvious stares.
“I think it’s just up here,” Bilbo shouted to be heard, but at that moment, Dwalin grabbed his arm and pointed. Thorin followed his hand and saw Hamfast up ahead, headed their way.
“Uh, actually, I think I see it over there, Bilbo,” Thorin called, reaching out to try and pull the hobbit in the opposite direction.
“Are you sure? I thought sure Hamfast said it would be on the west side of the pond,” Bilbo said, but let himself be pulled.
“Bilbo! Where are you off to?” It was Hamfast’s voice that reached them, and Thorin and Dwalin both scowled as Bilbo turned again.
“Hamfast! Beautiful day for the fair, isn’t it?” Bilbo asked, stopping to talk. The crowds of hobbits parted around them like a rock in a river, and Thorin did his best to ignore their whispers. “We were just looking for the produce contests.”
“It’s this way,” Hamfast said, beckoning them to follow. “By the pond!”
Thorin felt Bilbo’s arm slip from his grasp and tail after Hamfast and he cursed under his breath, stomping behind them. When they finally broke free of the crowded thoroughfare, they came into a field next to a pond where long tables had been set up in rows. Handmade signs were placed on them, designating which produce went on which table, and Bilbo quickly made his way to the tomato table and nudged Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ basket over to make space for his own.
Thorin nodded moodily at Hamfast when the hobbit greeted them. Bilbo took a moment to arrange his tomatoes how he wanted them, then turned back to his friends. “Well, Hamfast, ready to show us what you’re made of?” Bilbo said, giving the hobbit a teasing smile that Thorin was immediately jealous of. “I suppose you’ve got contests lined up all day?”
“That I do, that I do,” Hamfast said, smiling shyly back at Bilbo as he hooked his thumbs into the bib of his dungarees. “I only hope I can win enough ribbons,” he continued, shuffling his feet nervously.
Bilbo put his hand on Hamfast’s shoulder, and Thorin felt ill as he watched their exchange. “Any hobbit would be proud to wear your ribbons, Hamfast,” Bilbo said kindly.
Do something! Dwalin signed at Thorin furiously in Iglishmêk behind their backs, looking pointedly at Bilbo and back again.
“Hamfast!” Thorin barked without thinking about it, then scrambled to come up with something to say when both hobbits jumped a bit and turned toward him. “Er…what—what contests will you be joining? I think—I think perhaps I’ll join some as well. To…ah, take in the Shire culture,” he stammered. He watched Dwalin rub a hand over his face in barely-controlled exasperation behind the hobbits.
“Oh! Well, all are welcome to join, o’ course, Mister Thorin,” Hamfast said politely. “Though you’ll find they get mighty competitive, what with everyone wanting a ribbon to give to their sweetheart,” he said, sharing a chuckle with Bilbo. “First up is the conkers tournament; have you ever played it?”
“Ah,” said Thorin, who had no idea what conkers was and only remembered Bilbo mentioning it once or twice. He was saved from having to answer that when a fair official shouted over the din into a speaking trumpet.
“CONKERS TOURNAMENT BEGINS IN TWO MINUTES! PLAYERS LINE UP!”
“That’s me, gents, if you’ll excuse me,” Hamfast said, dashing off toward the official. Thorin, realizing that was his cue as well, quickly followed him without looking back.
The crowd seemed to swell around the conker’s field, and as Thorin took his place in line, he spotted Dwalin clearing a path for Bilbo to a premium spot on the fence from which to watch the game, scowling at a few other audience members until they scattered and made a space. Bilbo waved at him, smiling, and Thorin started to wave back until he saw Hamfast, three spots ahead of him in line, waving back. Thorin redoubled his resolve to beat him and win Bilbo’s heart.
Thorin concentrated on the game as it began, focusing on how it was played. The first player dug through a proffered bag until he had selected a remarkably round chestnut. Then he stepped forward to a line marked in the grass and rolled the chestnut toward a wicket that had been hammered into the ground at the far end of the field. It landed a few meters away, and the crowd politely clapped. The next player selected his chestnut and stepped forward, rolling it toward the wicket. This one landed slightly closer, and there was a cheer or two as the audience clapped.
The third player managed to knock the second player’s chestnut further away from the wicket, and there were mixed groans and cheers from the crowd. Thorin surmised that the point of the game was to get your chestnut as close to the target as you could, while also knocking anyone else who was close further away. He clasped his hands together and grinned. This wouldn’t be that hard after all, he thought. He was at the end of the line of competitors, which meant he got the advantage of being the last to play; he wouldn’t have anyone coming after him to knock him away.
Slowly the line worked its way forward as players took their shot. Thorin glowered as Hamfast stepped up for his turn and Bilbo called out, “You’ve got this, Hamfast!” Hamfast took a moment to turn his chestnut over in his hands, squinting at the wicket and carefully calculating his move before he wound up and let the chestnut roll. It skipped over the grass, looking like it was going to go left of the wicket and past it, when it struck another player’s chestnut and Hamfast’s rebounded, coming to rest directly against the wicket.
Hamfast pumped a fist into the air and the crowd cheered, drowning out Thorin’s groan. It wouldn’t matter how close he got to the wicket if he couldn’t knock Hamfast’s back.
The last few players in front of him took their turns, but were unable to get close enough to knock Hamfast’s chestnut out of play. Thorin clenched and unclenched his hands as he stepped forward. An old hobbit approached, holding the chestnut bag, and Thorin took the last remaining chestnut in it: the most knobby, misshapen nut he’d ever seen. He swallowed, checking the bag again to make sure there wasn’t another option that he’d missed, but the old hobbit just cleared his throat impatiently and pushed Thorin forward toward the play line.
“Woo, Thorin!” came Bilbo’s voice from the fence. “You can do it!” Thorin gave a firm nod. He could do this. He was going to win that ribbon. For Bilbo.
He looked at the chestnut in his hand. It was far too lumpy to roll; he’d never be able to control its trajectory. He’d have to throw it. This was arguably better for him; he could be quite the shot throwing stones. He adjusted his stance, took a deep breath, wound up, and let the chestnut fly.
It soared quickly over the grass, hurtling toward the wicket - but Thorin’s aim had been too good. It struck the bundle of chestnuts that lay surrounding Hamfast’s hard and ricocheted off, arcing through the air and smacking right into the face of a buck-toothed hobbit child that had been hanging off the fence to watch.
Thorin looked on in horror and the child fell back and started to wail. There was a collective gasp from the audience, and then a rush of people toward the child. Thorin took off running toward him, too, slamming up to the fence just as Bilbo and Dwalin reached him.
“Ach, he’s fine!” Dwalin said loudly, grabbing the boy by his jacket and standing him up. He slapped at his cheeks a few times until the boy’s eyes fluttered open. “There, see! Fit as a fiddle!” He let the child go and then promptly caught him again as the little hobbit collapsed. “Nothing serious, nothing serious! Every boy gets a little bump every now and then!”
Thorin watched in alarm as the boy’s eye began bruising, groaning and hiding his face in his hands. He didn’t look up until he heard a choking sound come from right next to him. Bilbo was there, an arm covering his face, which was turning gradually redder.
“Oh Yavannah, don’t let them see me laughing,” he muttered, hiding his face behind Thorin’s broad shoulder as he tried to stifle giggles. Thorin looked at him in utter amazement.
“Don’t give me that look, Thorin,” Bilbo tried to chastise him, but was struggling too hard to keep his laughter down. “You absolutely beamed that Bracegirdle boy,” he choked out, waving a hand in front of his face as tears began to leak from his eyes. “Sweet lady, the look on your face! Don’t look at me; it keeps setting me off!”
Thorin felt his face blooming into a smile as he watched Bilbo. He started to reach out for him and pull him closer when he heard another voice call out.
“Alright, alright! Everyone step back! The boy’s fine, here’s his father now,” Thorin watched as one of the games officials cleared a space around the boy, who was now starting to sit up, his face streaked with tears but cracking a smile as he realized all the attention he was getting. The boy’s father didn’t seem to put out by the whole affair, pulling him up and dusting him off before taking his hand and pulling him away from the field.
“I’m afraid you’re disqualified, Master Dwarf,” said the games official, trying to regain order. Thorin sighed, glancing back at the wicket to see that Hamfast’s chestnut still sat up against it. Seeing Bilbo in the crowd of people gathering around Hamfast to congratulate him on the win wasn’t as painful as it could have been, though, as Thorin watched him hiding half his face behind a handkerchief. Not when Bilbo’s eyes met his and sparkled.
-
“Well, that didnae go as planned,” Dwalin muttered so only Thorin could hear a little later as they stood in the conkers field, waiting for the next game to set up. “But it’s just one loss, lad; dinnae give up. You can still win the rest of them. Bilbo winnae spend one minute looking at Hamfast’s measly ribbon when you’ve got a whole handful to pin on him.“
Thorin grunted his acknowledgement, keeping an eye on Hamfast and Bilbo a little ways off. He watched Bilbo gently touch the ribbon pinned to Hamfast’s chest and wanted to storm off, but took deep breaths instead, trying to calm himself.
“Thorin,” Bilbo called to him, motioning him over. “Hamfast says it’s the sunflower seed spitting contest next. All you have to do is spit one as far as you can.”
Thorin felt his nerves lift a bit at that. Spitting seeds was easy enough, being something that boys of all races practiced while they were young.
“Just try no to knock out any wee hobbits this time,” Dwalin growled behind him, shoving him off toward the line of competitors. Thorin scowled back at him as he picked a spot along the line and squeezed himself in. He saw Hamfast join the line at the other end.
“Alright, ladies and gents, listen up!” called a games official through his speaking trumpet. “Each competitor gets one turn and only one turn. Whoever spits their seed the farthest wins the ribbon!”
The players all shuffled on the line, elbowing each other as they waited impatiently for the game to start. One official approached Thorin’s end of the line with a basket of sunflower seeds, while another headed for the other end of the field with a handful of small flags.
The first hobbit chose his seed, popped it into his mouth, and spit it as hard as he could. Thorin squinted to watch the little seed fly about five meters away and hit the grass. An official scurried up to it and planted a flag into the ground next to it, then stepped aside again. Three more hobbits took their turns with varying degrees of success, and then it was Thorin’s turn.
He plucked a seed from the basket and dropped it on his tongue. He toed the line. His eyes glanced over to Bilbo where he stood leaning over the fence again, watching him with a smile. The morning sun shone around him like a halo, and Thorin was struck by how beautiful the hobbit was, and how dearly Thorin ached for him. He shuddered an intake of breath—and the seed promptly hit the back of his throat.
Thorin sputtered and coughed, bending forward as he hacked until finally the seed dislodged and went flying, landing flatly only three meters from his feet. Thorin gaped at it in astonishment. The crowd, which had been waiting to see how well a dwarf could spit, muttered disappointed noises. He turned toward the official, ready to plead for another try, but the hobbit cut him off. “Sorry, Master Dwarf, only one per person. Those are the rules,” he said, stepping up to the next hobbit in the line.
Thorin threw his head back in defeat, cursing at the sky under his breath. When he looked back over at Bilbo and Dwalin, Bilbo just gave him a sympathetic shrug, while Dwalin looked ready to pull out his own beard.
The game continued and finally reached Hamfast at the other end of the line. Thorin sent up a prayer that a bird would swoop down and carry off Hamfast’s seed when he spit it, but no such thing happened, and the hobbit shot his seed an impressive 12 meters, farther than anyone else. Thorin chewed the inside of his cheek as everyone cheered and clapped.
No one else even came close to Hamfast’s play, and so Thorin found himself again watching as a blue ribbon was pinned to Hamfast’s dungarees. Bilbo came up behind him and tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Thorin! They’re about to judge my tomatoes!”
Grateful that Bilbo had said nothing about his miserable failure and wasn’t so embarrassed by it that he didn’t want to be seen with Thorin anymore, Thorin and Dwalin followed Bilbo back to the produce contests, arguing in Iglishmêk the whole way. Many hobbits lined the fences as a select group of white-haired halflings went from basket to basket, sampling the fruits and vegetables.
“Oh, I’m so nervous,” Bilbo whispered, jumping up and down on his toes. “Look, they’re trying Lobelia’s now—-ha! That’s the face I expected; her tomatoes have always been bland, but she insists they’re the best in the Shire.”
Thorin watched as they stepped to the next basket—Bilbo’s—and selected a plump tomato, passing it around to each other and rotating it in their hands before cutting it into wedges. Thorin looked down when he felt Bilbo grab his arm anxiously, but the hobbit’s eyes were locked on the judges. Thorin placed his hand over Bilbo’s and squeezed it, offering what support he could, and felt Bilbo lean into him more in response. The old hobbits chewed Bilbo’s tomato slowly, some of them nodding, before they swallowed, made notes on their little papers, and swished their mouths out with canteens of water. They repeated all this at the last basket of tomatoes and huddled together to confer with each other.
A moment later, a judge pulled out a blue ribbon, and hung it on the handle of Bilbo’s basket.
“Oh!” Bilbo squeaked. “I’ve done it! I’ve won!” He turned to Thorin, eyes wide and a smile growing on his face, and Thorin beamed back at him, pride swelling in his chest. Of course Bilbo had won. Bilbo would win every contest he entered. Bilbo was the most magnificent being in Middle Earth; how could anyone look at him and not know that?
“I can’t believe it,” Bilbo giggled. Thorin couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bilbo’s smile. He wanted to lean in and press a kiss to those lips so badly. “Is Hamfast here? I have to tell him! I couldn’t have done it without him!” Bilbo craned his neck around looking for Hamfast, and Thorin’s stomach sank like a rock. Of course that would be Bilbo’s first thought.
“Oh, there he is!” Bilbo said, and pushed through the crowd. “Hamfast! Hamfast! We’ve won!”
Dwalin roughly pushed Thorin forward toward them.
“—very happy for you, Mister Bilbo,” Thorin heard Hamfast saying as he stomped up to them. “That’s wonderful news! And now you’ve got your own ribbon to be giving away!” Thorin bristled at that. He’d be mucking out the pigpens before he watched Bilbo pin that ribbon on Hamfast’s chest.
Hamfast turned toward Thorin then. “Mister Thorin! I was just heading for the pie-eating contest. If it’s hobbit culture you’re wanting to experience, that’s the ticket!”
“Oh, yes, you’ll be perfect for that one, Thorin!” Bilbo chimed in, and took his wrist to tug him along toward an area where a stage had been set up. Thorin let himself be pulled wherever Bilbo would lead him.
-
Thorin sat in a too-small chair on the stage beside seven other hobbits, a long table with a white tablecloth set up in front of them. He glanced over at Hamfast next to him, who wiggled his eyebrows at him. “This one’s always been my favorite,” he told Thorin. “I work up such an appetite on the rest. And Bell makes the pies. I could eat them for days.”
Thorin grunted, shifting focus as a thick pie was set in front of each contestant. They did look like good pies.
“Alright, contestants!” called the games official. “You will have fifteen minutes to eat as many of these delicious apple pies as you can. The one who eats the most without any of it coming back up again will be the winner! Setting the timer now…get ready…GO!”
Thorin bent over the pie, grabbing a fork and scooping a huge bite into his mouth. The pie was good, but there wasn’t time to savor it; Hamfast was shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate that had Thorin glancing at him in disbelief. He sped up his pace, realizing this wasn’t going to be an easy race. He managed to catch up to him as they finished their first pies, and two fresh ones were slipped in front of them.
Thorin knew hobbits could eat, but he was frankly astonished at just how quickly and how much they could eat. He had the bigger mouth, he knew, but these hobbits were like bottomless pits. Did they even chew?
He and Hamfast stayed neck-and-neck through their second and third pies. Thorin was beginning to feel a fullness in his belly on the fourth, and a hobbit down the line threw down his napkin and gave up.
Hamfast managed to get a little lead during the fifth pie, when Thorin had to stop and let out a mighty belch before continuing with renewed determination. Two more contestants gave up, and Thorin heard the sound of retching, but refused to break focus from his pie. Hamfast was still leading by a quarter of a pie.
Thorin gained some ground during the sixth pie, but it was hard won. His breeches felt suddenly like they were cutting into his stomach, which in turn felt hard as a boulder. The taste of the pies, so good at first, was quickly turning unsavory. Still, he forced more food down, making himself swallow and reach for the next pie.
He was only a little behind Hamfast now, and tried to take even bigger bites to speed him along. He was over halfway through the seventh pie when the bell rang: the fifteen minutes was over. Thorin shoved back from the table, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a race on foot, hands clutched over his stomach as he waited for the judges to declare a winner.
They were close, even Thorin could see that. There was excited whispering as the judges conferred. Thorin glanced out to the audience and saw Bilbo flash him two thumbs up. Someone hauled a scale up onto the stage, and the hobbits carefully set the remains of their pies on it.
Thorin’s pie sat slightly lower.
“Hamfast is the winner!” called a judge, and the crowd cheered as Hamfast stepped forward to have his ribbon pinned on.
Thorin left the stage with the other losing competitors, but instead of turning left toward Bilbo and Dwalin, he made a hard right toward a clump of bushes and promptly bent over as his body began to heave. It took a while for his body to expel it all, but at some point he felt Dwalin at his side, lifting his hair back.
“Tha’s it, lad, get it all out,” he said, and Thorin groaned.
When nothing more came up, Thorin sat back heavily on his heels. He felt clammy with sweat, and his now empty stomach cramped. “I hope I never taste another apple pie in my life,” he said, voice gravelly, and spit bile into the dirt at their feet.
“There you are!” came Bilbo’s voice as he rounded the stage. “Oh, Thorin…you don’t look so good. Maybe we should head back to Bag End…?”
Thorin looked up at Bilbo miserably. He was everything that Thorin wanted and admired. He was clever, resourceful, handsome, and kind. And he knew Hamfast saw all that, too. Hamfast, who had beat him three times, and now had three blue ribbons pinned to his chest as he approached them, not even having the grace to look uncomfortable after downing nearly seven whole pies. Maybe I should call it a day, Thorin thought sullenly. Maybe I should just give up before I lose the last ounce of dignity I possess.
“Everyone alright?” Hamfast said as he came to stand next to Bilbo. “You gave me quite the run for my money, you did!” he said, holding a hand out to Thorin. Thorin took it and let the hobbit pull him to his feet. “I don’t think the fair’s had such a close call on the pie-eating contest in ten years!”
“Yes, well, we were just discussing going home to rest for a bit,” Bilbo said, looking worriedly at Thorin.
“Ah, yeah, could be a good time for it. It’s the milking contest up next, that’s probably nothing you haven’t seen before, Thorin,” Hamfast said, clapping a friendly hand to Thorin’s arm.
Thorin swallowed thickly. Hamfast was right, he’d done his fair share of milking in exile; that was nothing new.
“You could get a rest, too, Bilbo; you don’t need to stay and watch. I’ve entered, but you know I’m better with the plants than the animals,” Hamfast said to Bilbo. “I’ve got no chance to win it.”
Bilbo started to answer, but Thorin interrupted him. “I’ll enter.”
“Are you sure, Thorin?” Bilbo asked. ”You really do look a bit peaky after that last one.”
Thorin nodded, straightening his clothes and pushing his hair back from his face. “I’m alright. I just needed a moment to rest. I wouldn’t miss the, ah—the milking contests.”
Dwalin clapped him on the shoulder companionably. “Tha’s right! Thorin here disnae go out tha’ easily! Lead the way!”
They let Hamfast and Bilbo go ahead of them. Dwalin leaned close as they followed. “Dinnae give up hope yet,” he muttered into Thorin’s ear. “There’s still time for you to catch up! He’s got three, aye? You can still get three and even the playin’ field!” He pressed a canteen into Thorin’s hands for him to rinse his mouth, hurrying along to keep up with the hobbits.
-
Thorin really felt he had a chance with the milking. Two rows of eight Jersey cows each stood chewing their cud patiently in a barnyard as the contestants gathered to listen to the official give the rules.
“Everyone gets a bucket,” the old hobbit said, handing them around. “When the timekeeper says ‘go,’ you’ve got three minutes to milk as fast as you can. The contestant who yields the most milk wins. Understand?” There was a muttering of assent. “Then everyone take a cow.”
Thorin carried his bucket down a row and chose the first open cow he came to. He saw the cow’s black eye roll back to look at him, her ear twitching as she tossed her head. “Easy,” he murmured, sliding a hand along her side as he lowered himself onto the milking stool. “It’s alright. We’re gonna be a team, you and me,” he said soothingly. He knew it was unlikely this cow had ever seen a dwarf; but he wasn’t so unlike a hobbit, was he? He placed the bucket beneath her udder and waited for the timekeeper’s signal.
When the signal came, he set to work quickly and efficiently. His hands were cold, and the cow stamped a bit at that, but there was no time to stop and warm them. She was a good cow, with plenty of milk that she gave easily, but her nerves were up. He talked lowly to her to try and comfort her as his hands kept up their steady work, but she shifted restlessly, her tail twitching back and forth, back and forth.
His bucket was half full when the wind changed, suddenly coming in from behind Thorin. He heard the cow give a great snort as his scent traveled to her, and before he could grab the bucket out from under her, she kicked up a hoof and knocked it over, spilling most of its contents out into the mud.
Thorin gritted his teeth and grabbed for the bucket, trying to right it, but the cow let out a powerful bellow as she danced in place, and her outburst quickly spread to the cows on either side. Each cow tossed its head and pawed at the ground and kicked its bucket over. It spread like this down the line until all eight cows in the row were snorting and pulling at their ropes, and all eight contestants had given up trying to get their buckets back under them. Creamy white milk lay in puddles underneath them.
“That’s time! Hands down!” the timekeeper called a moment later, and Thorin heaved a deep sigh and hung his head. He waited until the judges checked each bucket and declared a surprised and delighted Hamfast (who had been in the row opposite Thorin) the winner before he trudged out of the barnyard.
When Dwalin popped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, Thorin rounded on him. “Not a word,” he spat. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. All I’ve done is make a fool of myself over and over in front of the only person I want to impress!”
“Aye, I’ll admit today has no’ gone the way I expected,” Dwalin answered placatingly, hands up with his palms facing Thorin. “These halfling games are no’ like what we’re used to. But it’s no’ over yet. So you may no’ have as many ribbons as Hamfast. Bu’ there’s still time to make sure you’ve got a’ least one to offer your hobbit! One may be all it takes to win his heart.”
Thorin stared at Dwalin despondently for a moment before he turned again and walked away, too tired to argue.
“You’ve had quite the run of bad luck today,” a voice said to his left, and he looked up to see Bilbo sitting on one of the wooden railings, kicking his feet in the air.
“It’s been…an experience quite unlike any other,” Thorin said tiredly, turning toward him and giving him a lopsided smile. Even in his sulk he couldn’t repress a smile when faced with his hobbit.
Bilbo slid down off the railing and stepped toward him. “Listen, Thorin, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said as he slipped a hand into his pocket. Thorin studied Bilbo’s face carefully, the hobbit’s expression suddenly nervous. Thorin nodded for him to continue, resisting the urge to reach out and take Bilbo’s small wrist in hand and bring it up to press against his lips softly.
“Mister Bilbo! There you are!” Hamfast materialized beside them, and Thorin had to physically lock himself up to keep from grabbing the hobbit and physically tossing him away. Mahal save him from these confounding halflings!
“H—Hamfast!” Bilbo squeaked, seemingly as surprised as Thorin was at his friend’s sudden reappearance. “Congratulations on the milking contest! That makes, what, four ribbons now?” he asked, tucking a curl behind his ear nervously.
Hamfast nodded. “And I think that’s enough, don’t you?”
“Well, I should think so,” Bilbo answered, shooting him a smile. “It’s more than anyone else I’ve met today!”
Hamfast beamed at him. “Good. Yeah. I think I’ll skip out on the plowing contest, then. I should, ah, head home and get cleaned up. For tonight.”
“You should,” Bilbo agreed. Hamfast patted Bilbo’s arm determinedly and turned and nodded to Thorin, not caring that Thorin only glared back at him as the hobbit disappeared into the crowd in a hurry.
“Which way to the plowing contest?” Thorin growled at Bilbo, a new determination sinking into him. If Hamfast was gone, he might actually have a chance at something, and Thorin was not going to let this last opportunity slip through his fingers. Maybe his problem had been Hamfast all day. Maybe the hobbit had been his bad luck all along.
Bilbo blinked at him in surprise. “Over on the conkers field again, I think, but—“ Thorin turned and set off in the direction Bilbo pointed at a sprint. “Thorin, wait!” he heard Bilbo call, but he didn’t slow. One more chance. He had one more chance to win a ribbon he could offer Bilbo, and he had to take it. He had to show Bilbo how much he cared for him, how hard he would work to win his favor. He had to give him something before that conniving Hamfast came back and stole Bilbo away right under his nose!
He arrived at the field just as the contestants were taking their places. Thorin hurried to stand behind a plow, glancing at the other contestants before he followed their lead and slipped the looped rein over his head and under one arm. He took hold of the plow handles and tried not to think too much about the two enormous draft horses standing in front of it. He’d never worked a plow before in his life. Dwarves were miners; not farmers. But there were only three others waiting for the contest to begin, and none of them were Hamfast, and Thorin began to feel hope for the first time since the morning.
Bilbo caught up just as the contest official shouted for them to begin, and Thorin glanced at what the others did and followed suit, snapping the reins lightly with one hand and clicking his tongue while the other hand directed the plow into the earth.
It was a clumsy affair, surprisingly difficult to juggle both the reins and the plow, and Thorin felt his whole body in action trying to keep everything steady and balanced. The horses pulled the plow easily enough, but they took great long steps that made Thorin jog to keep up, and it was difficult not to trip into the furrow he’d just dug as he followed behind them. It took only a matter of minutes, but he was panting as he neared the end of his row, designated by a stake driven into the ground with a scrap of bright fabric tied to it. As the plow drove past it, he instinctively pulled back on the reins as hard as he could, calling “whoooaaaa,” and managed to bring the horses to a stop. He looked around, chest heaving, and in shock realized that he’d been the first to finish. The other three contestants finished their rows and brought their horses to a stop as the judges hurried toward them.
Thorin’s heart was hammering in his chest. He’d done it! It had taken him all day, but he’d finally done it! He started to smile as the judge holding a blue ribbon neared him…then passed him. He turned, and watched them pin the ribbon on the hobbit who had finished second, and gaped. Confused, he looked back to the field, and saw his row, a wavy line of dirt that wobbled back and forth, and the winner’s row, cut straight and true all the way down the line, and his heart sank down to his toes. He hadn’t done it at all. Not at all.
He handed the reins to a waiting hobbit and trudged off the field. He had failed at everything. He had let himself down, and what was worse, he’d let Bilbo down, and now it wouldn’t matter if he got down on his knees and begged; Bilbo would know he wasn’t worthy. Bilbo would choose Hamfast, a hobbit husband who could do hobbit things. And Thorin would have to go back to his mountain without his heart.
He felt a hand grip his arm, and didn’t want to turn and face Bilbo, but it wasn’t Bilbo at all—it was Dwalin, looking solemn and sympathetic. “Come on, lad. Let’s go find some ale.”
-
To his credit, Thorin did not drown his sorrows in ale. They found the party tree, under which dozens of tables and benches had been set up, and dropped into seats. Dwalin disappeared for a while and reappeared with two tankards of ale. Thorin lifted his head from his hands and pulled his toward him, scowling at the brew. He sipped it slowly, and did not respond when Dwalin tried to coax him into conversation.
As the sun sank below the horizon, the tables began to fill up around them, hobbits upon hobbits crowding in with food and drink and laughter and music. Thorin paid them little attention, preferring to stay in his sulk. Bilbo found them again eventually, slipping down next to Thorin, and the dwarf tried his best not to look like he’d spent the past hour chasing sour thoughts around his head.
The crowd settled down when an older hobbit took to a stage nearby and began speaking. Thorin ignored him, lost in his gloomy thoughts again and picking at a splintered spot on the table. The crowd around him laughed and cheered in turns, but he didn’t particularly care why.
That is, until Bilbo was shaking his shoulder, and Thorin looked up, blinking.
“You’ve won, you fool! Go up and claim your prize!” Bilbo was beaming at him, and Thorin could do nothing but gape when that beautiful smile was trained on him.
“I’ve won…what?” he asked, brain working hard to catch up to what Bilbo had said.
“The prize for entering the most contests! Go, Thorin, go!” He laughed, prodding at Thorin to get him up and moving toward the stage.
Thorin looked around, and it felt like every face was turned toward him as he walked toward the stage. There were a few whistles and cheers as he passed, but Thorin could only push forward in amazement. He took the stairs up onto the stage in a daze, and saw the old hobbit come forward to shake his hand and pin a blue ribbon to his chest, but he couldn’t even take in the words the hobbit said to him. Not until he held out a speaking trumpet to Thorin.
“Would you care to say a few words, Master Dwarf?” the old hobbit asked kindly. Thorin’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the trumpet, and then back down at his chest and the blue ribbon. He looked back up at the hobbit before finally turning abruptly and hurrying down the steps, then across the space back toward his table. Bilbo was there, standing under the party tree where Thorin had left him, and Thorin stopped short in front of him, breathing hard.
He reached up and blindly pulled the ribbon off his shirt, not caring that it probably just put a hole in the fabric there in the process.
“Bilbo Baggins,” he said, his voice nearly cracking with desperation. “Will you do me the great honor of wearing my ribbon?” he asked, holding it out in his big hand.
Bilbo was watching him with open adoration, a smile breaking over his face as he took a step forward. He reached a hand in his own pocket and pulled out his own blue ribbon to hold out. “Only if you’ll wear mine in return,” he said, his voice thick with joyful emotion.
Thorin nearly laughed in relief as he nodded and closed the remaining distance between them. Carefully, he lifted the ribbon to Bilbo’s chest and pinned it there to his second-best waistcoat, and then waited as Bilbo’s fluttering hands reached up and pinned his to Thorin’s shirt.
Thorin could hear cheers and laughter and the sound of the old hobbit talking into the speaking trumpet again, but he ignored it all. He could do nothing but gaze at Bilbo, his handsome, clever Bilbo wearing Thorin’s own ribbon for the world to see. He meant only to lower his forehead to Bilbo’s, but without meaning to, he met Bilbo in the middle space, their lips touching in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened. Thorin’s hands came up to cradle Bilbo’s face and he nearly sobbed in relief at the feeling of Bilbo kissing him back. It was everything he’d wanted for more than a year.
When the hobbits around them started to jeer and call for them to go home, they broke apart, grinning foolishly at each other. Bilbo took his hand and tugged him along, not in any particular hurry as they left the fairgrounds, stopping every so often to lean against a railing, a building, a cart to share another kiss.
“I’ve been trying to ask you to wear this for half the day, you know,” Bilbo said with his head tucked under Thorin’s chin, tapping at the ribbon on Thorin’s chest.
Thorin pulled back and gave him a quizzical look.
“I have!” Bilbo laughed. “But we kept getting interrupted.”
Thorin’s eyes softened as he looked down at Bilbo, carefully tucking a curl behind his ear. “No one’s interrupting us now,” he murmured, and, well. It would take a stronger-willed hobbit than Bilbo not to lift up onto his toes and kiss him at that.
A little while later, they’d made it past the barnyard, past the conkers field with Thorin’s wobbly plow line cut through it, past the tables next to the pond where the produce contests had been (now with many empty baskets as hungry hobbit children had pilfered their contents throughout the day). They were coming up on the stables when Bilbo stopped short.
“The horse races are tomorrow!” he said as though he only just remembered. “We have to see those!”
Thorin groaned, his shoulders dropping. “Mahal, no! No more contests!” he burst out, looking at Bilbo in desperation.
Bilbo couldn’t hold back a laugh as he looked at Thorin. “Not to compete, you silly dwarf,” he said, pulling one of Thorin’s braids teasingly, and Thorin would definitely be asking him to do that again later when they were away from prying hobbit eyes. “To look for one to purchase. We’ll be needing another, if you intend for me to go back with you.” Bilbo looked up at him again, a new vulnerability in his eyes. “That is, if you do want me to go back with you to the mountain…?” he asked softly.
Thorin looked at him, suddenly feeling lighter than he had ever felt in his life, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking Bilbo’s face in his hands again. “Only if you are willing,” he said, his eyes drinking in every line and freckle on the hobbit’s face in the soft moonlight.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Bilbo said with a wet laugh, his eyes tearing up as he pulled Thorin down for another languid kiss.
“Oh! Pardon us, Mister Bilbo, Mister Thorin!” They broke apart and looked up to see Hamfast, red-faced even in the moonlight, leading along a pretty girl by the hand. She had all four of his ribbons pinned to her dress and couldn’t stop giggling. “Lovely night for a stroll!” he said, and they hurried along their way, off to find a shadowed, private place.
Thorin stood and sputtered after them before looking back down at Bilbo in confusion. “But—but I thought—I thought Hamfast was interested in you!” he stuttered.
Bilbo burst out laughing. “Hamfast?! Oh, Thorin! Hamfast has only had eyes for Bell Goodchild since they were barely tweens! Honestly!” His laughter chimed, and Thorin didn’t know whether to feel intense relief or intense embarrassment over his blunder. After all the agonizing he had done over the past twenty-four hours, all the ridiculous stunts he had performed trying to beat the hobbit at his own game, and all of it had been an illusion.
He pulled Bilbo in closer, wrapping an arm around him and kissing him until the giggles turned to pants. He was contemplating how much farther it was to Bag End, and whether he could convince Bilbo to stop off in a hay loft, when his stomach let out a great growl and Bilbo snickered.
“I take it you never ate dinner?” he asked, pulling Thorin back into the road to continue their walk toward home. “And after you threw up all your lunch, too! Well, it’s no matter. I’ll fix you up a plate when we get back. Oh! I think I’ve got half an apple pie still in the pantry!”
Thorin moaned loudly, and Bilbo cackled. “No? Do you think we should send it over to the Bracegirdle boy, then? You know, as an apology for you nearly putting his eye out.” Bilbo’s mirth sparkled in his eyes as he looked cheekily up at Thorin.
“Mahal, you’re never going to let me forget this day, are you?” Thorin asked, but there was no bitterness in his words, only joy.
“No, love,” Bilbo said happily, pulling Thorin’s face down by his braids. “No, I don’t think I shall.” And he kissed him again.