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Chapter Text

Use Well the Days

By: Lalaith Quetzalli 

Bilba ‘Adamantine’ Baggins is a hobbit unlike any other. The Baggins of Bag-End, she isn’t just the Head of the Bagginses, but also in charge of her own business, which she’s made grow since the passing of her parents, and wife of the King-in-Exile Thorin Oakenshield… When Gandalf goes looking for someone to share in an adventure she clearly isn’t what he was expecting! 

Prologue. 

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit… that’s how most would expect the story of one such hobbit to begin, and maybe somewhere, there’s a story that begins like that. This is not that story. 

Bilba Baggins is a hobbit, like many, like few, and like none at all. The only daughter (and only child) of Bungo Baggins, the Baggins of Bag-End, and Belladonna Baggins nee Took, second (and arguably favorite) daughter of Gerontius ‘the Old’ Took, Thain of the Shire. While her parents are far from the only Baggins-Took match (one of Belladonna’s older brothers: Hildigrim, married Rosa Baggins); it was still noteworthy in that Bella was quite adventurous, seen by some as wild even, never caring for the opinions others might have of her, while Bungo was said to be the most Baggins of all Bagginses, that is to say, he was polite, formal, and always content to stay in his own home over going places. Not many could ever understand how the two of them even worked, they only knew they did. Bungo would later say that Bella brought joy into his life, she made him brave; while he in turn gave her stability, security, and a home that was more than just their little hobbit-hole (which was, in fact, not little at all, one of the most luxurious smials to ever exist, built by Bungo just for her). Bilba was said to have inherited the level headedness, politeness and business acumen of the Bagginses; yet she also had the cleverness, wit and thirst for adventure that so characterized many a Took. Such a mix of characteristics has led Bilba to live a life the likes of which no hobbit before her has, a life she’s proud of, and her life isn’t over just yet! In fact, some might say that, at 50, the biggest part of her life is about to begin… 

“Share in an adventure…” Bilba mutters, not at all quietly, as she steps into her smial, closing the door behind her, none-too-gently. “Old wizard has gone a little barmy, I say. Expecting a hobbit to agree to go with him! On an adventure!” 

Her speech devolves as she starts muttering in a mix of languages. 

“ Marlel ?” 

The single word seems to be enough to take the wind out of the lady-hobbit’s sails, or at least enough to make pull her attention away from her muttering and to man calling to her. 

“Thorin!” She cries out as she raises her head and sees him standing there. “You’re back already! Yavanna! How late is it? Lunch is not quite ready just yet.” 

“It is quite alright, Bilba, I can wait.” Thorin assures her. “I just got back, left the pony with Holman’s apprentice… Is everything quite alright?” 

“Yes I…” She begins, then exhales and shakes her head. “No? I… I don’t actually know.” 

It’s the truth, her own annoyance at Gandalf’s words and his belief that she ought to be jumping for joy and following his plans just because they are his aside, she doesn’t actually know that it’s a problem. 

“Who has vexed you so, yasthûna ?” Thorin asks, a hint of amusement in his tone (though that might be mostly because he’s not the one she’s annoyed with, this time). 

“Gandalf.” Bilba mutters, a hint of annoyance slipping back into her voice. 

“ Tharkûn ?” Thorin arcs a brow, not expecting that. 

“Yes, the old wizard came, apparently to invite me on an ‘adventure’!” Thorin can easily make out the quotation marks through his hobbit’s sarcasm. 

“On an…” Thorin trails off. “You?!” 

“Me what…?” Bilba begins, though there is something in Thorin’s expression, in his eyes, that makes her realize where his thoughts have gone. “What?!” 

“That must be it.” Thorin nods, having no doubt that they have both reached the same conclusion. “When I met with Tharkûn last in Bree he told me he’d found our final member, our Burglar.” Thorin points out, slowly, knowing his wife isn’t gonna like that. 

He’s right, of course. 

“What… Burglar?!” Bilba’s voice rises as she gets into her stride. “Me?! But I’m a respectable lady-hobbit!!!” She exhales loudly before revising. “Well, as respectable as one can possibly be with a dwarf king-in-exile for a husband.” 

Chapter Text

Round the corner there may wait

In the 2911-2912 of the Third Age, there was an extremely cold and long-lasting winter, one that came to be known as the Fell Winter. With the winter starting earlier and becoming so bad so quickly, there were issues everywhere with lack of food and fuel to keep fires going. In the Shire, the Heads of the oldest Hobbit Families did what they could, organizing their peoples to the best of their abilities, seeking to ensure all had what they’d need to survive. And then the Brandywine river, the best natural defense the Shire possessed, froze over, allowing predators to cross into the Shire in their own hunt for food. It was only thanks to the arrival of Gandalf and some of the Rangers of the North, that the Hobbits as a whole managed to survive that terrible winter; same as several towns of men south of their own country. 

Still, a great many lives were lost during the Fell Winter, hobbits and humans both; some to the wolves, but others still to the cold, or even to starvation. Or, in late March when winter finally came to an end and all the ice and snow melted, the sudden influx of water down the Greyflood river caused it to overflow, flooding several towns of men and killing a great many people. As hard as some tried, there just was no way of saving everyone. 

It was in the aftermath of the Fell Winter that Bungo and Bella saw a lack, and turned it into an opportunity. Both hobbits, and the tall people living in Bree and other nearby towns, and even the dwarven settlement in the Blue Mountains, lacked a reliable messenger service. Individuals who could and were willing to take packages, who were not just capable, but also trustworthy. There was also the fact that a lot of the time what one individual, family or even population in general might lack, another might possess a surplus of, but without someone able to see these things, to make deals between the groups, they’d never know. So Bungo and Bella created Baggins Carting Service (BCS for short). It started as just the two of them, traveling on their own cart, to Bree and a number of other small towns less than a fortnight from Hobbiton. They’d take with them what produce, cloth and such other hobbits were willing to send with them, which they would then in turn sell in those towns; purchasing other things they might bring back to the Shire, or sell in one of their other stops. Once back in the Shire they’d pay the money owed to those who originally sent wares with them; with a small percentage going to Bungo and Bella, of course, theirs was a business, not a charity! It was a good business all around, not just for the two of them, but for everyone involved. And the more trips they undertook, the more hobbits that were willing to send some of their own wares with them. Until eventually a single cart wasn’t enough anymore. 

The business grew in the following years, first with the addition of more carts, and hobbits to take them. Eventually they realized that there was more they could do. For example, their biggest business with the dwarves of the Blue Mountains was in relation to their forging, everything from pots and pans, to gardening tools, among other things (useful things… though they did take some jewelry and other ‘mathoms’ to re-sell in human towns). However, as good as buying new things could be, sometimes they were more interested in repairing what they already had. So BCS expanded, and aside from transporting wares, they began taking people: like metal-smiths and wood-workers, transporting them from their own towns to other places where they could work. Not everyone was willing to avail themselves of the Baggins’s services, either not trusting the hobbits, or not seeing them as necessary; though those who did soon realized that it was about more than just traveling with the hobbits, thanks to the contacts built in the previous years by Bungo and Bella, people in various towns in the North already knew them and their company well-enough. Even with the new services being offered, the workers being attached to the company meant they were trusted far more easily than foreigners would be usually, which meant all the more business for everyone. 

And so years passed, Baggins Carting Service grew, and slowly but surely Bungo and Belladonna left their mark in Eriador. 

Bilba Baggins was born on September 22 nd of 2890; the first, and eventually only, child of Bungo and Belladonna. From a young age Bilba understood responsibility, knew she’d one day take her father’s place as The Baggins, and all that meant. The Heads of the old Families of the Hobbits… they were much more than just family leaders. They were the ones that led the family-magics, that ensured that every hobbit did their part to maintain the land their Green Lady granted them so very long ago. Truly, it was no coincidence that despite the years and the wars fought among the Tall People, the Shire managed to keep going, ever green. It was the blessing the Green Lady (Yavanna, as the elves knew her) laid on the land when she answered the ancient hobbits’ prayers for a place they could be safe, could thrive, could call home… The Green Lady gave them that beautiful land, but it was up to the hobbits to ensure it remained thus. It was why all the old families had their specific responsibilities: like the Tooks with the Thainship, the Brandybucks guarding the borders, while the Bagginses were tasked with seeing to the hobbits as a whole. Ensuring everyone had what they needed, especially during the harder winters; mediating during disputes if necessary, that sort of thing. 

Bilba was taught, from a very young age, what her responsibilities would one day be. She knew that not everyone agreed with her one day becoming The Baggins, whether it was her being a girl, that her mother was a Took, it didn’t matter. Even Lobelia, the most outspoken against Bilba one day being the head of the family, knew there simply wasn’t anyone else. It wasn’t the lack of siblings, headship didn’t have to follow a direct line, not necessarily. It was a lack of magic. One thing absolutely necessary, in order to fulfill the most basic duty of all heads, was for the head to have magic, the greater, the better. And no Baggins had a greater potential for magic than Bilba in her generation. The one to come closest was her cousin Drogo, though he was almost twenty years younger than her, and nowhere near her levels. 

That might have been because even though she was very much a Baggins, Bilba was also a Took. She was also the Fairy of her generation. It was a well-known story in the Shire, the fact that a Took, many years and generations ago, met and fell in love with a fairy. Their daughter was thus half-hobbit and half-fairy; her looks being mostly those of the hobbits, though her build was slimmer than hobbit females tended to be, and she had wings! Ever since then, there was at least one Took in every generation that was born like that. Bilba was the first one that had been born with a different family name, but it’s not like anyone ever forgot that her mother was a Took before being a Baggins! Like all the half-fairies before her, most of the time Bilba kept her wings folded against her back, looking like something in between a tattoo and scars; the backless dresses allowed that to be seen, as well as giving her the option to unfurl her wings whenever she wished or needed to. 

Bilba was twenty-one years old when the Fell Winter happened. She had been young, not truly an adult quite yet; and despite that, her magic, coupled with just whose daughter she was, meant that when the situation got really bad, she did her best to help as much as her parents did. She wouldn’t go out and visit neighbors, no, it wasn’t considered safe. But when her parents took advantage of their own big smial (they’d been planning on a big family, at one point, but life had other plans, and they accepted it with a smile and moved on) and brought some of those hobbits most in need. Bilba was in charge there. Of ensuring everyone was clothed, had enough blankets, that the fire never went out. Her father had chopped more than enough wood, though she did sometimes have to step out and get some more pieces. It was on one such occasion that it happened: Bilba was picking up several pieces of wood to bring inside, when she first heard it: cries, and the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps. The snow had let up, at least for the time being (which was what made Bilba decide to go out right then). 

“He… H-elp!” A voice cried out. 

Bilba reacted immediately, rushing around the smial on the outside (the firewood having been by the back-door) she saw a small figure running and stumbling up the road. A young woman, little more than a girl, her clothes looked threadbare, and nowhere near thick enough for how cold it was, she wasn’t even wearing a cloak! Bilba soon realized she was holding something in her arms… a crying something… a babe! 

“Oh Sweet Lady!” Bilba cried out in horror. 

She rushed down the steps of her front-yard, rushing to open the front gate and down the road a couple of yards until she reached the girl who looked like she was running on fumes. Which was made all the more obvious as the girl tripped, went down on one knee and failed to get up again. It was only thanks to Bilba that she didn’t hit her face against the snowy ground, or fall on the baby in her arms (whom she was holding so tightly there was no chance for her to break her fall on her own). Bilba didn’t even stop to think about it, shrugging off her own cloak and placing it on the girl. While she was not unaffected by the cold, she was warmer and much healthier than the girl, she could endure it until they got back into the smial. 

Bilba couldn’t have known it, but the commotion had caught the attention of those inside her smial, and most of them were standing by the front-door and windows, trying to find out what was going on. It was one of them that saw it first: the big, white wolf approaching. Even clearly emaciated as it was, the animal was big enough to almost be considered monstrous. 

“Bilba!!!” the shriek came from the door. 

Bilba reacted instinctively, turning to see her grandmother: Laura Baggins, standing at her door, looking horrified, a fraction of a second before her own magic began screaming at the girl about the danger coming. There was no time for her to go anywhere, to do anything except stand her ground. And still Bilba couldn’t help but be herself, following an instinct she’d have never been able to explain she turned her back on the coming predator, at the same time her wings unfurled. They were big, bigger than any pair of wings a fairy-hobbit had ever had, almost bigger than her! Bilba then wrapped her arms around the terrified tween and braced herself. 

When it was all said and done, Bilba didn’t really know what had happened, neither did anyone else. What was for certain was that she was alive, as were young Ginny Rivers and her baby brother: Griffin. Tragically the two children (for Ginny was barely any older than Bilba, and certainly no adult) were the only survivors of their family; some of the members having died weeks prior either of cold or hunger, and their parents and older brother being killed by wolves while trying to give the little ones time to escape. 

Bilba didn’t exactly make it out of the encounter unscathed, but she was alive, and after a few days in bed she was as well as could be expected. The winter eventually came to an end and the hobbits slowly but surely recovered. And then Bilba’s parents saw a need not just in their own people, but in seemingly everyone living in Eriador and their business was created. 

Bilba didn’t always join her parents on their business trips, though sometimes she did. Especially because, as she said, it’d one day be Her business, so it was only right for her to learn everything she could about it. It was her idea to enter a more direct partnership with several of the dwarrow they’d bought from and sold to before; something closer to the deals they had with the hobbit farmers and crafters. The difference wasn’t anything huge (Bungo and Bella might have been business-hobbits, but they were fair and never tried to give anyone less than what their work/wares were worth). 

Things changed a lot upon Bungo’s death in 2926 TA. While Belladonna took charge of the business, the headship fell onto Bilba immediately. It took the two females a couple of years to grow used to all the ways things had changed. 

“Sometimes, when I’m on the road I’ll see something that surprises me, or that I love, and I’ll just turn around to show it to him and then…” Bella swallowed hard past the knot in her throat. “And then I see the empty space beside me and remember he’s gone.” 

“Oh mama…” Bilba embraced her mom tightly, not knowing what else to say or do. 

And really, what could anyone possibly say to comfort someone who’s lost their spouse, their one true love, their match? She was aware of how much her parents loved each other and couldn’t imagine how her mother managed to hold on, to keep moving forward. Bilba didn’t think she could. If she loved anyone that much, and then lost that person…? At times she thought that maybe her mom was doing it for her. That she’d realized Bilba couldn’t handle taking over the Baggins Family and their business at the same time, so she chose to stay for the time being. A theory that seemed to be confirmed when, eight years later, once Bilba was finally fully settled in her position as Head of the Baggins Family, and about a year after she began joining her mom on trips for BCS, Belladonna passed away peacefully in her sleep. It seemed to come out of nowhere really. Bella hadn’t been sick, not at all, there was no accident, nothing at all. She just went to sleep and then didn’t wake up again. Bilba was the only one completely unsurprised. 

“She’s with Da’ now.” Was all she said when Grandpa Gerontius questioned her on the matter. 

In the year following her mother’s passing Bilba didn’t travel anywhere, didn’t leave Hobbiton at all. By then BCS was big enough and had enough people working with them that even the loss of her cart didn’t lessen business much, and the moment the news of Belladonna’s death reached the other towns they did business with everyone understood and sent their condolences to Bilba. 

After two years though Bilba was feeling more than a little claustrophobic, having grown used to more than just the Shire. Still, the mere thought of going through what her mom did, going somewhere and then turning to share a thought, a word, with someone who wasn’t there… she couldn’t imagine going through that. Going through places where the memory of not just her mom, but both her parents, still lay… it was too much still. So she decided to go somewhere new instead. Somewhere neither she nor her parents had ever been. 

Bilba took the road north. In between Bree and the ruins of Fornost there were a number of human settlements, most of them fairly small. Norbury being the only one big enough and with enough population to be considered a town. She didn’t expect there to be too much business, there was a reason none of their carts ever went in that direction, but still. 

It was there that Bilba Baggins first met Thorin Oakenshield. 

xXx

Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, of the Line of Dúrin, was born in Erebor, in the year 2746 of the Third Age of the Sun. The eldest child of the only son of the King Under the Mountain. From a young age Thorin knew what was expected of him, as the heir of the, arguably, greatest dwarrow kingdom in Arda. It seemed like an easy thing to do. Erebor was such a great kingdom, not just for the mountain itself, but for its people. Everyone worked well together, all of the dwarrow, and even with their neighbors of Dale, Esgaroth, and as far as Mirkwood. Merchants would come to Dale, and even to the mountain itself, from the farthest corners of the world to do business with the dwarrow of Erebor. 

And then everything went wrong… 

If one were to ask most dwarrow when it was that everything went wrong, most would probably claim that it was when Smaug came. The Last Great Dragon coming to the mountain, its attack on both Erebor and Dale, it was more than just all the lives lost; it was the loss of their homes, of their safety, their entire way of life. Thorin had perhaps a somewhat different perspective of things. It wasn’t that Smaug’s attack wasn’t terrible, the worst thing to ever happen to his people. But the truth is that, at least in his opinion, Smaug was but one problem, the last in a long list of them, not the first. 

Thorin would be unable to tell which was the first problem, truly. Was it when his grandfather refused to give Thranduil the necklace he commissioned for his queen? Claiming the payment offered wasn’t worth the dwarven craft, he then also refused to give the White Gems of Lasgalen back, claiming them as his due. It was probably this which lead to Thranduil refusing to lend aid when the dragon came… Or maybe it was before that, when the Queen died in that freaky accident in one of the mines, around the same time the Arkenstone was discovered (or was it before? After? He doesn’t actually remember). That day they didn’t only lose a Queen (a mother, a grandmother), the King didn’t only lose his partner, his One, he also lost the person who balanced him, who curbed his worst traits, smoothed his edges. Thorin believed that it had been only after her death that his grandfather truly became obsessed with treasure; gold in general, but all other kinds of treasure. To the point of scorning allies, ruining their relationship with other realms, all because of his desire for more riches. Or perhaps it was before even that, when nearly a thousand years passed without Durin being reborn, and some dwarrow began whispering that it might be a sign of the Deathless having abandoned them, prompting some of them to leave and found clans and kingdoms of their own. 

So in truth, Smaug’s arrival, the razing of Dale and taking over the mountain might have been the worst thing to ever happen to Erebor and its people, but it was far from the first bad thing. 

Born a prince, in the richest dwarrow realm in Arda, Thorin never imagined what it might be like, to not have everything he might want, everything he might need in his reach. And then the dragon happened. Thorin was very young when Smaug’s attack happened, not even off-age yet. He was meant to be a child, yet his family needed him, his people needed him, so he did his best to step up. To do as much as he could. With Thranduil turning his back on them, and the humans in as bad a situation as them, there was nothing the dwarves could do but wander, for years. 

With their mother dead, lost in Erebor during Smaug’s attack, and their father trying so hard to be there for their grandfather, Thorin took charge of his younger siblings. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, considering he was so young still, as good as a child himself, but someone needed to do it. If he was young, Frerin and Dís even more so, and someone needed to be there for them. 

They made an attempt to build a settlement in Dunland. It didn’t go well, the area wasn’t the best. Starvation and sickness were rife, killing almost as many of his people as the dragon and the initial wandering already had. They needed more, better, than that. 

It’s impossible to tell whose idea it was to try for Moria. While it was true they needed a new home for their people, there was a reason their people left Moria! Dís, Thorin’s younger sister, never agreed with their plan to try and take that accursed place from the orcs they heard had settled there in recent years. However, her warnings went unheard. Years later and with the benefit of hindsight Thorin could see how terrible an idea it all was. 

Azanulbizar. So much… too much, went wrong in that accursed place. If Thorin had been young, Frerin had been but a child, and still he went, they both did. Only Frerin didn’t come back. His baby brother died in that accursed place. They lost so much at Moria’s door. More than half the dwarves who marched to battle did not come back. The dead were so many the survivors couldn’t even give them a proper entombment as was traditional, all they could do was grant them a pyre, ensuring that no predators would defile their bodies. 

Officially, Azanulbizar was a victory for the Dwarrow, but what a victory it was! With the loss of so many, including King Thrór and those closest to him. Thráin himself vanished, no sign of him, not even a body, found. And Thorin was left to pick up the pieces, becoming King-in-Exile, left to deal with leading a heavily diminished, mostly hopeless people into an uncertain future. 

It was in Azanulbizar that Thorin earned his deed-name. Oakenshield, he was called for, when going after Azog, after the horrifying creature took King Thror’s head, after losing his own blade and shield, in a desperate moment, looking for something, anything to use as a weapon, all the young dwarf prince’s hands found was a branch, made of oak, far sturdier than most would have believed. It was that branch which Thorin used as a shield, and it proved to be a providential move when the oak turned out to be strong enough to stop the attack from the Orc Leader. Long enough for Thorin’s other hand to finally find a blade, which he then swung in an arc, cutting the white orc’s hand. 

Many believed the dwarf prince to have dealt the creature a deadly blow but Thorin knew better. The white orc was alive and one day, one day it’d come back. For it’d sworn to destroy Durin’s Line. Thorin could only hope he’d be strong enough to truly destroy it next time. 

A lot changed in the aftermath of Azanulbizar. A number of the survivors chose to follow Dáin Ironfoot to the Iron Hills, where he was to be named Lord after the death of his father Lord Náin right there at the gates of Moria. A few, though, remained loyal to Thorin and his line, and chose to follow him to the Blue Mountains. 

The Blue Mountains were better than Dunland, in that there were functioning mines, as well as the remains of some old settlement some believed might have been part of either Belegost or Nogrod back before the War of Wrath and the breaking of Ered Luin. Yet the place had been long since abandoned, which meant the need to start from scratch, not an easy thing to do after the loss of so many; and the remaining dwarrow, so many were badly scarred, in so many ways (physically, mentally, emotionally…). 

Thorin didn’t stay long in the Blue Mountains, which he knew Dís didn’t like. 

“What do you mean you’re leaving again?” His sister demanded when she found out about his plans. “Don’t tell me you’re going off on another ridiculous quest…” Her voice trailed off, before she gathered herself again and demanded: “Do you want to get killed as well? Want to abandon me, your people? Haven’t we lost enough?” 

“I’m not going to get myself killed.” Thorin did his best to pacify his sister. “But don’t you see Dís? The Blue Mountains might be better than Dunland. But they’re still not enough. We need things that these mountains cannot give us. And it’s my responsibility, as King, even one in exile, to provide for my people.” 

Other dwarrow followed his example in the following years. They’d travel to a number of towns, particularly human settlements, and work either for gold, or sometimes in trade for other things needed in the Blue Mountains. It wasn’t the best situation, and more often than not the humans would insist on paying less than the dwarves knew their work to be worth. But beggars can't be choosers, and as much as he hated to admit it, he knew that was what they all had become: little more than beggars, left at the mercy of others. 

Thorin never gave up, he couldn’t. Too many people depended on him. Not just his people as a whole, but there was Dís; and later on her own children as well. Vili, Dís’s One, died in a mining accident before their second child was even born. It was something Dís always regretted, that her One never got to see their son, that little Kíli never got to meet his father. Even Fíli, he was but five when Vili died, Dís knew it was unlikely he’d carry very strong memories about him. It pained her, to know that a day would come when she alone would carry memories of the dwarf who, despite not having any great riches, or being of any important line, loved her so. Enough to fight for her, to bring joy into her life, when it seemed to be next to impossible (after so many years, so many losses). 

“You cannot die too, nadad .” She murmured into his gambeson after the ceremony was concluded and her One was entombed. “I cannot lose you too… not… not you too…” 

“You shall not lose me nan’ith , I give you my word.” Thorin did his best to comfort her, pressing his forehead to hers before he held her tight again. 

It wasn’t the kind of promise he should be making, he knew. Yet he couldn’t help but want to give his little sister whatever comfort he could. She truly had lost so much already… 

A lot changed after 2911. The winter that year was brutal. Then again, all winters had been brutal, since the loss of Erebor, and necessity had driven Durin’s Folk to learn to endure even the most terrible of circumstances. So as bad as the Fell Winter was, they managed to survive. When things first started to change Thorin couldn’t pinpoint the cause. It took several seasons, over a year, of listening to several of his people talking about the business they’d been doing, how much better it had been; even going through a winter for the first time with enough food that not a single dwarf went hungry even for a day… 

“What has changed?” Thorin finally asked. 

“Changed where, exactly?” Balin inquired, curious. 

“Have you not heard, Balin?” Thorin asked, having no doubt he had, he must have, Balin’s his second, and the one who’d been helping Dís lead their people while Thorin was away, working. “The Ri brothers, talking about the cloth they’ve sold, the Urs about the woodwork they traded for medicine and food in the Shire and Bree. Glóin could not stop telling me about the remarkable business he has done, and how for the first time we can actually claim to have gold saved in case of an emergency!” 

“Ah…” Balin nodded. 

“Ah?” Thorin echoed. “Is that all you have to say?” 

“I had not realized that you left Ered Luin so early in the year, you did not realize.” 

“Realize what? Speak clearly Balin! Is there a new danger to our people that I’ve not been made aware of?” 

“No, no, no danger at all! See, a pair of hobbits, from the Shire, they’ve started a new venture. They’re calling it Baggins Carting Service. They will travel in between Hobbiton, the Blue Mountains, Bree, and a number of other settlements in between those, carrying wares, buying and selling in each place. When they first came they expressed an interest in buying our surplus, tools and trinkets. Paid fair prices for everything too. Most of us did not think much of it at the time, you see, good business does happen sometimes. But then they came back the next year; and again six months later. Each time they were interested in buying more from us, always paying a fair price, never offering less than what our craft is worth. Once or twice they even offered amounts I thought greater than necessary. Full price for the work of apprentices, that sort of thing. Yet they insisted it was only fair, as the wares were just as serviceable.” 

“Serviceable…?” 

“Yes well, apparently hobbits have no use for pretty things if they do not fulfill some kind of function.” Balin seemed to think something over and reconsidered. “Except for flowers. They clearly love their flowers, to the same degree some dwarrow love their gems.” He shook his head. “Their most recent visit was last season. It would appear that their venture has proven successful, as they were not alone when they came. Three carts arrived at the Blue Mountains, and as well as buying our wares, Mistress Baggins offered to take one or two of us with them so we might do some work in the cities they planned to travel to. Bofur of House Ur, and Dori of the brothers Ri volunteered to go with them.” 

“And?” Thorin questioned when Balin said no more. “How did it go?” 

“They brought back no gold,” Balin began, making a very dramatic pause before clarifying. “Though that was because Master Baggins insisted that they make a stop in Michel Delving, one of the hobbit’s towns, where he and Mistress Baggins guided them both through the market, pointing out the best options. According to Dori, they were very considerate of possible dietary requirements, and Bofur has narrated in great detail a number of instances where either Baggins stepped in when someone tried to charge too much for whatever they were trying to buy. Though apparently the moment it became known that Bofur created the wooden toys some of the hobbit children have bought in previous years the treatment of the both of them changed completely. More than one merchant was willing to trade produce for new toys, even going as far as acquiring the necessary wood themselves, when it turned out that Bofur had no materials to work with.” 

Which meant that he’d managed to sell everything he’d taken with him into the towns. 

“That is… remarkable.” Thorin admitted, seemingly at a loss of what else to say. 

It’d seem that Durin’s Folk had been granted a spot of good luck, for a change. Not that he believed it’d last. But it was good to see his people happy, however long it lasted. 

It lasted. While none of the dwarves would say they were rich, or anything like that. They were no longer living like the destitute either. Which was a marked improvement on how things had been ever since the loss of their beloved kingdom. 

Thorin never did join any of the Baggins’s caravans. Content to travel himself to other places, towns where he might find work, even if the humans could be terrible to him, some gold was better than no gold at all. He heard from Balin when first Master Baggins and then Mistress Baggins passed away. There was a part of him that wondered if the loss of the couple meant the business would not continue. Balin, the Urs, the Ris, and several other dwarves seemed quite confident it wouldn’t happen; that their daughter would keep the business going. Thorin could not know if the dwarrow truly knew this hobbit-girl so well, or if it was just hope talking. In the end he chose not to change his own routine. And so he continued leaving Ered Luin as he always did, traveling East, to where he might be able to find some work. He found himself in a small human settlement, north of Bree: Norbury. The town was fairly small, inhabited solely by humans, most who did not look kindly on foreigners, and seemed to find offense to even needing their work at all. It was not the best place Thorin had ever been to, not the worst either, and he contented himself with that. Any gold was better than no gold at all. 

It was there that Thorin Oakenshield first met Bilba Baggins. 

Chapter Text

A new road or a secret gate. 

Soulmates. A broad, complicated concept, not everyone in the world has them, and each of the races of Arda sees them differently. For the most part, those of the race of Men do not believe in them at all. Claiming that such ideas are ‘meant for others’. The elves call them Maranwë, meaning destiny; it is their belief that those among them to have a perfect match, it is because Fate has chosen them, they have some great task they must fulfill, and their destiny is someone who shall walk that same path alongside them, who’ll be their motivation, their soundboard, their shelter and their comfort. The dwarves call them Khî, their ‘One’, the one made just for them, a gift from their maker: Mahal, the one that will make them whole; with so many more males than females in their race, and a good number of dwarrow choosing to devote themselves to their craft completely, it’s unsurprising to know that Ones are rare, though it is said that once one of them has identified their other half, if the dwarf cannot have them, they’ll have no other, choosing instead to go through life alone. Hobbits believe soulmates to be but a complication, a source of chaos in their calm, orderly lives and see no point to them. Then again, as with every race, there are always the exceptions. 

The day Thorin Oakenshield and Bilba Baggins first met was a day like any other. There was nothing special about it at all. Perhaps in another universe things might have been different. In a universe where the Bagginses never built their business, Miss Baggins would have had no reason to travel outside of the Shire, no opportunity to meet other people, other races, to interact with them. In such a world, having never known any kindness from any other race, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, would have had no reason to look kindly upon an unknown hobbit, to see beyond their small size and apparent defenselessness. This isn’t that world. 

Thorin Oakenshield first saw Bilba Baggins when she arrived to Norbury’s one inn. He couldn’t not have noticed the small, delicate looking figure in a pale blue dress and riding boots, small enough to be confused with a child, except her features clearly showed a fully grown woman. She was small, yet clearly able to adapt to a world not made in her size; a part of Thorin couldn’t help but admire her tenacity. Bilba noticed Thorin, if mostly in passing, that same day; she noticed him more in the following days though. Tall for a dwarf, quiet and seemingly surly all the time; he was treated less than kindly by a number of men, yet while it was clear their treatment of him angered him, he never said a word, all too aware that he still needed their business. 

On one memorable occasion Bilba came across Thorin after doing some business of her own, found him arguing with the son of the town’s mayor about the price of a set of throwing knives; the human insisting that the price the dwarf asked for was too much, and instead offering a far lesser amount, one Bilba knew to be far less than the blades (of clear dwarven made) were worth. Bilba knew that things wouldn’t end well, if the argument was allowed to go on for much longer. So she decided to step in. 

“Perhaps the young master might like an alternative?” She offered. “On my cart I have two different sets of knives, one might be more to your liking? And that of your purse.” 

“How good are these knives of yours?” The young man demanded snottily as he followed her towards the barn where the innkeeper allowed her to keep her cart. “Are they worth my gold?” 

“Only the very best for my clients.” Bilba stated loftily as she pulled out a couple of canvas packs, each holding a dozen blades. 

One set was all the same size: a hand-span, pure metal; the other set were metal with leather strips to form grips, in three different sizes, from a hand-span to the length of a man’s forearm. She went into a very dramatic explanation of each set, naming their maker and how they each were the best blacksmith of this or that place (all rather small towns, places the young man had never heard of anyway). A few minutes later the young man walked away with a set of throwing knives, as well as some rather plain but functional leather scabbards and a sharpening kit. She even managed to make him pay quite the amount of gold for all of it, which made her quite happy. Normally Bilba was all for being fair and not charging more than entirely necessary, but for some reason the human had just rubbed her the wrong way… 

The next time hobbit and dwarf came across each other was as they were both leaving the human town. It was raining, rather heavily, Bilba’s cargo was covered with an oil cloth pinned securely to the edges of the cart; while she was wearing a light cloak treated to be water-proof, of elven-make (a gift from her parents for her coming of age, the only year hobbits received gifts on their birthday, rather than give them; it’d been custom-made just for her). It was just a couple of miles out of the town itself that she came across the dwarf. He was wearing a heavy cloak that while keeping him mostly dry, didn’t seem to be quite as water-proof as her own. He was also on foot. Bilba immediately felt the need to help in some way. 

“Master dwarf!” She called to him. 

It took several tries, and her catching up to him, before he finally paid her any attention. 

“Would you like to join me, master dwarf?” She offered, sidling a bit to leave enough space beside her; at his hesitation she added. “It’s a long way to the next town, and it does not look like the rain will be letting up any time soon.” 

It still seemed like Thorin was actually considering the possibility of ignoring her and walk all the way to the next town; and then he unexpectedly changed his mind and climbed onto the cart beside her. She signaled him where he could pull the oil cloth up just enough to put his pack in the back of the cart, under the protection of the oil cloth. And then they were once again moving down the road, the cart pulled by Bilba’s favorite two ponies: Mint and Vine. 

They rode in completely silence for a while, though it was eventually Bilba who broke it: 

“I believe I owe you an apology, master dwarf.” She murmured softly. 

Thorin was startled by that, clearly not having expected those words, or just not expecting her to talk to him at all. 

“You owe me nothing, miss…” Thorin began. 

“It’s about the throwing knives.” She clarified. 

Thorin’s mouth snapped closed. Yes, he was still smarting about that. 

“I did not do what I did because I believed your work to be anything less than remarkable.” Bilba did her best to explain. “Rather the opposite actually. Yet in the years I spent traveling with my parents, since they started this business, I’ve come to know people like our young master. He’d have never paid what your blades are worth. I may not be an expert, exactly, but it was clear to me that neither is he. It’s likely he wanted those knives to posture, more than to actually give them any use. Your work thus would not only not have been given what it was worth, but it also would have not served its purpose which, if you ask me, would have been a shame. For even to my rather inexpert eye, those blades look to be of remarkable make.” 

Thorin’s cheeks colored, and he could only hope the young hobbit lady was distracted enough with the road not to notice. 

“I heard you tell him that the blades you sold him were made by the best smith south of Sarn Ford.” Thorin pointed out, remembering the tinge of anger he’d felt at the time. 

“That is, indeed, correct.” Bilba nodded, a hint of a mischievous smile on her lips. “You will notice I said blacksmith, rather than weapon-smith. See, south of Sarn Ford there is a little village, made almost entirely of farmers. The blacksmith there, Mr. Carrow, good man, he truly is the very best in the area; though truth is he has far more experience with rakes, sickles and other such farming tools. Then again, that is what is truly needed in his village. I believe the blades were a flight of fancy, should we say? His sole attempt at creating something different. The poor man, as good as his intentions might have been, he was never going to sell those to anyone in his village, and aside from the Rangers, few venture through that particular road. And the Rangers have their own smiths. He sold my mother and I the blades for barely little more than the cost of the raw materials. I’d thought to sell them to some smith for the materials alone, at least until one of the dwarrow in the Blue Mountains laughed in my face, explaining that the material wasn’t worth even the cost of lighting the forge to melt it!” She said it all in a very dramatic fashion, even as Thorin could hear a chuckle at the back of her throat. “Anyway, I’ve been carrying them since, not knowing what exactly I was going to do with them.” 

“And you sold them to a poor, ignorant man.” Thorin tried and failed to sound disapproving. Truth is he wholeheartedly approved. 

“A boy who’ll place them on a mantle and never know any better.” Bilba said dismissively. “Like I said, it’d have been a pity for your own work to end up being wasted thus.” 

“Then I will thank you, mistress hobbit, for saving me the dishonor.” Thorin stated in a most dramatic fashion. 

Bilba snorted. Not the most ladylike noise, but then again, she’d never claimed to be very ladylike at all! Her family, on both sides but especially the Bagginses, had expressed their opinions on the matter more than once. Regarding how Bilba ought to leave her business in the hands of others, if not give up on the mad venture entirely. How unlikely it was that she’d be able to find a good, sensible match if she kept traipsing through the land like some vagabond… They did not understand that as beautiful and warm and perfect as Bag-End might be sometimes… sometimes it felt more like a prison than a home… Whenever she was there, alone but for the ghosts and the memories… it was like she couldn’t breathe! 

“Bilba Baggins,” she finally introduced herself. “Daughter of Bungo and Belladonna.” 

“A pleasure to meet you, mistress Baggins.” Thorin bowed his head respectfully at her. “I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin.” 

Bilba blinked, she knew that name, what it meant. Had heard it mentioned before during the negotiations with several of the dwarves in the Blue Mountains, when the business BCS did with them changed from just buying and reselling into an actual partnership. Those negotiations had not been done with the dwarf sitting beside her, but with someone Bilba guessed must be his sister. She also guessed he didn’t expect to be recognized, probably would even prefer not to, so she decided not to say a word about it. 

“Well met, master Thorin.” She nodded at him. 

They were almost in the next town when she remembered something. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Master Thorin.” She stated even as she guided the cart into the town and in the direction of the inn. “It is in regards to your daggers. I’d be interested in acquiring them.” 

“That will not be necessary, mistress Bilba.” Thorin stated evenly. “I assure you, I can find a buyer myself, there shall be no need for you to do so.” 

“No, that’s not…” Bilba bit her lower lip for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I wish not to add them to my wares, I would like to buy them for my own personal use.” 

“Have any experience with blades, do you?” Thorin blurted out. 

“None at all.” Bilba admitted honestly. “Though I do intend to seek instruction. I have some friends among the Rangers, I believe I might be able to convince one of them to help me learn.” 

“Why would you want to?” Thorin couldn’t help but ask. 

“I am a lonely hobbit lass traveling on her own.” Bilba pointed out. “This trip has been peaceful enough thus far, but I cannot expect things to remain thus forever. And as skilled as I am with a sling, I do believe better means to protect myself would not go amiss.” 

“You plan to continue traveling on your own?” 

“My parents have passed away, I have no siblings, and no close friends aside from Holman Greenhand and Anna Gammidge, and while they both work for me, none are interested in going ‘traipsing among the big folk’ as Holman likes to say. While I do have several cousins, and other hobbits, who work in BCS, they have their own carts and teams already. No, I’m happy enough to travel on my own, even if that means I shall have to learn to better protect myself.” 

Whatever Thorin might have thought to say in response got lost as the innkeeper rushed out to meet them. Recognizing Bilba’s cart instantly, even if not Bilba herself, not immediately. 

“Miss Baggins!” He called loudly. “What could possess you to travel in this weather?! You must be drenched by now! Let's get you inside, I’ll tell the missus to get one of the small rooms ready right away, and tell my lad to heat some water. A hot bath is just what you need right now Miss Baggins. Will warm you right up!” 

By the time the innkeeper walked away and Bilba could turn her attention to other things, Thorin was long gone. 

In the almost fortnight Bilba spent in Bree, she saw the dwarf a handful of times, and only ever from a distance. She knew not where he might be working, or staying, and for the most part she was too busy to wonder about it all that much. While still living in Hobbiton, Bilba (and his parents before her) handled a lot of the business in Bree. While the Bagginses kept the office of Messrs. Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes on retainer for all matters related to Shire law, lands and lore; when BCS expanded its purview to do business with men and dwarves, it became necessary to enlist the services of those with experience of the other races lore, law and customs. On the dwarven front, Bungo had enlisted the services of Balin, son of Fundin, and of Glóin, son of Gróin; while on the human side, they worked with a ranger couple: Dírhael and his wife Ivorwen, of the Dúnedain of the North. The two of them visited Bree with relative frequency in their travels and they had a lot of knowledge about the different kingdoms of men, which they were willing to share with the Bagginses as they built their business. Bilba was hoping they would agree to work with her the same way they’d worked with her parents. 

xXx

After a fortnight, and having finished her business in Bree, Bilba decided to take a bit of a ‘personal side-trip’ and made the journey to Rivendell. The weather was good, and from past conversations with Balin and Glóin, Bilba knew that Glóin probably wouldn’t actually be in the Blue Mountains, as he’d explained he and several other of his kin traveled to human towns for work. So there was no point in her heading in that direction just yet. The last time Bilba was in Rivendell was shortly before the death of her mother. On the last of the trips the two of them took together that year, once Bilba felt confident enough in her position as Head to once again travel out of the Shire, and before her mom died in her sleep. It was Belladonna’s idea. She herself hadn’t been to Rivendell since marrying Bungo. As fascinating as she found the elves, there was nothing they could offer them where their business was concerned. Also, nearly three weeks of travel (starting from Bree), was too much when the trip wouldn’t yield any benefits. That last trip hadn’t been about business though, but about Belladonna wanting to see some of her ‘old haunts’ to remember her own adventures… Bilba’s always suspected that her mom knew she was gonna die. She held on after the passing of her beloved, wanting to look after Bilba, to be sure their daughter would be alright, but once that was ensured… 

The first leg of the journey (the long part) went easy enough. It was after crossing Last Bridge, on her way to the Bruinen that things got… difficult. Bilba could sense there was something off with the forest, and did her best to stay out of it. Until she couldn’t. There were men, a lot of them. All armed in some way or another. One of them recognized her and approached: 

“Miss Baggins, are you traveling alone?” He demanded as he approached her. 

Bilba surreptitiously reached for her sling with one hand, while the other tightened on the reins of her ponies. A swift enough motion could have made them go into a faster trot; though that would not last, and in any case, there were too many men for her to get away from them all… not for the first time she cursed herself for not going looking for Master Oakenshield and insisting on buying those blades… 

“I mean no ‘arm.” The man back-tracked, seemingly noticing her tension. “What ah meant is that tis a dangerous time to be traveling unaccompanied. Tis believed that trolls may be around.” 

“Trolls?!” Bilba eeped, weren’t trolls supposed to be high in mountains and such? Not in forests and near human settlements?! “How certain is it…?” 

“Barroc, Fram and Sadoc have all lost cattle over the last season, and earlier today Arnie’s little boy went missing.” The man explained. 

“Oh…” Bilba was horrified. “Have they… have they…?” 

She didn’t even dare ask. 

“They haven’ found ‘im yet, no.” The man admitted. “He was supposed to be collecting firewood for his ma’, and neve’ returned. Ta be honest I don’ think anyone really expects ta find him…” He shook his head sadly. “Poor kid. But that’s why ya must not tarry miss. Get far and away from this place, quick as you can.” 

“Of course, of course.” Bilba agreed immediately. 

The man stepped back then, letting her pass. In the end Bilba did push her ponies into moving a tad faster than usual, and kept going until later than most days. Which, in the long run probably wasn’t a very good idea. Either the speed, the late hour or her unfamiliarity with the road made it so she missed something in the road, there was a loud crack and her cart tilted sharply to one side. Bilba cursed in hobbitish over the misfortune, wondering what she was supposed to do now. Getting down from the cart, she confirmed her fears: one of the cart’s wheels was broken, which would make it hard for her to keep moving. She supposed she could have walked… but she was still at least two days away from Rivendell, if not longer… she knew there was a more direct, secret road, but it’s not like she knew it anyway. Also, she couldn’t just leave behind her cart, her things; and it wasn’t just about the loss of gold and what that might do to her business, but it just went against her every instinct. So what then? Was she supposed to wait for some other traveler? Perhaps a ranger, or those out there somewhere looking for the missing child… 

A shriek broke the air right then, loud and sudden enough for Bilba to jump, hands reaching for her sling automatically. A handful of seconds passed, and then another cry. If asked, Bilba could not say she ever ‘made up her mind’ not really; in the end, it was no decision at all. Someone, a child, was calling for help, how could she do anything but try to answer? Still, she wasn’t quite so deprived of her senses not to try to think of a plan, so she grabbed her sling, filled her pockets with pebbles and a few other odds and ends. It wasn’t like she knew what might be useful against trolls! All things told, she’d much prefer not to ever see the trolls. If there were some way for her to just grab the boy and run, that was exactly what she was gonna do. But she did not know if that was possible at all… 

In the coming years, the story of what happened that night would come to be a particular favorite of many, especially the little hobbits, most of them Tooks, who were always so interested in hearing about her ‘adventures’. She would always tell them about moving quietly through the trees, making not a sound, looking for the missing kid, and keeping an eye out for the trolls. She of course would never tell them just how stressful it all was, how terrified she was, almost out of her wits. That more than once she froze, terror almost pushing her into fleeing, even knowing there was an innocent life at risk. She’s also quite sure that in all the times and repetitions of the story most people didn’t actually realize just how long it all took. The fact that she spent an entire night in those woods, fear and bravery and a deep desire to just help somehow warring inside her, pushing and pulling at her in turns. And then she heard them, the trolls… 

Later, when she’d tell the story to the children, she’d make the things the trolls said sound funny, strange enough to be ridiculous. In truth, they were absolutely terrifying. Hearing creatures actually talk about how they were going to eat a human being, a child! They talked about gutting and skinning, about the horses they’d eaten, and how much better the child would be, even if a bit small… It was terrifying, and horrifying, and only Bilba’s burgeoning mothering instincts kept her from fleeing in terror. Even then, she couldn’t help but wonder what she was supposed to do. And then she saw the belladonna… 

It seemed almost like a sign. The plant his mother was named after, which was quite poisonous. She knew quite a few hobbits had said unkind things to her mother regarding her name, but she never seemed affected by it. Bilba would never forget what her mom told her after Bilba overheard one such comment: 

“The way I see it, my ma’ named me such because she knew I’d be no pretty flower, just meant to stand there and look pretty.” Belladonna had told her. “A flower I may, and looking pretty I may like. But should anyone try and eat me, I’ll kill ‘em!” 

In all the repetitions of the tale, Bilba never did elaborate on how exactly she got the trolls to eat the deadly nightshade. She knew it’d have made for a very long take, harrowing as well, and not as humorous as she would make it sound for the little hobbits that liked to ask for it. She always made it sound like a game. But if her actions were to be called that, a deadly game they were. One that had her life and the life of an innocent human child as the stakes. 

Bilba never imagined she’d be able to get the trolls to consume enough belladonna for it alone to kill them. Even when she managed to drop leaves and flowers in the pot where they planned on making their terrifying stew, and when she used her sling to shoot handfuls of berries at them, some even falling straight into their mouths. Perhaps the most hysterical moment was when one of the trolls actually started catching the berries she shot at it, seemingly liking the flavor. 

That was perhaps the most insanely terrifying moment for Bilba, when she wondered if the belladonna would actually affect the trolls at all; or if they were perhaps too evil, too… something for the poison to work on them. And then another of the trolls noticed that something was off and yelled about finding whoever was throwing the berries and Bilba could barely hold back the whimper of terror as it got dangerously close to the tree she was perched on… until the kid shrieked, loudly. 

All eyes turned to him instantly, Bilba’s heart on he throat as she wondered what else could possibly go wrong… only nothing was. 

“That’s enough!” The one who seemed to be the leader among the three trolls. “Let's eat! If your stew isn’t ready now I’ll eat it raw!” 

“No!!!” Bilba was the one who yelled this time, unable to help herself. 

The troll turned to her instantly, opening its mouth to yell something, Bilba threw all her remaining berries straight at its mouth. 

For a moment nothing seemed to happen. The troll seemed to cough a bit, there was a sound, almost like it was choking and Bilba dared be hopeful as it doubled over a bit. Only then it straightened and it looked straight at her… Bilba was much too terrified to let out a sound. The creature raised its huge arm, reaching for her and Bilba didn’t know whether to try and climb higher or jump down, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, the terror was so great… The troll moved its arm and… it missed her. 

It didn’t just happen once. After the third time Bilba realized that not only he seemed to somehow keep miscalculating how to reach her, but it was actually swaying in place. Several seconds passed, a short eternity where the young hobbit wasn’t sure she breathed at all, and then there was a loud sound, like a huge boulder falling, that called her attention. And it was that one of the trolls had just fallen, right over the pot! The other one yelled, something about not ruining the stew, but before it could give a single step it too went down. 

The troll standing close (so dangerously, terrifyingly close) to Bilba was the last to go down. It wasn’t unconscious, not like one of the others, not even fully incapable of getting up. But still, it was clearly not in control of his movements, and Bilba decided that was going to have to be enough. So she forced herself to move. She jumped off the tree and rushed across the clearing, straight to the terrified kid who was… inside a sack?! 

“Come on, come on, we gotta go!” She yelled as she tried and failed twice at undoing the knots holding the sack mostly closed, only succeeding on the third attempt. 

“What… what did you do?” The kid asked her, awed. 

“Poisoned them? I think?” She said, though it sounded more like a question than an answer. 

She still didn’t believe it’d be enough to kill them, and she wasn’t planning on hanging around to find out what happened. 

“Come on, we need to go.” She insisted, taking the kid’s hand and pulling him along. 

The two ran until they couldn’t run anymore. 

“Hey!” The kid called at one point. “There’s a cave here!” 

There was a cave indeed. And the kid immediately went inside, though whether it was a matter of relief, for having found refuge, or mere curiosity, it’d be hard to tell. 

“Don’t go too far!” Bilba called to him. “We know not what kind of animals or foul creatures might be in this place.” She cut off as she coughed, the smell getting to her. “Oh Yavanna, it smells foul in here!” 

It was when she noticed the bones, humanoid in shape (though they could have belonged to an elf as easily as to a man, perhaps even a dwarf, as far as she could tell), that Bilba realized the cave might be no refuge at all. 

“What are you?” A voice unexpectedly asked. 

Bilba shrieked. She couldn’t help herself. So lost she’d been in her realization that in their attempt to get away from the trolls they’d somehow found themselves in what was probably their cave… she was about ready to flee, tension flooding her. She really wasn’t expecting the kid to have approached her once again. 

“It’s me!” The kid yelled, clearly not having expected that reaction from her either. “It’s just me.” 

“We need to get out of here.” She told him. “This is the trolls’ hoard, we need to get out.” 

“And go where?” The boy questioned. “I… I don’t know how to get home from here. I don’t even know where here is! I was collecting wood and they found me, and they carried me away, and I don’t know how far and…” 

“Easy, easy…” Once again her mothering instincts kicked in as Bilba forced herself to work past her own panic as she tried to help him somehow. “Easy, we’ll be okay.” 

Truth is, she’d no idea where they were exactly either, but she could hardly tell the kid that. She was an adult, and she needed to look after him. 

“You Arnie’s boy?” She asked him to distract him somewhat. 

“How do ya know my da’s name?” The boy inquired, confused. 

“I saw several men on the road earlier today.” She explained. “One of them told me about their suspicions regarding the trolls. About the missing cattle, and you… they mentioned that the son of someone called Arnie had gone missing earlier. They were looking for you.” 

“So… if we wait here, they’ll find us?” 

She wasn’t sure that waiting ‘there’ was a good idea at all. But neither did she have a plan for where they ought to go, exactly. In the end they didn’t need to decide anything, as they were found right then, by a couple of rangers. 

As Bilba found out later, once it was all said and done. The wife of one of the farmers knew some rangers, they’d sent a messenger in the general direction where the group was known to be in that season, and they were lucky enough to find them. The rangers actually found Bilba’s cart on the road and followed her tracks all the way to the trolls. 

“They’re dead.” The ranger, Damrod, informed them. 

Bilba froze, dead?! Beside her the boy cheered, clearly delighted by that, the hobbit for her part was beyond shocked. 

“I cannot know what all happened last night, but I can make a decent guess.” Damrod stated. “One of my kinsmen has a particularly sensitive nose, he picked up on the scent of belladonna, several of us also noticed the berries scattered on the ground, and the plants near where their pot spilled. It is the general assumption that the consumption of the deadly nightshade, while not able to slay them outright, was certainly enough to stun them, long enough for the sun to catch them unawares upon rising.” 

The sun? Oh… the sun was rising. Bilba didn’t even notice. 

“Are you well, little miss?” Damrod’s question eventually called Bilba’s attention back to the present, and to him. 

She imagined he must have already questioned the boy on the matter, as he seemed to be entertaining himself by exploring the cave. 

“I… yes… yes, I am well.” Bilba nodded. “Just exhausted.” 

“I can imagine.” Damrod nodded calmly. “Like I said before, we found what I believe was your cart on the road. We can probably get it moving, though not very far. To the closest settlement for sure, though I know not where you might have been heading before the unexpected delay…” 

“Rivendell.” Bilba practically blurted out, then blushed. “I… sorry. I was heading towards Rivendell, my lord.” 

“No lord, just a ranger, Damrod, son of Eradan, at your service little miss.” The man bowed his head respectfully. 

“Bilba Baggins, daughter of Bungo, at yours, kind sir.” Bilba replied promptly. 

“Miss Baggins, I was unaware of halflings traveling this far from your Shire.” Damrod said in a thoughtful manner. 

“Most don’t.” Bilba shrugged, not seeing a need to explain just how odd she was, for a hobbit. “Though if you don’t mind, mister, the proper name for us is hobbits, rather than halflings. For we are half of nothing and no one.” 

“Very well, miss hobbit.” Damrod tipped his head apologetically. “Apologies, I assure you, no offense was intended.” 

“None was taken,” Bilba assured him. “We are well aware of how most ‘tall folk’ refer to us.” 

They were not at fault for their ignorance, and while she supposed that educating a single man might not change much, in the grand scheme of things… then again, it might. 

“Look! Look!” The child’s loud call interrupted the conversation. “Gold!” 

There was, indeed, gold in that cave, as well as jewels, what looked like trinkets, and even several weapons (some looking better than others). 

A couple more rangers joined them, and all of them together went through the contents of the cave. Most of the jewels and valuables they let the kid keep (he was so excited about going back to his family with such a treasure), though they took the weapons and pieces of armor. Or at least, most of them. 

“Miss Baggins,” Damrod called, rushing to her as the group finally moved out of the cave. “Here, I believe this might be useful.” 

He was holding a blade. In his hands it looked small, a one-handed dagger really. Once he passed it to her though, it seemed to be a good size for her. Surprisingly, it was quite light. When first seeing it she’d expected it to be heavy, that she’d find it hard to move it, but it wasn’t at all. 

“It’s elven-made.” Damrod explained. “Very old. The technique used for making that blade… I do not believe there are any smiths left with such a skill on this side of the sea.” 

“That… that means…” Bilba was at a loss. “This must be worth a lot! I cannot possibly keep it!” 

“You should. “Damrod insisted. “It’s small for us rangers, and even for elves. But I was right in believing it to be just the right size for you. And…” Damrod tilted his head to the side. “I’m not very given to bouts of foresight, the way many of my kinsmen are, but I do believe this little blade is meant for you, you and no one else, Miss Baggins.” 

And who was Bilba to argue with that? 

xXx

The time spent in Rivendell went much easier, and better, than the trip there, at least. Before taking his leave and departing with his kinsmen, Damrod introduced her to several people. Like his cousin Hallas, a master craftsman, who told Bilba that for her service to everyone in ridding Eriador of the blight that were those three trolls, he and his brothers would see to not just repairing her cart, but ensuring it’d be the best it could possibly be. So that hopefully never again would something like a rock or a hole in the road, ruin her travels. Bilba tried to pay them. But in the end the best she could do was get them to agree that she would be paying for the raw materials; she also arranged for a meeting with the leaders of the rangers for a possible business deal. They seemed to be particularly interested in that last one. As apparently, while the rangers did tend to be self-sufficient in most ways, sometimes they did need to trade with others, and too many of the humans there in the north looked on them with suspicion and distrust. 

“By the Grace of the Green Lady, that is beyond ridiculous!” Bilba snapped when she heard that part. “Hobbits might not trust many tall folk. But we are all well aware that it is the rangers that guard our borders. Tis the rangers, and Gandalf, that came to our aid during the Fell Winter… To turn away those who have aided us in our hour of greatest need, because we are not the same. It’s… it… disrespectable is what it is!” 

She would have gone into a rant, probably devolving to the point of cursing in hobbitish, when she was interrupted by the few rangers around laughing. 

“Tell me, little miss,” Damrod said, a smile dancing on his lips. “Are all hobbits quite like you?” 

“Well, no…” Bilba admitted. “But that’s no excuse!” 

“Short are the memories of men, we hold no grudges for it.” Hallas pointed out calmly. 

Were they? The statement made Bilba stop and wonder. How short were memories, truly? Not just among men, but with hobbits. She could still remember the Fell Winter, with almost painful clarity, and she had no doubt that many, all who managed to survive, by the grace of the Green Lady and the skill of those She sent to help… Yet the truth is, they never talked about it. Like most bad memories, things that cause pain, hobbits as a whole did their best not to talk about those terrible days. Hiding from the pain, the horror, the grief… Bilba did not think that would make them forget any time soon; though it might mean that the younger generations would not know all the things they probably ought to. And if things continued in the same manner, in but a few generations the Fell Winter would have been completely forgotten. Was that what the rangers meant when they spoke about men’s memories being short? Probably. 

Even as she thought about all that, Bilba began making plans. There must be some way to ensure they wouldn’t forget. Not just because all those hobbits lost deserved to be remembered; but also to make sure they as a whole would not forget all the hard lessons learned in those dark days. About what signs to look out for, precautions to take, places to avoid in case the worst ever happened again; and also, so they might always remember those who’ve aided them. 

Someone else Damrod introduced Bilba to was the Lady Gilraen, a lady of the Dúnedain who was apparently living in Rivendell for the safety of her young son: Estel, who despite being one of the Dúnedain and no elf, was Lord Elrond’s ward. Bilba could tell there was something they were all skirting, very carefully avoiding mentioning, something about the boy. Because there had to be a reason for him to be there, for his mother to believe the protection offered by the elven realm was necessary. Yet she said nothing, didn’t ask any questions. Whatever the reasons might be, in the end they were no hobbit’s business. 

It was Gilraen who taught Bilba to use her new dagger. The woman was fairly petite for a ranger. Nowhere near as small as Bilba, of course, but she had enough experience with fighting against others taller, heavier, and just generally bigger than her, so she was able to teach Bilba a few tricks on how to handle herself. She also gave Bilba a few tips on how to approach the rangers she was planning on making a business deal with, knowing well who they were. 

When Bilba began making arrangements for her departure, she was beyond surprised with what she found in place of her cart. She wasn’t even sure it ought to be called a cart anymore, as it was more like the wagons she’d seen in some old books and that her mother told her she’d seen once, transporting human royalty from one town to another. The wood was thicker, sturdier, clearly treated to last. It had four wheels instead of two, and instead of the old pins meant to secure an oil-cloth when needed, there were posts, a whole structure that had a bigger canvas already in place. The wagon would hold more of her goods, keep them dry, and even she; as the canvas top extended a bit over the front, where there was space for two drivers to sit comfortably.  Bilba had no words. Of course Hallas refused to accept any sort of payment from her. Which just reinforced Bilba’s conviction that she’d have to make the very best deal she possibly could when she met with the rangers in Bree… 

The next surprise came when, the day before her planned departure, none other than Lord Elrond went to see her. Bilba had been placing all her things inside her new wagon, and she was sure that she’d somehow ended with considerably more than she arrived with… and it wasn’t a matter of doing business, for really, what did she have to offer the elves where business was concerned? None of them seemed to have any need for the kind of wares she carried. 

“Lady Baggins,” He greeted her with a nod. 

“My lord Elrond!” Bilba eeped, half tripping over herself as she did her best to both curtsy and bow at the same time, not quite sure which was the right thing to do, then she caught up with what he’d called her: “Bilba is just fine.” 

She knew not quite what to think of the elven lord. While in many ways he was exactly what she always pictured a high lord of the elves being like, maybe precisely because of that, she was never sure how to treat him. In her previous trip to Rivendell she hadn’t even seen the elf, she and her mom were received by someone called Glorfindel, a very handsome blonde elf with a mischievous smile who’d clearly known Belladonna before. The two had spent hours talking about old pranks and escapades. Elrond was nothing like Glorfindel. It wasn’t that he, that either of them, was more, or less in any way than the other, they were just different. Though somehow, in the same way that Glorfindel seemed approachable, almost human (despite how ridiculous the idea was!), in that same vein Elrond seemed so completely otherworldly, like he did not belong in the same place as the rest of them mortals. It’s… she knew that elves were called the Firstborn for a reason, yet hadn’t realized how big a deal that all was until first meeting Elrond. 

“Very well, Lady Bilba,” Elrond nodded. 

The hobbit opened her mouth to insist on her choice of address, then closed it again, what was the point? It’s not like it made that big a difference in the end. 

“Is there any way I can be of service, my lord?” Bilba inquired after several seconds of silence. 

“I believe you should take this with you,” Elrond said as he passed her a parcel. 

It was big, almost as big as she was tall, though still surprisingly light… something in that mix tickled her instinct and she turned, placing the parcel on the wagon’s bench. It was easy enough to untie the cord holding the cloth tightly around the object, and once she pushed part of it aside, the contents were immediately relieved: a blade. A sword of elven-made, clearly forged from the same metal as her own knife but much, much bigger. 

“This is one of the blades found in the troll cave.” Bilba murmured thoughtfully. 

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver. A famous blade forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin.” Elrond explained. “It, like the other elven sword found in that cave: Glamdring, the Foehammer, was made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age.” 

“I don’t…” Bilba was at a loss for words. “Why are you giving it to me?” 

“Because I believe that only through you it might one day reach the hands it is meant for.” Elrond said with a serene expression. 

What was that supposed to mean?! There was no way Bilba could do business with a blade like that. If most people would never pay what Thorin’s knives were worth, an elven sword much less. But if not that, what was she supposed to do with it exactly? Bilba never got the chance to ask. 

“Safe journey, Lady Bilba.” Elrond said formally, bowing his head to her (which, what?!) before turning and walking away, just like that. 

Not knowing what else to do Bilba wrapped the blade tightly once again, tied the cord and put it inside the wagon, making sure to place it close enough to the bench, but nowhere it could be easily seen, not wanting it to call the wrong kind of attention. Later she would worry about what to do with the blade in the long run. Later. 

xXx

Once back in Bree she learned that the rangers she was to talk business with were none other than Dírhael and Ivorwen. It turned out that they were well-connected among the Dúnedain. They were also Gilraen’s parents. They were the ones to tell Bilba that their daughter’s husband was dead, died when their grandson was little more than a babe. The boy’s father had been the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, as would his son, their grandson, be one day. But for that to be possible the boy first needed to grow to become a man. It’d been decided that, with how not just Gilraen’s husband, but her wedded-father had also been killed in recent years, it was safer for the kid to grow up in Rivendell, at least until he was old and skilled enough to protect himself. 

Bilba felt for Gilraen. She’d noticed the way the woman seemed to be always so, so sad. It had reminded her a bit of her own mother, actually. Yet somehow Bilba hadn’t made the connection. After years traveling to human settlements doing business, and while she had in fact seen some loving couples, none ever seemed to have the same kind of intensity she’d seen in her parents, and her Took grandparents. And somehow that led her to believe that humans did not have that kind of connection. It was a mistake she wouldn’t be repeating. She also felt for Estel. Such a young boy, and already he’d lost his dad… Bilba couldn’t imagine what her life would have been like if she’d lost her father during the Fell Winter, or before that. Who would she be… what kind of hobbit would she have become without her father’s influence? His cleverness, his wisdom,  his resourcefulness, his infinite patience… Bilba wouldn’t be who she was without Bungo Baggins… 

A deal was made. As the rangers were wanderers, never settling anywhere for long, Bilba could not hope to go into any town of theirs. However, they did keep to certain patterns in their nomadic lifestyles. So a plan was made, to allow Bilba to travel to one of their encampments before winter and do business with them. She made a list of the things they were more often in need of, and promised to herself to do everything in her power to get everything, so that there would be no need for them to contend with those who might not treat them fairly. Likewise, Bilba had also been mentally planning a strategy to ensure that hobbits would not fall victims of this ‘short memory’ Hallas and Damrod spoke of. They could not forget those they owed so much to, by the Green Lady, they wouldn’t. 

Deal signed, Dírhael and Ivorwen themselves lead Bilba to the latest encampment of their people. Having known that was coming, she made sure to visit the markets the day before and get as much of what they might need as possible on short notice. If either dúnadan noticed that her wagon was fuller than it had been the day before, neither of them commented on it (of course they noticed, neither of them were blind; at the same time, they could see what she was doing, and could guess at to why, and it touched them that the young hobbit woman would be so willing to help them, so they said nothing about it). 

There was some good business to be done in the Dúnadan camp. Bilba did not have everything they needed or wanted, but she did have a lot, more than even Dírhael was expecting; and even a few things that, while not precisely necessities, the rangers were more than happy to buy, or even just trade when possible. 

Bilba didn’t stay long in the ranger’s camp. There was no real need, and after seeing some of the preparations, she could tell that the group planned on moving to a new location soon, probably before winter caught up with them. Which wasn’t a bad idea, Bilba herself had every intention of being back in Hobbiton, in her own smial, before the first snow. A look at her maps and she’d traced a route. She decided against going north and back to Bree, and instead set for the Green Way, planning on crossing the Brandywine through the bridge on Sarn Ford. She hadn’t been in the area for years, as there was very little business to be done there; yet once she crossed the river she’d be in the Shire, and that was her priority. Already she’d stayed in Rivendell longer than planned which, coupled with her unexpected trip to the ranger camp meant she was a fortnight behind on her planned traveling times; and she still had to get to the Blue Mountains for her meeting with the dwarrow. The last thing she needed was for winter to catch her in foreign land; somewhere where she wouldn’t know how to keep herself warm and safe. 

In a completely unexpected turn of events, she was less than 3 miles from the bridge, when she saw someone else going in the same direction as she. She recognized the dark-blue weskit the figure was wearing even before she caught up with him. 

“Would you like to join me, master Dwarf?” Bilba called to him. “I do believe we’re going in the same direction.” 

Thorin startled, just for a moment, but Bilba noticed. She could see his eyes going over her, and the wagon, clearly surprised by the change in her transport. 

“Nice, is it not?” She asked cheekily. “Tell me, master dwarf, would you like to ride with me? Like I said, I believe we are both headed in the same direction.” 

“I do not believe that to be the case, mistress hobbit.” Thorin denied. “For I am heading to my family, in the Blue Mountains.” 

“While I may not be able to claim to be heading to family, I am in fact heading to the Blue Mountains.” Bilba pointed out calmly. “I have business with Balin, son of Fundin and Glóin, son of Gróin.” 

She was a bit late actually and could only hope there would be no early snowstorms that might make her return to Hobbiton harder than entirely necessary. Though the Dúnedain did assure her that her new wagon would be able to deal with such weather much better than her old cart did. 

It took a quarter mile or so, but eventually the dwarf gave in. With Bilba’s permission he threw his pack into her wagon, in a corner near the front, before climbing onto the bench beside her. It was in fact a much more comfortable trip than the one he’d had on her old cart, and infinitely better than walking all the way to the mountains where he lived… Not home, Ered Luin would never be home; home was a solitary mountain in the distant east, a home lost to a king’s gold-sickness and a dragon… 

It took them close to a fortnight to make it to River Lune, crossing the Shire, as Bilba insisted it was a much easier journey than going around it. She also made several stops in markets, especially in Michel Delving. She acquired lots of food, some herbs, as well as cloth, wood and other raw materials. 

“For the dwarrow.” She answered his unasked question after the third time she stopped. 

Thorin hadn’t been asking, yet he couldn’t help but feel… something inside when hearing the explanation. Seeing someone not one of his people, so invested in them. The way she acted… it was exactly like he expected a queen of his people to be… and wait, what?! 

After another week they finally made it to Ered Luin. Bilba did not make it far into the Blue Mountains, there was no need. As always Balin and Glóin met her in a small house-office-like-space near the entrance into their settlement. Bilba respected their race, and their desire to guard their homes from outsiders. Their business was settled easily and quickly enough, and afterwards a few hours were spent treating with those interested in buying what she had in her wagon. 

By the time the sun had fallen, her wagon was practically empty, which seemed to disappoint more than one dwarf. 

“What about that parcel there, lass?” Bofur, a kind, quick-to-smile dwarf inquired as he pointed to the big package covered in cloth and tied closed. 

Bilba actually had to turn and look to see, for a moment not knowing what he might be referring to, and then she remembered… 

“I’m afraid that’s not for sale, master dwarf.” Bilba said apologetically. 

He did not insist, thankfully. 

Bilba had enough food for dinner, and breakfast in the morrow, after which she’d start making her way back to the Shire. She believed that if she pushed the ponies just a bit she might make it home in a little under a fortnight. 

She wasn’t expecting for there to be someone waiting on her as she got ready to depart, come the morning. Thorin was there, a cloak covering his clothes. 

“Master dwarf,” She bowed her head at him as she climbed onto the wagon. “I take my leave of your halls now. You have my thanks for your hospitality.” 

“Little as it might have been.” Thorin scoffed. 

“A warm bed and a roof over one’s head are never little things.” Bilba pointed out calmly. 

“Have a safe trip, mistress hobbit.” Thorin murmured eventually, seemingly deciding not to contradict her. 

“The name is still Bilba,” She blurted out, unable to help herself. “Bilba Baggins.” 

“And my name is still Thorin, yet you have not seen fit to make use of it either.” Thorin reminded her with a gruff, but not unkind, tone. 

“Was unsure how well my use of your given-name would be received while in your own halls.” Bilba admitted after some hesitation. “Tis one thing to refer to one as an equal out there in the wide world. But here, in your own realm, you’re a king.” 

“A king!” Thorin scoffs. “With barely a kingdom, no treasure, barely enough food and resources to sustain us. No, mistress Bilba, I wouldn’t say I’m much of a king.” 

“A king in exile is still very much a king.” Bilba had no idea where the boldness came from, maybe it was her Took blood, but she went with it nonetheless. “For it is the blood in your veins, but even more so your people, and your dedication to them, that makes you thus. With or without a mountain, or even a single gold coin. You are who you are, have always been and always shall be, Thorin, son of Thráin, King in exile of Durin’s Folk.” 

For the longest time Thorin said nothing at all. There was something in the way she said those words. Like she was imbuing them with some sort of unknown power, some sort of blessing. It’s not like she had the power to make him any more or less of a king (she wasn’t even one of his people!) and yet… and yet there was just something about her… He couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, just that there was something that drew him in and wouldn’t let him go… he didn’t want to let her go. Even though it was ridiculous, for so many reasons, she had a home she must get to, they barely even knew one another! And yet… 

“Are you heading home now, mistress Bilba?” The question seemed to take even Thorin himself by surprise, yet still he waited for an answer. 

“I am.” Bilba nodded. “I do prefer to spend the winter at home.” She made a pause, as if trying to decide whether it was a good idea or a bad one to say more; though in the end she did: “I shall get going again a fortnight or so after the thaw. Once I can be reasonably certain that the roads will not be too dangerous to traverse.” 

Thorin seemed to consider that for a little while, before eventually nodding. 

“Have a safe journey then, mistress Bilba.” Was all he said in the end. “And a warm winter.” 

“And you, master Thorin.” Bilba nodded with a small smile. 

And then she was on her way. 

xXx

Months later, 15 days after the last of the snows had melted, Bilba was going through Buckland on her way out of the Shire, when she saw none other than Thorin Oakenshield, standing unobtrusively by the side of the road, pack at his feet. 

“Master Thorin,” she greeted him with a nod her head as she stopped her wagon right there, in the middle of the road, just a few feet from him. 

“Mistress Bilba,” he returned the greeting. 

Somehow no questions needed to be asked, nor answers given. They both understood exactly what it meant for him to be there right then; just as they’d understood the implicit invitation when she told him almost exactly when she’d be leaving the Shire. So Thorin put his pack in the back of her wagon, in a conveniently empty corner, and climbed on the bench beside her. And off they went down the East Road. 

Chapter Text

I will take the hidden paths. 

The first year Bilba and Thorin traveled together was strange in a way both would have trouble describing. Mostly because it didn’t feel strange at all. There was no confusion, no need to adapt to suddenly not finding themselves alone anymore. Even Bilba, who was used to traveling with company, though of a very different kind, never seemed to be confused, or forget who she was with exactly. Thorin wasn’t the talkative kind, but when he did speak, it was because he’d something important to say. And when he, for whatever reason, decided to sing… (Yavanna could the dwarf sing!) As time passed and the trust between them grew they began talking about all sorts of things during the long hours traveling from one place to another. About their families, their peoples, even about themselves. Bilba much doubted there was any other non-dwarf in all of Arda that knew as much about dwarves, especially about Durin’s Folk, as she did. She also understood, instinctively, that not everything she was being told was the kind of information that ought to be public knowledge, and she’d long since promised to herself to keep the secrets of Thorin’s people as if they were her own. 

Something Thorin realized practically from day one, was that being with Bilba opened doors. Never in all the years his people had spent in exile, that he spent going from town to town to try and get what gold he could to help his family, his people, never had he spent so little time sleeping on bare ground, by the side of the road, and some nights not sleeping at all. With Bilba they got rooms (good ones too, and never too expensive for him to balk at it, see it as an unnecessary expense) in every town; but even when there were no actual towns and no inns, most nights there would be at least a farm, and even those who weren’t quite as willing to open the doors of their homes to them, they never seemed to have issue with them driving the wagon into their barn, or simply staying in their property, and sleep there. Some of it Thorin believed might be the fact that Bilba was female, and perhaps they believed the two of them to be married. But also, the hobbit woman was just so good, so kind and polite and… nice! It seemed practically impossible for people not to like her. Thorin noticed even the rangers, who looked surly almost all the time, would nod and smile at her. 

“That’s because they know me.” Bilba pointed out when he mentioned the rangers. “We have a business deal. Will be dropping by one of their encampments at the end of our circuit, before heading back to the Blue Mountains and the Shire.” 

And it wasn’t even just the sleeping places. But just being with her somehow seemed to make people more willing to accept Thorin in their midst. To give him honest work and pay fair prices for it. Never again did he have to go through something like that argument with the master’s son in Norbury, for which he was grateful. 

By the end of that first year Thorin knew, without a doubt, that he was in love with Bilba Baggins. She was his hobbit-lady, his most precious jewel, greatest treasure, the love of all loves, his One… yet what had he to offer to her? Nothing. Nothing at all. 

When Bilba fell in love with Thorin Oakenshield it happened in a rush, abruptly… or perhaps not. Perhaps it wasn’t that it happened fast at all, but rather that she didn’t realize she was falling until she was so far gone it felt as if it happened too fast for words. She never planned on saying a thing about it, not at all. After all, she was but a simple hobbit woman, what did she have to offer a king (even one in exile), and of a race not her own?! Nothing. Nothing at all. 

It was a good year, all in all. Thorin couldn’t help but feel that he did more business, got more gold for his work than any other year since the start of his people’s exile. Bilba for her part enjoyed the dwarf’s company, whether he was feeling in a talking (or singing) mood or a silent one; she appreciated his company, and the feeling of safety he gave her by his presence alone. 

Thorin was surprised during their visit to the Dúnedain camp. He’d noticed Bilba talking with some rangers at different points throughout their journey, but still took him by surprise when she turned the wagon south upon their leaving Bree, instead of west. While he had not forgotten seeing Bilba on the Green Way the previous Fall, it did not occur to him to think that it might be more than happenstance. 

The Dúnedain were perhaps the first of the race of men to not upset him. Then again, while some did seem to view him with suspicion (and even being in Bilba’s company seemed to not enough to reassure everyone) they were all quite respectful to him. Which in turn prompted him to reciprocate. It wasn’t just because they were Bilba’s friends (the hobbit seemed to be friends with practically everyone everywhere!), but what little he’d heard of the rangers in other towns told him that they were guarded people, for them to be willing to let two outsiders into their camp, into their very homes… the second one whom none of them had ever met, and on the word of the first one alone! 

“Tell me, master dwarf, what makes one such as you choose to travel with a young hobbit lady like our Miss Baggins?” One ranger, with light brown hair and green eyes in a white linen-shirt, tanned pants and a dark-red leather long-coat, asked in a tone that for all that it sounded friendly enough on the surface, had an undertone of challenge… or was it a hint of a threat? 

“One such as I?” Thorin repeated, not quite sure how he ought to take that. 

“Bilba Baggins is a friend to our people, and to me personally.” The ranger who, while Thorin might not have known it, was called Damrod and was Bilba’s good friend. “We would see her unhurt if at all possible.” 

And what was he supposed to say to that?! The dwarf held his silence, not having the slightest idea as to how to answer. When someone else joined them: 

“Sometimes, some hurts are unavoidable.” A woman this time, with dark red hair, blue eyes and wearing a pale-green dress. “Yet I do not believe Master Oakenshield intends any harm, towards her, or towards us.” 

Dúnadan and Dwarf, both turned to her at the same time. Thorin couldn’t help but notice she was petite, barely any taller than him, and while he was certainly tall for a dwarf, he’d noticed that most men tended to be taller, especially among the rangers. 

“What have your eyes seen, Lôrloth?” Damrod questioned. 

“They see nothing, and they see much.” The woman, Lôrloth, replied. 

Confused by the turn of phrase, Thorin couldn’t help but pay more attention to the young woman then, and that was when he realized that where he’d initially believed her eyes to be light blue, it wasn’t that at all, but rather that they were covered by what looked like a milky-blue film. The woman was blind… then how…? 

The change, when it happened, was like nothing Thorin had ever witnessed before, nothing he could fully understand. The woman seemed to be herself, and not at the same time. Her voice gaining a strange, almost beseeching quality as she began to sing, a song Thorin couldn’t remember ever hearing before, yet at the same time felt completely familiar: 

“The King beneath the mountains,

    The King of carven stone,

The lord of silver fountains

    Shall come into his own!” 

“His crown shall be upholden,

    His harp shall be restrung,

His halls shall echo golden

    To songs of yore re-sung.” 

“The woods shall wave on mountains

    And grass beneath the sun;

His wealth shall flow in fountains

    And the rivers golden run.” 

“The streams shall run in gladness,

    The lakes shall shine and burn,

All sorrow fail and sadness

    At the Mountain-king's return!” 

By the time Lôrloth reached the second stanza they’d drawn the attention of most of the camp, and once she got to the very last, she wasn’t the only one singing anymore. It was the strangest thing, because it wasn’t a song any of them were used to, not one they’d ever sung before, yet in that moment, as several young people (women and men, adults and teenagers, and even a few children) joined their voices to chorus the final verses of it, it’d seem that it was one they all knew by heart. 

Neither Thorin nor Bilba could have known it, but every single individual whose voice joined that song, possessed, in greater or lesser degree, the gift of prophecy. What they’d just sung would one day come to pass. 

Dírhael and Ivorwen watched the events from a side. They’d been talking with Bilba, seeing what had worked and what hadn’t this year, making a list of wares she might be able to add for the following fall. The young hobbit seemed to become a tad restless, at first they thought it might be because of Damrod approaching her dwarf-friend. And then they noticed Lôrloth’s own approach, and when she began to sing… as the song progressed, and Bilba hurried to her dwarf’s side, the two Dúnedain couldn’t help but recall a talk with their daughter, during their most recent visit with her and Estel in Rivendell. Gilraen had met Miss Bilba the year before, that much they knew, what they had not been aware of, was that her own gift of foresight had revealed to her a piece of the hobbit-lady’s future… a future tightly bound to that of Durin’s Folk. Both Dúnedain believed it was her current companion that was the source of that bind… or would be. 

“Fate has well and truly ensnared her, hasn’t it?” Dírhael murmured quietly to his wife. 

“It has ensnared them both.” Ivorwen corrected softly. “At least, easy or hard, warm or cold as the road ahead of them might be, neither of them shall be walking it alone.” 

“You really believe…” Dírhael began, unsure. 

“Don’t you?” Ivorwen snorted quietly. “Just look at them, husband. See them not with your eyes, but with your soul, it’s clear as the light of the sun.” 

“A dwarf and a hobbit, who would have thought?” 

“Some might say it’s but a reflection of their own creators. After all, isn’t Yavanna, the Green Lady of the Hobbits, the wife of Aüle, the one the dwarrow call Mahal?” 

“Indeed. Lets hope then, that their bond might be as strong as that of the Valar who made them.” 

“It shall be. As constant as the stars, as firm as the stones, and as beautiful and full of life as every flower and tree…” 

xXx

An early snowstorm caught them by surprise as they were leaving Michel Delving. It wasn’t Samhain yet, they should have had time to spare to get Thorin to Ered Luin and Bilba get back to Hobbiton, and yet… Thankfully the storm did not last long, the delay of no more than half a day or so, and the snow it left behind wasn’t too much that the wagon could not handle it. 

By the looks of it, they weren’t the only ones arriving to the Blue Mountains right then. Bilba was not unaware of the looks several of the dwarrow directed their way. Though she was unsure if they were caused by her, or the royal beside her, or the fact that the two of them were traveling together at all… So distracted was Bilba by the looks, that she didn’t listen at first when Thorin called to her. Not until she made to guide the ponies into the usual barn and he put a hand over her arm, stopping her. 

“Keep going.” Was all he told her. “Up the path.” 

Bilba turned to look at him, blinking. ‘Up the path’ meant going further into the Blue Mountains, going actually into the dwarven settlement. Bilba had never been allowed that before, because she wasn’t a dwarf… The looks got all the more intense as she did as told as they began moving up the path. Thorin said nothing, and neither did she. 

In all truthfulness, Bilba didn’t expect it to mean that much. A show of trust, perhaps a sign to his people that Thorin trusted, that they could do the same. And then came the invitation to dinner: 

“Bilba Baggins, daughter of Bungo, at your service.” Bilba introduced herself when a dwarf who looked remarkably like Thorin (only slightly younger, and feminine) approached them and Thorin called her sister. 

“Dís, daughter of Thráin and sister of Thorin, at yours.” The dwarven lady (a princess!) said in turn. “Welcome to Ered Luin, Mistress Baggins.” 

“Bilba, please, princess Dís.” Bilba murmured, blushing with embarrassment and not quite sure if she should offer her hand, bow, curtsy, or what exactly. 

“Just Dís is fine, Bilba.” Dís smiled gently at her. “I don’t stand on protocol before friends.” 

There was a part of Bilba that wanted to ask if that was what she was, while another pointed out that she had to be something, to even be where she was in that moment. What exactly… well, she supposed she’d find out sooner or later. 

“Will you be staying for dinner, Bilba?” Dís inquired right then. 

Bilba wasn’t sure how to respond to that, when Thorin intervened. 

“Please tell me you were not the one to do the cooking.” He blurted out. 

Bilba’s reaction was instinctive, as she smacked Thorin in the arm. She didn’t even think about it, it was an automatic reaction. Once she caught up with what she’d just done, she froze. She was about to start blurting out apologies when Dís just… she laughed, uproariously! 

“Laugh it up, sister mine.” Thorin muttered darkly, though Bilba could see the hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth. 

She’d come to know Thorin pretty well over the months spent on the road, come to be able to read the most minute expressions, and the way he’d sometimes do his best to present one expression to the world… there were always tiny details that gave him away though: like a slight curving to the corners of his lips, a crinkle on his forehead, a gleam in his eyes… Which was how she knew that despite him acting put upon, he was actually happy. 

“It does seem Bilba has you well in hand brother.” Dís said brightly, then turned to the hobbit. “Worry not, it was not I who did the cooking. Regretfully, my brother’s implications were not wrong. Great cook I am not.” She turned forward, leading them down a stone hall and into what looked like a set of living apartments. “Ursa did the cooking. She’s not quite as good as Solveig, or even her husband Bombur, but they have been busy with their youngest.” 

“Was the babe born in good health?” Thorin wanted to know. 

“He was.” Dís nodded, before turning to Bilba. “You will never know, Miss Bilba, the kind of blessing you and your family have been to the dwarrow of Ered Luin. So many of our own we might have lost, babes that might have never survived, perhaps not even been born…” 

Bilba had no words for that. It wasn’t that she was unaware that BCS changed lives, (it certainly changed her own enough! Bilba had no idea what her life would be like, who she’d even be, were it not for BCS) but she just had never stopped to consider how she, how all of them were changing the lives of those they traded with… 

“I’m… glad,” Bilba chose her words with great care. “And infinitely grateful to the Green Lady, for whatever good we might have brought to you and yours.” 

“The Green Lady?” Dís inquired, intrigued. 

“Yavanna, the Queen of Earth, the Giver of Fruits, responsible for all growing things.” Bilba recited solemnly. “While hobbits may not know who exactly it was that created us, though many believe it was she. What we do know for certain is that it was she that guided us after we lost our first home in the Far East, who gave us the green land that is our home, our Shire. Everything we are, everything we have, we owe it to her, our Green Lady.” 

“Oh…” Dís absorbed that. “Like our Mahal then.” 

Bilba nodded. She wasn’t sure if it was an exact comparison. Like she said, they couldn’t be sure that it was the Green Lady that created hobbits exactly (though most did believe it was so) the way they knew Aüle, or Mahal, created the dwarrow. 

Right before dinner was served, two more dwarves joined them. Dís’s young (for dwarrow, at least) sons: Fíli and Kíli. They were happy, rambunctious, young dwarves who reminded Bilba very much of some of her young cousins (those from the Took side of the family). Bilba liked them immediately, even when they seemed to find it utterly impossible to say her name properly! She couldn’t be sure, whether it was that they truly could not pronounce it correctly, or if it was just them joking with her. In the end she did not mind either way. 

Dinner went well. The fare wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, the meat different from what she was used to, but the flavor similar enough, perhaps because the herbs used for seasoning were among those wares the dwarves acquired from the Shire. 

After dinner Dís insisted that Bilba stay the night, claiming that it might snow again, and it wouldn’t be good for her to end up stranded if that happened. Bilba babbled and stammered, unable to help herself, but in the end she accepted the invitation as graciously as she knew how. They didn’t have any extra rooms, and Bilba refused to let either Dís or Thorin give up their own, in the end she decided that the couch in the living room, while not perfect, was at least good enough, certainly big enough for her. Clean linens and a pillow were brought out and Bilba slept well enough there. 

In the morning, she wasn’t sure how exactly, but somehow Fíli and Kíli managed to convince her to accompany them to pick up fruit from trees that grew on the mountain side. Bilba could feel nothing but fascination when she saw all the fruit trees growing out there. She’d noticed that they were about halfway up the mountains. There was an area outside where the fruit trees, as well as some bushes and even flowers grew. In between the mountain and the edge of a cliff that went straight down, all the way to a river. What fascinated her most though was how many of the trees and bushes were heavy with fruit. They weren’t the only ones taking from them, though most of the dwarves doing so were carrying crates, which lead Bilba to believe that they were the mountain’s cooks, and were planning something important with them. 

“This looks so good!” Bilba exclaimed with a smile. 

“They are!” Kíli called excitedly. “You should try them, Miss Boggins!” 

He climbed an apple tree in a hurry, throwing one glossy golden apple. Bilba failed to catch it but Fíli, standing beside her, did not. He polished it some with the edge of his tunic, in a move that seemed more practiced than automatic, made her wonder who he’d seen doing such a thing. She supposed it didn’t matter. She took the apple when it was offered and bit into it. It was sweet and a bit tangy and perfect. 

“This is really good!” She exclaimed. 

The brothers collected several apples, pears and a couple of fistfuls of berries. By that point Dís had joined them, holding a basket where the young dwarrow placed their bounty… all but the handful of raspberries they were trying (and failing) to eat secretly. 

“Most of the fruits will go into pies, cakes and cookies made by the mountain cooks, and some will be dried to be eaten later in the winter.” Dís informed her when she noticed Bilba observing the dwarrow still collecting fruits and placing them in crates. “Still, we are allowed, encouraged even, to take what we want for our personal use.” 

“I think it’s amazing.” Bilba murmured. 

She was going to say something else (later on she wouldn’t be able to remember what, exactly) when a sound called their attention. 

“Liv, Liv!” It was the voice of a dwarrowdam calling for someone, a child probably, voice going louder, and more hysterical, with each repetition. “LIV!!!” 

They all reacted fast, some rushing to the dwarrowdam, asking what was wrong. Soon some began calling out, also looking for the child, until one saw her: 

“She’s in the river!” 

“What?!” 

“My baby!” The dam with wavy mahogany hair and an array of braids and beads on it practically shrieked in desperation. 

For a moment it looked like she might throw herself off the cliff after her daughter. Two others managed to hold her back just in time; but that, while avoiding making things worse, still wasn’t helping the little girl going down river, fast. 

“What can we do?” Someone asked. 

As it turned out, not much. Bilba heard plans being made, and discarded. It seemed that on their side of the river, it was a sheer cliff, with not enough to hold onto, to go down that way; on the other side, the riverbank was full off loose, too smooth stones, nothing for the girl to hold onto, and anyone who tried approaching that way would likely slip and fall into the river as well. Messages were sent to find rope, and one of the stronger dwarves to perhaps be able to get her out, before she went too far down the river and they couldn’t find her. It was enough of a miracle that the child found a piece of wood and was managing to stay afloat despite the current. 

“They’ll never make it in time.” Bilba murmured under her breath. 

Fíli and Kíli turned horrified looks at her, only then realizing she’d spoken out-loud. She didn’t mean to. Though she supposed it didn’t matter in the end. In an instant, her choice was made. She took off the heavy furred cloak Dís lent her when the children began pulling at her to follow them outside, having decided that her own orange cloak was nowhere near enough (she’d be right). 

“Hold this for me please.” She asked Fíli, passing him the cloak then, bracing herself for the biting cold, slipped off the orange cloak as well, passing it to Kíli. “And this.” 

“Miss Boggins…” The two began, clearly unsure what she might be planning. 

“Everything’s going to be alright…” She took a moment to look into their eyes, reassure them as best she could. “Trust me.” 

Then she said nothing else as she ran to the edge of the cliff and jumped. 

It was Fíli and Kíli’s own shocked screams that called everyone’s attention in their direction. So Bilba had quite the audience when, mid-fall, at the same time she cleared the cliff, her wings unfolded from her back. She didn’t fall so much as glide down. 

Bilba pushed aside any nerves, fear, even the cold, focused solely on doing what needed to be done. She managed to reach the little dwarf-girl quickly enough. 

“Give me your hand!” She had to yell to be heard over the roar of the current. 

It took a moment or two, but eventually the child, with hair far redder than her mother and a stocky built, turned to Bilba. She blinked, looking at the hobbit in fascination. 

“You have wings!” She exclaimed in childish delight. 

“I do.” Bilba agreed. “Now give me your hand please. So I can get us out of here.” 

It still took several (long, exhausting, terrifying) seconds, and a couple of harrowing attempts until they both managed to stretch enough for Bilba to be able to take hold of the girl, without ending up falling into the wild river herself. 

“Your wings are pretty…” The girl stated as Bilba settled her against her chest, took a breath and then began flapping her wings in order to stop gliding and start actually flying. 

“Thank you…” Bilba murmured softly. 

Because, what else could she have said? The last time someone called her wings pretty, it’d been her mom, and well… moms always said everything about their children was pretty, right? In fact, to most hobbits her wings were just… odd. It wasn’t just the fact that she was a fairy, despite being technically a Baggins, rather than a Took. But even among fairies she stood out. She’d seen the paintings, fairy wings always looked like flowers, or even just petals: soft, and delicate, and pretty, nice to look at. Bilba’s wings were nothing like that. They were big, bigger than her even, with the bottom almost touching the ground were she to stand with them unfurled, and the tops going over her head. They also had angles, and edges and… nothing like the soft, delicate curves of other fairies’ wings. Bilba remembered that when she was young, many would compare her wings to glass panels. It was what they looked like. Like thin glass, the kind that didn’t serve for much, as it was too thin, too fragile… Now… her wings still looked like that, but Bilba knew they weren’t fragile, not at all, they were strong, strong enough to endure the attack of a full-grown wolf and shield her without breaking. Enough to carry her, to let her fly, even against the wind, at high altitude, and not just float with the currents; enough to carry not just her weight but that of another as well… 

Hobbits might not know what to say about Bilba’s wings, but it was clear that at least one little dwarf-child was absolutely fascinated by them. And as Bilba would soon find out, she was far from the only one. 

The hobbit-fairy couldn’t help but trip a bit over the edge of her dress, as well as her own feet, as she landed on the rocky ground, right where she’d stood before throwing herself off the mountain to fly to the little dwarf-child. 

“My baby!!!” The dwarrowdam shrieked as she ran to her. 

Bilba didn’t hesitate as she passed her the little girl, whom the dam proceeded to hug tight against her body, as if afraid she might fall again if she let go. She eventually turned her focus to Bilba, who had yet to move from the edge, her wings still spread behind her, mostly so as to shield them from the wind that was picking up. 

“Thank you, my lady, thank you.” The dam bowed deep to Bilba. 

Bilba flushed in embarrassment, a part of her wanting to stop the lady from bowing, but knowing that trying to tell her not to do it, that there was no need… well, it could easily be taken as an insult. Bilba hadn’t done what she did, looking for recognition, or praise, but clearly the woman had a right to be grateful, it was her daughter after all! 

“Look mama!” The girl cried out. “Her wings are so pretty! Like…” 

She didn’t understand the rest of what she said, as the child switched to a different language, one with rounder vocals and which sounded oddly more deliberate than any Bilba knew (and she knew both the Sindarin and Silvan dialects of elvish, aside from Hobbitish and Westron). 

“Yes, like diamond.” The dam nodded at her child, before turning to Bilba.” Adamantine…” 

And so it was that Bilba came to be known as the Lady Adamantine, ‘of the diamond wings’… 

xXx

Bilba ended up staying longer in Ered Luin than planned. A whole week, in fact. It wasn’t something she planned, really, it just kind of happened. Every day she would get visitors, both children and adults, the latter mostly thanking her for saving the little girl (Liv, daughter of Glóin, as she came to know was the little one’s name), the former just wanting to see her. Every day she’d get at least one request from the young ones that she show them her ‘diamond wings’. It was during those days that she learned about the name the dwarrow were calling her. She also came to learn just how important children were for them. Not that they were any less for any other race but… 

“There are few of us dwarrowdams.” Dís explained. “One in every three or four, I believe. And we are as likely to choose to be craft-wed as our males. But it’s because of that, and because pregnancy can be hard on us even at the best of times, that children are so rare, and thus infinitely treasured. More than the greatest jewel in any mountain.” 

And Bilba saved a child, what’s more, a female child. It was no wonder they all reacted strongly. All but Thorin at least, whom Bilba had barely even seen all week! 

Eventually she did manage to convince everyone that she had to leave, get to Hobbiton before the next storm. Provisions were gathered and at Dís and Ursa’s (Liv’s mother) insistence, she’d have a dwarven escort at least as far as the borders of the Shire. 

Everything changed abruptly, and in a most unexpected manner, at the last moment. She was in a sea-green dress this time, with thick long sleeves and heavy skirts, a blue-gray velvet cloak settled over her shoulders (a gift from Ursa and her husband, which she accepted after much insistence on their parts). It was clipped at her throat rather than tied, to ensure it stayed in place, while at the same time allowing for her to shrug it off easily if she found it necessary (if she needed her wings). She was just about to climb onto her wagon, doing her best to ignore all the dwarves that had come to see her off; when there was a bit of a commotion at the mountain’s main gates. She turned to find Thorin there. He was wearing a simple dark-blue tunic, black leather pants and boots, no cloak or even a coat, yet it was like the cold couldn’t touch him, or if it did, it wasn’t important enough for him to pay it any mind. He was looking straight at Bilba, and if it weren’t because he was holding something (and because it was Thorin!) she’d have expected him to be wringing his hands or something, so nervous he looked! 

“Th… Master Oakenshield…?” Bilba questioned, hesitantly. 

She was unsure what she ought to call him. While he might have given her leave to use his name, it wasn’t the same, their being on the road, or even in his family’s apartments, and right there outside the Blue Mountains, surrounded by his people… 

“My name is still Thorin, Mistress Bilba.” He reminded her gently. 

“Master Thorin,” She inclined her head. 

For a moment nothing happened, and Bilba wondered if he was just there to see her off, like everyone else. She was about to turn around and finally climb onto her wagon, when Thorin took a step forward and spoke up: 

“Bilba Adamantine Baggins, daughter of Bungo,” he stated formally. “With my sister, sister-sons and my people as witnesses, I wish to offer you something. A gift, for you to accept, or refuse…” 

Fíli and Kíli rushed forward, holding up the parcel when Thorin placed it in their hands, opening it so she could see what was inside the piece of cloth: they were blades. Half a dozen knives, each made of a single piece, no longer than two hand-spans, forged from a metal that Bilba knew not the name of, though it was very dark (though not quite black) and strangely seemed to almost absorb the light. Bilba was abruptly reminded of the blades she tried to get Thorin to sell her, and which they never talked about again after that day. The ones in front of her weren’t those blades. These were new and even with her evident lack of knowledge where smithing was concerned, she could tell the blades were a work of art. 

Something else caught up with the conscious part of her brain, as she stood there, admiring the knives. Thorin’s choice of words when presenting them: ‘ a gift for her to accept or refuse’… She might not know much about dwarrow customs and traditions, but if she knew one thing, it was that regardless of race, there was only one kind of gift that could be accepted or refused: a Courting Gift… 

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin,” She did her best to word her answer as closely to his own declaration as she could. “It would be my honor and my pleasure to accept your gift.” 

The cheers were deafening. 

“They’re beautiful Thorin…” She said softly to him as she traced a finger down one of the knives, carefully avoiding the edges. 

“You are beautiful, mesmel .” He said in return. “These… these are but mere weapons, tools intended to serve and protect that beauty.” 

Beside them Dís scoffed, muttering something quiet (and somewhat scathing sounding) in Khuzdûl, while her sons gagged in a very dramatic manner. Bilba and Thorin ignored them, in that moment they had eyes and ears for no one but each other. Thorin got close enough to Bilba to press their foreheads together gently. By then she’d been around dwarrow (and this particular one) enough to know the significance of such a gesture. Dwarves were very private beings, in many ways, including their expressions of affection. The likelihood of someone ever seeing dwarves kiss was next to none. Touching foreheads, or their foreheads to another’s shoulder, temple, hair… it was in many ways the equivalent of small, chaste kisses. Even that move was usually reserved for couples, and close family. 

“Does that mean we can call you Auntie Adamantine?” Kíli asked excitedly. 

“Bilba,” The hobbit corrected softly. “The name is Bilba.” 

She did not point out that she wasn’t the boys’ aunt yet, and wasn’t that telling? 

xXx

That winter the hobbits were treated to the sight of several dwarves visiting Hobbiton every other week; on dwarven ponies the trip from Ered Luin to Bag-End in Hobbiton could be made in two days, and the visitors would always stay a few days before leaving again. Perhaps not the best arrangement, but planning a wedding, especially one that mixed two races, took time and a considerable amount of effort. 

Only once did either part express doubt over their union. They’d been trying to follow as many of their respective people’s traditions as they could, even combining them where at all possible. The first courting gift had been following dwarven tradition, then Bilba had corresponded on Thorin (and Dís’s) first visit to Bag-End with a full meal cooked all by her. They both began wearing courting braids with basic Durin-blue beads (which were meant to be switched for special beads created by each of them for their spouse on the day of the wedding). The issue came after they reached the step of seeking the families’ approval. In Thorin’s case: Dís and the boys were the only close family Thorin had, and all three loved Bilba already. Bilba on the other hand did not have any close family, as her parents were dead and she had no siblings; her grandparents on both sides of the family were also dead. As for her uncles: on the Baggins side, of those who bore the Baggins name, one admired Bilba while at the same time not wanting to be associated too closely with her (fearing he might be considered ‘unrespectable’ as well), the others were the Sackville-Bagginses (and the less said about them the better!); on the Took side things were a bit better, several of her mom’s siblings were still alive. Her uncle Isumbras was the one who took charge of things. He was the second son of the Old Took, and the Thain since the passing of his older brother. With the dwarves' insistence on seeing the Thain as the hobbits’ version of a king, that improved the way some of the older, more traditional dwarrow Clans looked at Bilba. As they chose to see her as a foreign princess, or something. In hindsight, that was probably where the issue started… 

“Do you want your bead back, is that it?” Bilba demanded bluntly. 

It might not have been the best way to handle things, but Thorin had just expressed uncertainty regarding their courtship. All that Bilba could think of after hearing that, was that Thorin might not love her anymore. Which was absolutely ridiculous, she knew. Dwarrow love only once, and if they cannot have their One, they will have no other. Which meant that it could not be that, so what then? 

“Not at all, mamarlûna .” Thorin denied. 

Bilba knew just enough Khuzdûl (Dís and Balin were teaching her during their visits) to know that one. Which confirmed her belief that it wasn’t lack of love that motivated Thorin’s doubts and insecurities. 

“What have I to offer you?” 

The question that crossed his lips took her completely by surprise. Enough that, unable to help herself, Bilba burst into laughter. Laughter that was interrupted eventually by Thorin’s dark, stormy expression. 

“I’m not… I’m not laughing at you Thorin!” She hurried to reassure him as best she could. “I just… I thought I was the only one who felt that way!” 

Thorin cocked his head to the side, not saying anything, but clearly wondering what she meant. 

“I mean, honestly, you’re a Dwarf King! Mountain or exile don’t matter, you have your people, you are their King! And me? I’m but a little hobbit, even with my family fortune and my bloodlines, what have I really to offer one such as you?” 

“No Bilba, Bilba, My darling, beautiful, most precious Bilba… Mesmelê … You, you alone are so much, mean so much to me… You are enough, more than!” 

“As are you. You, Thorin, son of Thráin, of the Line of Dúrin. You could have no title, no epithet, no fortune and no name, and still I would love you. Because you are you. You are the dwarf I fell in love with.” She exhaled softly. “You might not realize this yet, but we hobbits, we’re simple people. We like simple things: like food, and flowers, and sweets, and peace! The idea of being a princess, or even a Queen… it’s not one I look forward to, not really. But I will accept it, because it’s part of being with you, and that… that’s what I want more than anything. To be with you.” 

For several seconds neither of them said a thing, just looking at each other, waiting. They loved each other, there was no doubt about that; yet somehow that still wasn’t enough to do away with their respective doubts and insecurities. 

“You know,” something suddenly occurred to Bilba. “this place, Bag-End, my home. My dad built it for my mom. He wanted to show her, and Granddad, that he could provide for her, could give her the kind of home she deserved. Bag-End is considered by all of Hobbiton as the biggest, fanciest, coziest smial.” She paused, giving Thorin a few seconds to grasp that, before continuing: “That was my favorite story growing up. The story of how much my da’ loved my ma’… Years later, when I was older, I heard a different version of the story: my da’ built Bag-End for my ma’, yes, but the gold used to do it, that was my ma’s. At first… like any lass used to seeing her parents as invincible, I feared that made things less, somehow. Then I saw the truth. That it was not about one of them giving the other something, but about the both of them building something together.” She exhaled, looking straight into Thorin’s eyes, wanting to make sure she drove the point home. “That’s what truly mattered, still does. Not just with them, but with us. It’s not about what one of us can give the other, but what the both of us build together…” 

And what the two of them would build was a future, not just for them, but for all their peoples… 

Chapter Text

West of the moon and east of the sun. 

The wedding ceremony of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilba Adamantine Baggins was, in the eyes of many, a most peculiar ceremony. As expected in both Hobbit and Dwarven tradition (one of the few customs the races shared) Bilba made her own wedding gown with the help of two of her female relatives (her mom’s sisters). In a style similar to her usual dresses, it was a floor-length, sleeveless piece, made from completely white cloth, and adorned with delicate embroidery Bilba made herself with silver thread. The silver came from an old brush, so old it was no use anymore, yet her mother never got rid of it because it was made of silver. She’d always believed it’d be useful to her daughter one day (though Bilba doubted her ma’ ever imagined how she’d be using it exactly…). Dís helped her a bit on that front, smelting the brush and painstakingly turning it into some very fine silver thread. Her aunts for their part made a cloak, light gray with ivory and pearly white roses: some embroidered, others painted, and a few they made separate, out of white silk, and then sewed onto the cloak, making it seem like there were roses actually coming out of the garment. 

The ceremony began with Thorin and Bilba spending the days leading to the wedding, separate. Then, on the day of, she was placed on a cart (one of BCS’s carts, actually) and led down Bagshot Row and to the Party Tree by her eldest male relative: Uncle Isumbras Took. The entire Baggins and Took Clans were at the Party Tree already, along with a number of dwarves willing to make the trip. 

Hobbits had never been very formal, and even where weddings were concerned, there wasn’t much ceremony to the event. Some protocol questions, a blessing given by a leader of the community, speeches by the heads of the clans joining, and then came the contracts… and yet Thorin and Bilba still managed to have a few issues to overcome. First there was the fact that the two of them were, for all intents and purposes the Heads of their respective clans. Otho Sackville-Baggins spoke against Isumbras being the one to ‘deliver’ Bilba to her groom when she was a Baggins… Isumbras won that argument on his insistence that, as the daughter of his father’s favored daughter, Bilba was very much a Took as well as a Baggins. Also, Isumbras’s magic surpassed by far either male Baggins, even if he didn’t surpass Bilba herself, which gave him a certain level of authority. 

So it was Isumbras who drove the cart Bilba was on, to the Party Tree, and who came face to face with Thorin first: 

“I am Isumbras IV Took, son of Gerontius I Took, Thain of the Shire.” Isumbras announced. “Who are you and what brings you here on this day?” 

“I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, of the Line of Durin.” Thorin had been told to keep things simple, hobbits didn’t really care for royalty anyway. “And on this day I come before you, Isumbras IV Took, seeking the hand of your niece, Bilba Adamantine Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, in marriage.” 

“And what have you to offer my niece, the only daughter of my dear sister and father’s favored daughter, Thorin, son of Thráin?” Isumbras asked the next question. 

Thorin knew it wasn’t a question about riches or material things. He’d also been told by several people that each groom chose how to answer and no answer was wrong as long as they expressed love for their bride. Thorin actually spent a long, long time considering how exactly to word his response, not wanting to leave doubt in anyone’s minds regarding how much he loved his hobbit: 

“I offer her the strength of my arm, the honor of my name, the protection of my halls, the warmth of my hearth and all the love in my heart.” 

“Bilba Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, my beloved niece, will you take what he has to offer?” Isumbras asked as he turned to Bilba, still on the cart. 

“I will,” she nodded, turning to Thorin to fully word her reply. “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, I, Bilba Adamantine Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, will take the strength of your arm, and complement it with the comfort of mine; will gratefully accept the honor of your name while sharing the history of mine; will shelter in the protection of your halls, rest in the warmth of your hearth, which I hope to help turn into our home; and place my heart next to yours, so our love will always keep us together.” 

It was probably far more poetic than any other hobbit wedding any of those attending had ever witnessed, and it showed exactly how much Thorin and Bilba loved each other. 

The speeches portion of the wedding turned into a game of one upmanship as several of Bilba’s relatives, from both sides of her family tree, seemed to try to outdo each other as the one to give the most elaborate (and most ridiculous) speech. It only got worse when the dwarves decided to get in on things and started giving the most outrageous speeches they could think of. 

The lawyers arrived while a number of hobbits began setting the wedding feast. The marriage contract involved was more elaborate than anything hobbits were used to, but at least they knew and understood the importance of Thorin’s position in dwarven society, and thus the reason behind some details in the marriage contract. Bilba might not have been an expert in law and lore, but she’d been closely involved in the creation of the contract, same as Thorin, every step of the way. Her lawyers, as well as Balin and Glóin, were there more as a matter of tradition and protocol than because of either of them needing the contract to be explained. So that part went quickly enough, as initials were added and signatures affixed at the end. 

Bilba was keeping the Baggins name for the time being, though already the dwarrow knew her more as the Lady Adamantine. She remained the Head of the Baggins Clan for the time being, but already she’d started looking for someone to take as her heir, knowing that sooner or later that’d become untenable. She’d been meeting with all her Baggins relatives, and thus far the only who came anywhere close to being able to take the position was her cousin: Drogo Baggins, the only issue being he was three years away from his majority still. 

Something else that was included in their contract was on the matter of heirs. Fíli and Kíli were still Thorin’s heirs, and would remain thus even if/when Bilba gave Thorin children. There were many varied reasons: they didn’t even know if they’d be compatible enough to have children, would Durin’s Folk accept a queen/king who was only half-dwarf? Also, Thorin’s sister-sons had been training to one day take Thorin’s position, and it didn’t seem fair to Bilba to take that away from them just because she’d entered the picture. And Thorin… he loved his nephews and he believed in them, so he agreed with Bilba’s idea. 

After the feasting came the dancing. And the flower crowns! The youngest members of the Took and Baggins Clans (fauntlings mostly) made crowns of flowers: myrtle (love, emblem of marriage), orange blossoms (eternal love, marriage and fruitfulness), magnolia (nobility), daisies (loyal love), dandelions (faithfulness, happiness), white heather (protection, wishes come true), as well as red and white roses (unity), put together with ivy (wedded love, fidelity). They’d even gotten the youngest dwarves who visited the Shire (Fíli, Kíli, Liv and her big brother Gimli) to do the activity with them, even if the dwarves knew nothing about flowers. They knew it was an important part of a hobbit wedding, and thus took it very seriously. 

“Hobbit flowers are really pretty mama!” Liv described it best at one point. “And hobbits really like them, like… like we love jewels!” 

It was true enough, in more ways than most probably would expect with such a statement. It wasn’t a matter of material value (as much as a particular jewel may be worth, and as little as most flowers might be) but more, the meaning each race gave to them, and to the things made out of them: like the wedding flower crowns of the hobbits, and the dwarrow wedding beads… 

The feasting, and dancing and general partying went on until well into the night. Though Thorin and Bilba retired eventually, making their way to Bag End, to spend their wedding night. 

xXx

In the morning, before they were to leave for Ered Luin, Bilba finally remembered something. An object given into her keeping, and which she was suddenly feeling the imperious need to place in her new husband’s hands, believing wholeheartedly that it’s how it was meant to be. 

“Bilba,” Thorin called. “We will be late…” 

“Just a moment.” Bilba guided him to her study. “I have something for you.” 

“For me?” That intrigued Thorin. 

For all answer she led him to a table in the very back of the room, farthest away from the door, the window and the desk where she’d sometimes work. There was only one thing on that table, a parcel wrapped in thick cloth and tied closed with a cord. Thorin reached for it the moment his eyes laid on it, stopping with his fingers but an inch away from it, until he looked at his wife and she nodded at him. Pulling out a small pocket-knife he cut the cords keeping the cloth tight, before unfolding it, revealing the object inside: a sword. Beautifully made by one who’d clearly been a master of the craft. 

“ Mesmel …?” Thorin murmured questioningly. 

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver. Forged by the High Elves of the West for the Goblin wars of the First Age… it’s apparently a famous sword. Or so I was told by Lord Elrond of Rivendell when he gave it to me for safekeeping.” 

“Safekeeping?” 

“He seemed to believe that through me the blade would reach the hands it was meant for. At the time I thought nothing of it. What use would I ever have for such a blade. It’s bigger than I am! Yet now.. Now I know it’s meant for you, it always has been.” 

“It’s a beautiful blade, clearly very well made. Though I fail to understand why an elf-lord would give a clearly elven-sword to a dwarf, or a hobbit.” 

“I’ve told you what he said. I… from what I know, there are some among the elves that have the gift of foresight, perhaps he saw something?” 

“It does not happen just among the elves, there are some among my own people that are gifted as well. Óin, Glóin’s older brother, can notice portents. And… I believe my grandmother had some of it too. The way she’d work at curving Grandfather’s worst traits, and she was always so careful about how much treasure was kept in Erebor. Insisting that gold and jewels and the like were meant to be useful and not just kept in the treasury. I asked her once why she worked so much at it and she said… she said: ‘We’re dwarves, not dragons, little one. Too much treasure gathering dust is bad and might attract foul worms’.” 

“Foul worms…? You… you think it was a warning about… about Smaug?” 

“I do not know. I cannot know. Yet it fits, does it not?” 

It did. No more was said on the topic. Thorin picked up Orcrist, placing it on his back, using a belt to tie it to his body. 

From the moment the two of them stepped out of Bag-End, with Thorin carrying his new blade, all dwarrow eyes focused on it. Yet no one said a word about it. It was until much later in the day, as they made camp about halfway between Hobbiton and the Blue Mountains, that Dís finally seemed to run out of patience: 

“Well?!” She demanded. “When are you gonna tell us?” 

“Tell you what, nan’ith ?” Thorin couldn’t fully hide the smirk. 

“Where that bloody sword came from!” Dís demanded. 

“It’s a wedding gift from my yasthûna .” Thorin answered immediately. 

All eyes went to Bilba immediately. So she told them the same she’d told Thorin earlier that day. About the blade, and Lord Elrond. She went a bit further though, as she pulled up her own blade to show them: 

“This is Sting,” she stated, placing the blade on her lap. “According to the elves it was forged alongside Orcrist and another sword called Glamdring. Though of course it did not have a name, that I chose myself, after a joke Fíli and Kíli made regarding it.” 

They’d mentioned how the sword was small, comparing it to a letter opener, to which Bilba pointed out it wasn’t the size that mattered, if used right, like an insect’s sting… which the two young dwarrow understood immediately (they apparently had previous experience with bees and their stings). 

“How did you come to possess such blades, lassie?” Balin wanted to know. 

And so Bilba told them the story about her first journey alone, a missing human child and three trolls… It was the first time she told that story in its entirety, with all its difficulties, darkness and moments of desperation; rather than the easier, brighter version she’d usually tell the fauntlings. The dwarves went through a whole range of emotion as they heard Bilba’s harrowing tale. 

“You are truly amazing, lass, and let no one tell you otherwise.” Dwalin stated gruffly. 

Bilba just blushed, even more so when Thorin wrapped an arm around her back and pressed his forehead against her temple. 

“A valor braid.” Dís announced, unexpectedly. 

“What…?” Bilba knew not what she meant, though apparently the others did. 

“A valor braid. I shall be adding it to your hair, after the wedding.” Dís explained. “You deserve it. Not just for saving the human child, or for getting rid of those trolls but… this isn’t as easily explained in Westron but… through your actions you showed your mettle, your valor. You were terrified, yet that didn’t stop you. You did what you knew needed to be done, you never gave up. That makes you a truly special person…” 

Bilba said nothing, burrowing her face into her husband’s chest in an attempt to hide her burning face. Thorin said nothing, though his chuckles were easily heard by everyone. 

xXx

Dwarven wedding ceremonies were quite different from hobbit ones. The first part was entirely private. Thorin and Bilba were back in their wedding attires, and they walked alone deep into the Blue Mountains, to where the dwarrow altar to Mahal could be found. It was essentially a forge, where offerings and petitions could be made. It was always alight, kept that way by dwarrow dedicated to it. The offerings were placed in the forge; where they’d go to Mahal (whatever they placed there, it always went, nothing was ever left behind, not melted metals, or shards of jewels, not even ashes). 

Before the forge, Thorin and Bilba knelt side by side. They each brought out their offering. First there was Thorin’s: a blue diamond, rare among the rares, and one Thorin himself had mined when younger. He tossed it into the forge as he offered a prayer to his Maker, thanking him for the blessing that was his wife, and asking for a good future for the both of them. Bilba for her part pulled one of the silk-and-silver roses from her cape, one she’d made herself, she threw it into the forge before adding her own prayers. 

Then the couple turned to each other, pulling out small beads from their clothes, they picked up a comb that was already in the room for such purposes and then took turns to make a braid on the other, behind the left ear. It was a double braid, a marriage braid, with a very specific twist half way (called by some a love-knot). Thorin finished Bilba’s braid with a very special bead, carved from a star sapphire, Carefully, over the star itself, he had carved the Valknut, the dwarven wedding symbol, while on the other side was the rune representative of Thorin’s own name. On Bilba’s side, the bead she had to give to Thorin was made of wood, weirwood to be precise (a special magical wood that was considered to still be alive even after being cut, the hobbits believed that the weirwoods had been planted by the Green Lady herself, and it was her magic that they carried); the wood was white and it was inlaid with silver (from the same silver thread she’d used on her wedding gown) forming the Valknut on one side, and a tiny, simple flower with wings on the other side to represent her. 

There were no official vows, not really. They were a very personal thing, usually. Also, dwarrow believed that the marriage in itself was a vow, so any other words were unneeded. Yet Bilba had found something, a set of vows believed by some to be legend… 

“It is said that these are the wedding vows that united Melian the Maia and King Elu Thingol, as well as their daughter Lúthien Tinúviel and her human lover: Beren Erchamion.” Her ma’ told her once. “It is believed that these vows have been used in the ceremonies bonding every interracial pairing that has walked Arda. They are Eru’s gift to matches, to ensure they will never be separated, not in all the ages of the world… For love shall always be, beyond time and space, beyond life and death, till the last star falls out of the sky…” 

And so, those were the vows they pronounced that day, before Mahal’s forge: 

“Heart to thee…” 

“Mind to thee…” 

“Soul to thee…” 

“Always and forever. So mote it be.” 

After the visit to the altar the couple walked together to the biggest hall in the mountain, where the rest of the dwarrow were waiting for them to celebrate. Bilba shrugged off her cape just before entering the hall, handing it to Fíli, who was waiting on them. With the cloak gone, and the usual opening on her back, she unfolded her wings. Their crystal-like appearance fit well with the color of her gown and (in Thorin’s words) gave her an almost ethereal appearance. She’d chosen to do it because she knew how the dwarrow saw her wings, ever since her rescue of the little dwarf-child. Also, it was thanks to all of them that she had come to see those same wings as more than just something strange, something that set her apart. They were good, and pretty, and they marked her as special, not odd. 

It was Dwalin who announced them: 

“I give you Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King of Durin’s Folk; and his wife, the Lady Bilba Adamantine Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, from the Shire, from this day on Queen Consort of Durin’s Folk!” 

Bilba blushed bright red, but she remained standing straight, and the hand she had on Thorin’s arm did not shake. She might not have married Thorin for any crown or throne, but that did not mean she wouldn’t do her best to honor them, and him. She’d be the very best she could be: as his wife, and as his… their people’s queen. 

It was Dís who recited the seven blessings (one for each of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarrow). Then she, her sons and Balin (as the eldest male relative, a cousin) welcomed Bilba to the family. And that was that. Everyone knew they’d been to the altar, they could see the marriage braids in their hair, introductions had been made, blessings given, and the contract had already been presented by Balin and Glóin. They were married. 

xXx

Changes had to be made, following Thorin and Bilba’s marriage. They each had duties to fulfill with their respective peoples. So the first thing they did was cut their traveling time down. They made arrangements to only be away for two seasons, and then further divided their time to spend in between the Shire and Ered Luin as necessary. Bilba also made choosing her heir a priority. 

“I fail to understand, marlel , why is this of so great importance all of a sudden?” Thorin asked her at one point. 

“I was always going to need to find an heir.” Bilba did her best to explain. “Our child, whenever the Green Lady and Mahal might be kind enough to gift us with one, will not be a Baggins, won’t be just a hobbit either. And while there’s nothing wrong with that, it does complicate matters where some of my duties are concerned.” She paused trying to find the right words. “I’ve said before that I’m the Baggins of Bag-End, the Head of the Baggins Family. That title is about more than just a name. Baggins is one of the oldest Hobbit Clans, we’re one of the Original Clans. Along with the Tooks, Brandybucks, Cottons, Underhills, Haywards and Greenhands. Those of us who are Heads of these families, we’re not only responsible for the wellbeing of the family itself, for ensuring that businesses go well and everyone thrives as much as possible, we also bear the duty of guarding the Family Magic. This is important because it’s the family magics that keep our green country… well, green. It allows our livestock and crops to be so good; unlike farmers among the men, you’ll never see hobbits having issues with plagues, or drought, or sickness, or anything like that. The worst that ever happens to our crops are some fauntlings with sticky fingers!” She chuckled lightly. “The only exception of course, was the Fell Winter, but everyone knows that the dark magic behind that terrible event was so great, it overcame our own magic. Even then, we managed to survive just long enough for those far more able to deal with it, to do so… whatever it was.” She shook her head. “Still, that event only made it all the more important for Hobbit Magic to be carefully guarded.” 

“That sounds like a very important responsibility.” Thorin nodded. 

“It is.” Bilba bit her bottom lip slightly. “Not everyone agreed, you know? When I took over as Head of the Family, after my father’s death. But at the same time, no one could oppose me, for the simple reason that no one had the magical potential to take me on. In this being a fairy helped. My magic was greater than any other Baggins. Still is. But the fact remains that even if I may still call myself Baggins, I’m your wife now. The Baggins Family will need a new Head sooner or later, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that not only the best person possible takes the position, but also that they’re prepared for when the time comes.” 

“Have you any candidates yet?” Thorin wanted to know. 

“I’ve reviewed every single member of the family, and there’s only one person who makes a good candidate: my cousin Drogo Baggins.” 

“What makes you hesitate about him?” Thorin could tell that much by her tone. 

“He’s not reached his majority yet. Under normal circumstances I would say we ought to wait, a few years never hurt anyone. Except I have this feeling inside my chest that we must not wait. That things are coming our way and there will be a need for a new Baggins of Bag-End sooner rather than later.” 

The fact that Thorin didn’t try to deny her worries, to claim there was no need for such thoughts, only served to reinforce them. 

“Do you expect some throwback?” Thorin wanted to know. “Reprisals from those not fully accepting of your decision.” 

“I might, except those who would complain the hardest, have no alternatives to offer, thus making their complaints pointless.” Bilba shrugged. “I have no doubt that Lobelia would have greatly preferred if I had waited a few years to choose an heir, long enough for her to have a child of her own she could offer.” 

“Lobelia…” Thorin repeated as he tried to remember, his eyes went wide as he did: “Mrs. Sackville-Baggins.” 

“That’s the one.” Bilba nodded. “You know, long have I believed that had I been born male, Lobelia would have proposed me courtship.” She ignored Thorin’s startled expression as she continued. “Not that I’d have accepted it, mind you. Not knowing what I do. Lobelia has… high ambitions, I guess you could say. She would have loved to marry a Clan Head, and she’s never made any secret of it. And truth be told, she has the magic to back-up such aspirations. The true issue with her is the absolute lack of a gentle bone in her!” The hobbit snorted. “I have no doubt that when she learned of our wedding, she must have realized what it’d mean for the Headship of the Bagginses. And truth be told, it is possible that a child of hers might surpass Drogo in magical potential, though that’ll depend on whether said child inherits more from her, or from her husband Otho, who has barely any magic at all!” 

Thorin couldn’t help but feel it sounded all very complicated. And he’d thought dwarrow politics to be headache-inducing! A leader they called Thain, who was seen as a military leader, yet they insisted was not a King; a mayor whose biggest responsibility seemed to be to keep order in the markets and the festivals, and now the Heads of Clans, who seemed to be even more important than the actual leaders of the Shire! Thorin decided right then and there that as much as Balin could make his life hell with the amount of paperwork he sometimes insisted was necessary (and they were in exile, he could only imagine how much worse it’d be if they were in Erebor!), it was still much preferable to the insanity the hobbits insisted on dealing with. 

“Oh, I have a question,” Bilba said right then. “Who’d be the best person to teach me proper swordsmanship?” Thorin opened his mouth to say something but Bilba added before he could: “Not you.” 

“Why not me?” Thorin sounded affronted. 

“I know you Thorin, I have no doubt of your skill, more of your willingness to push me as much as I will need to be pushed, in order to be any good at it.” Bilba explained softly, going on her tiptoes to kiss her husband’s cheek. “You love me, you’d never hurt me, not even in something like this. Which is why I need someone else to train me.” 

“Balin,” Thorin admitted after a while. “Fíli and Kíli would make good sparring partners, but to teach you, Balin is one of the few whose primary weapon of choice is a sword, he has the training as well as the patience to train you properly.” 

“I’ve had some basic instruction of course.” Bilba said with a shrug. “But even Gilraen was much too tall in comparison.” 

Balin was taller than Bilba too, but still. Dís and Kíli were the ones to help her train with her knives, but that was easier, as they were meant more as throwing knives than as a short-range weapon. Also, as the dwarrow were fascinated to discover, hobbits in general seemed to have remarkable eyesight, hand-eye coordination, and marksmanship. Yet Bilba was all too aware that her knives might not be enough in all situations, thus the need to learn to use Sting properly. 

So, the time they did not spend traveling, Thorin and Bilba split between the Shire and Ered Luin. While in the Shire, Bilba had Drogo shadow her. He followed her around, seeing everything she did as Head of the Baggins Clan. It was truly the best way to learn. She also took time to let him feel the family magic, a little at a time. It could be a heavy weight to bear, but it was one he’d have to grow used to. 

“Are you sure I'm the right person for this, Bilba?” Drogo asked her the question only once. 

“I am.” Bilba nodded calmly. “Drogo, of all the Bagginses currently of age, or who might get there in the coming years, you have the most magical potential. It’s not just that you’re the best option but you are, truthfully, the only viable one, at least until the next generation.” She made a pause, as if considering something before adding. “I’m also aware that you have found your heart’s match.” 

“No, I…” Drogo began denying, then stopped and exhaled loudly. “Am I that obvious?” 

“Not at all, cousin.” Bilba shook her head. “But I have seen the both of you, and I have also seen the beginnings of the silver cord that connects you…” 

“What?! You can… you can see that…?!” 

“I can. Not my own, or at least. I was unaware of my own until much later. But yes, I can see yours.” She shook her head and exhaled. “Primula might be young, cousin, but trust that she knows her own mind. You must also remember, that young as she might be now, she shall not be young forever.” 

“True. I suppose her parents at least might be more willing to accept my suit if I have a good smial and position to offer to her.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Well, then teach me all I must know, cousin.” 

“That I shall cousin, that I shall.” 

During the time spent in the mountains, Bilba further split her time between learning to use her weapons, getting to better know the dwarrow, and learning what it truly meant to be queen consort to a king of Durin’s Folk, even one in exile. She had a huge advantage in that so much of what she’d done since taking over BCS, and even before; the things her parents had begun, it had helped the dwarrow in many ways. And they were all very much aware of that, of the hand she, and before that her parents, had had in their betterment in recent years. That, along with the stories of Liv’s rescue, and even her confrontation with the trolls (which Fíli and Kíli made sure spread throughout the settlement in record time) was enough to endear her to all but the most traditional among the dwarrow. And the few it didn’t… Dís did her best to reassure her, to convince her everything would be alright. 

“Stuffy, good for nothing old goats.” The dwarrowdam muttered under her breath. “You need not worry about them, sister-mine. In the end there’s nothing they can do other than talk. They might have once been great lords, but they aren’t anymore. Their riches are worth very little while locked inside a mountain that’s long since been taken over by a dragon. They know they stand no chance against you and against Thorin. So they will do nothing.” 

Bilba could only hope it’d be that easy. But even if it wasn’t. Even if things were to get much harder, nothing would ever make her choice to marry Thorin anything else than worth it.

Chapter Text

Turn your face to the green world. 

A dark day dawned for the Bagginses during the late fall of 2939. Bilba woke up one particular morning to terrible pains in her mid-section, healers were called in, her aunts (both Bagginses and Tooks), dwarven healers were even summoned from all the way in the Blue Mountains. By the time anyone managed to make it to Bag End Bilba was in the throes of a terrifying fever, lost in horrible vivid hallucinations, and her bed was soaked in her blood… 

It was absolute insanity. With hobbit and dwarrow healers working together, fighting to keep Bilba on the side of living. As they’d later explain to Thorin, there was nothing they could do for the wee little one. The babe was lost before any of them arrived, probably even before Bilba realized anything was wrong. She was early enough in the pregnancy she hadn’t even realized she was pregnant at all! The miscarriage wouldn’t have been that terrible (as sad as such happenings could be, Bilba would have been neither the first nor the last lass to lose a babe; she knew her own ma’ lost three before Bilba herself was born), were it not for the fever that took her over. Temperatures so high that healers of both races feared they might not be able to bring her back, or that something inside her might become damaged. Healers worked for days and nights, fighting to save Bilba. Thorin refused to leave his wife’s side, continuously applying cold compresses, and running damp towels over her sweaty body. 

When the fever finally broke that still was not the end of it all, as then came the depression. Bilba spent weeks in bed, refusing to leave it for anything, she wouldn’t eat, would hardly drink, and refused to say a word at all after a single, heart-clenching declaration to Thorin: 

“I am sorry,” she apologized. “Sorry I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be strong enough to give you a child. I’m just… I’m not…” 

Thorin didn’t know how to get through to her, how to convince her that she wasn’t weak, that the loss of their babe wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t easy, especially because he was doing his own grieving, which he tried not to show to Bilba, fearing that it might make her own situation even worse. And then Dís stepped in. She heard about what was going on, about Bilba’s depression, and she made arrangements to leave Balin in charge before taking a pony and riding to the Shire as fast as she could. She managed to convince her brother to leave her alone with Bilba for a little while, Kíli and Fíli taking him to eat something and maybe walk down the street for a few minutes, just to take a breath. Then Dís went to stand by one of the bedroom windows, and waited. 

The silence lasted for a long while. Bilba was awake, and every so often her eyes would stray to the dwarrowdam standing by the window, which told Dís that she was alert. There was a certain degree of curiosity in her eyes, she probably wasn’t expecting Dís to visit, or at least, to choose to stay with her instead of with her brother. Still, Bilba kept refusing to talk, so Dís knew she was going to have to be the one to start things: 

“I lost a babe once,” The dam blurted out. 

That drew Bilba’s complete attention immediately. 

“It was before Fíli and Kíli.” Dís explained. “Víli and I hadn’t been bonded for long, which made it most surprising. Also, we were not in the best circumstances, not having settled anywhere just yet, not truly. See, when we first came to the Blue Mountains, we started out in the Southern part. It’s… the climate tends to be warmer, but at the same time the earth is just… unyielding. The area where we live now is much better, some of us have come to believe that your Green Lady might have taken pity on us, extended some of the blessings she granted your people, our way, enough to allow all the trees and bushes we get fruits from, and for the what livestock we have, and wild animals we hunt to thrive.” She exhaled. “Where was I? Right. I lost a babe. She’d have been a girl. My perfect little dwarrowdam. I had her name all picked out and everything: Frís, in honor of my mother. I wanted her so much…” Her voice broke, just a little bit, but Dís refused to let any tears fall, she’d cried enough for her loss already, a long time ago! “In the end, the conditions we lived in were too harsh, I couldn’t sustain myself, and her at the same time. I barely survived myself as it was.” 

For a moment it looked like Bilba might say something, but she held back, looked like she was biting her tongue. Then she opened her mouth again, yet all that came out was a croak. Dís reacted immediately, reaching for a watcher pitcher and cup on a nearby table, she filled the cup and handed it to Bilba, who with some effort managed to push herself up enough to be able to drink without either choking, or wearing the water instead of drinking it. 

“Some…” She began, then swallowed, sipped some more water, cleared her throat and finally spoke: “Sometimes it feels that if I open my mouth all I’ll do is scream.” 

“Then scream.” Dís’s words shocked Bilba. “Cry, scream, throw the biggest tantrum ever if you want to, but do something Bilba. Something other than locking yourself inside your own head. That helps no one, trust me, I’d know.” Dís swallowed, then forced herself to keep talking. “When I lost Frís, I refused to deal with it for the longest time. Thorin was constantly gone, working in human towns to get some gold and resources, and I convinced myself I had a duty to my people. I didn’t have time to grieve, to feel sorry for my own losses, not when everyone had lost so much. That they needed me to be strong, to have a heart of stone… The thing is, whenever I slowed down even a little, I couldn’t help but think about such things. And so I did my best to always be busy, always working. I barely slept, hardly ate, never rested. Then we made it to Ered Luin proper, we found the ruins of Belegost, I helped my people find homes and… suddenly I had nothing to do. I… don’t remember much of what happened after that, to be honest. Thorin told me they almost lost me. I’d let myself grow too weak, too malnourished. The worst part, the part I didn’t realize at the time, is that with every way I hurt myself, I was hurting Víli too. It’s like somehow in my grief I forgot that he lost our baby girl too… and then he came close to losing me as well…” 

“I don’t… I don’t know how to handle it, how to move on.” Bilba admitted, so very softly. 

“And you don’t have to, not right now, I don’t think anyone in such a situation ever does.” Dís admitted. “Just don’t close yourself. You have a family. You have Thorin. Let us be here for you.” 

“How did you…?” Bilba didn’t even dare finish the question, but she didn’t need to. 

“I honestly don’t know.” Dís admitted. “It’s not like I ever forgot her, even now I haven’t. I cannot say that I suddenly woke up one morning and stopped mourning her, that would be an absolute lie. When I became pregnant with Fíli… I was beyond terrified. I became convinced that there was something wrong with me. That I did something that led to my losing Frís, and what if I did it again and lost another baby? How was I supposed to survive such a thing a second time? It didn’t matter how many times Víli insisted it wasn’t my fault, and that things would be alright; we were living in much better conditions, the situation wasn’t perfect, not entirely, but certainly much improved. I still didn’t fully believe it, didn’t fully trust myself until Fíli was born, until Helga placed him in my arms and told me he was perfectly healthy… that’s when I believed.” 

Bilba did not know what might make her believe, might help her move on from the crushing pain she was feeling in that moment, but she knew the time would come. That was the most important part, what she reminded herself of as her husband stepped into the smial hours later, blue eyes going wide as he saw her sitting in her arm-chair, across from Dís, drinking tea… she almost thought she could see tears in the corners of his eyes as he practically stalked across the sitting room and went down on one knee beside her. 

“ Marlelê …” He whispered in an almost reverent tone as he took hold of her free hand in both of his, bending down and kissing her palms. 

“I’m here Thorin…” She whispered back, knowing how important that was in that moment, important that he knew, as well as she. “I’m here.” 

xXx

Dís took to traveling to the Shire more often in the following weeks, spending a lot of time with Bilba, helping her recover, not just from the miscarriage itself, but also from the deep depression she’d been in (and which she could sometimes feel still, hanging like a shadow in the edge of her consciousness). They’d talk for hours about a great many things. Mostly good ones. 

Once Bilba had recovered enough, she and Thorin traveled to Ered Luin to spend a few weeks there. She was surprised to one day receive the visit of Ursa and little Liv. More so when the two of them and Dís lead her to her little garden (a space on the outside of the mountain, like the one with the fruits trees and bushes, only this one had other trees and lots, lots of flowers); the door leading to it was close to Thorin and Bilba’s married quarters (he’d purposefully chosen it). The first thing the hobbit noticed was that they weren’t the only ones there. There were several others, mostly dwarrowdams, and dwarflings. Liv immediately joined the other children. Several of them had pieces of cloth in their hands, they tied them to their wrists, or just held them as they ran from one side to the other of the garden. Bilba didn’t realize what was going on exactly until she heard Liv yell about being a fairy… then she got it. The dwarflings were play-pretending they had wings, like hers. 

“Little ones are so precious, don’t you think?” Ursa asked quietly as she sat on the same bench where Bilba was. 

“Yes, yes they are.” Bilba nodded, barely holding back her tears. “So very precious…” 

“I too lost a child.” Ursa offered. “After Gimli, but before Liv. It was… it’s the worst thing that ever happened to me.” She seemed to ponder things for a moment before adding. “Many of us have lost children, either as pebbles, or before they were ever born. It is, I believe, an expected consequence of living as we’ve had to, since the loss of Erebor. Ered Luin has been a blessing, but it still isn’t enough. It allows us to survive, but not to thrive. And before these mountains… we wandered for a long, long time. So many were lost…” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I’m not trying to make your loss seem like less. Just… I want you to know that we know, we understand, you’re not alone…” 

No, she wasn’t, and that… while it didn’t really change anything of her tragedy, and she certainly would have never wished such a thing on any of them, any of her friends, her people. It somehow did help, knowing she wasn’t alone. 

“We also wanted you to see something else.” Solveig (daughter of Svend, wife of Bombur) spoke up as she approached the group, a young child with her. “This is Skarde, son of Bombur, my youngest. He wouldn’t be here, neither of us would be here, if it weren’t for you, for your family, my lady.” Before Bilba could deny anything (she didn’t even know the kid, barely even knew Solveig as one of the cooks in Ered Luin). “See, it was your parents, the business they brought to our mountains, that allowed us to survive, that allowed this little one to survive his first winter, and every year since. If it weren’t for them, for the foodstuffs, and the blankets, and so many other things they brought to trade, and how fair they were with their prices, we wouldn’t have made it.” She waited for that fact to sink into Bilba before adding. “The same could be said for every single child, and even some of the other dams, here right now.” 

That… that made Bilba react, as her eyes strayed from Solveig and went to the others in the garden. Most of the children were still playing, totally unaware of the very serious conversation taking place around them. But the dams, they were all standing around, watching her. Bilba’s chest felt suddenly so very tight… She was aware that her parents’ choices, their decision to start BCS, to handle it as they did, had brought about change, to more than just the hobbits. Yet never could she have imagined having such a thing, such a clear, vibrant manifestation of that, put before her eyes. All those children… children who might not have existed, without BCS, who might have died, or perhaps just never been born. It was a heady thought, to realize her parents had changed so many lives. Bilba knew right then that whatever else happened, whatever life might bring her way, she’d ensure BCS continued. 

“You’re not alone Bilba.” Dís reiterated quietly as she went to stand beside Bilba, on the opposite side from where Ursa was seated, placing a hand on the hobbit’s closest shoulder. 

“No, I’m not.” Bilba agreed, slowly placing one of her own hands on Dís’s own. 

Not everything might be perfect just yet (but when was anything?), but things were better than they had been, and they could only improve. They’d make sure of that. 

xXx

That year they left the Shire to start their trip later than ever before. But that was okay. Bilba and Thorin had both needed the time, to be close to their families, to work through their grief, to be ready to move on. So they ended up taking off mid-Spring, the day after Ostara, rather than right after Imbolc, as they usually did. They decided to start heading north this time, going through North Farthing, then crossing the Brandywine through a pass, several miles north of Buckland. From there they made a point to visit all the settlements from Fornost to Bree. Only in Norbury did they stay longer than a night; most settlements didn’t even have an inn, a few were little more than farms, so there was little business to be done. Though a few deals; especially with those who, precisely because of how little chance they usually had to do business with others, made the choice of route worth it. 

Eventually they made it to Bree. There were still traces of the recent Beltane festival on the streets, and enough people around for them to do some good business before heading to the Prancing Pony for a meal and a bed. By the time they finally did Bilba was so exhausted she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, only vaguely aware of her husband’s comment that he’d be returning to the pub for an ale or something. 

The last thing Bilba expected was to wake up the next morning to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. Moreover, to realize that it had never been occupied. That was not normal. 

“Thorin?” She called as she sat up, reaching for the robe at the foot of the bed at the same time she looked around for her husband. 

She found the dwarf sitting in a chair by the window, eyes fixed on the small table before him… or rather, the objects laid on the table. He looked distracted, absent-minded. So without saying a thing she went to get the little kettle that the innkeeper’s wife knew to put in their room. It was already filled with water, and it was easy enough to place it close enough to the fire for the water to start heating up for some tea. 

“Husband…?” She questioned softly as she approached him. 

He actually startled when she placed a hand over his. 

“Are you alright?” She inquired softly. “What’s happened?” 

“I had an… interesting conversation with someone last night.” Thorin explained, he sounded hesitant for some reason. 

“A conversation?” Bilba was intrigued. 

“Found Tharkûn last night or, I suppose he found me.” Thorin murmured. 

Bilba didn’t fail to notice his choice of words, or the fact that he was still staring straight at the objects on the table. Standing beside Thorin she could see what they were: a map, worn, creased, yellowed, though the Lonely Mountain… Erebor was still quite clear on it; and then there was a key. Metal, solid, and also clearly very, very old. 

“He wants me to march upon Erebor.” The Dwarrow finally revealed. “Wants me to rally the seven armies of the dwarves, to destroy the dragon and take back the mountain.” 

“Okay,” Bilba’s perfectly calm response took Thorin completely by surprise, though at least that meant all his attention was on her when she went on: “That’s what the wizard wants you to do. What do You want?” 

She put special emphasis on the ‘you’, which he noticed. 

“I cannot rally the seven armies on my own,” Thorin shook his head, regretful. “They will not come, not without the Arkenstone. Which is, presumably, inside the mountain.” 

She’d heard about that. Had heard how Thrór almost got himself killed, going back for the stone, though he lost it before making it out of the mountain. Dís assumed he wanted to use it for the very thing the wizard was suggesting: to rally the seven armies and storm the mountain. 

“What do you want to do, Thorin?” Bilba insisted. 

It took forever, a silence so long Bilba almost believed he wouldn’t be answering at all. And then he surrendered: 

“I want to take back the mountain.” He admitted, voice so low she could barely hear him. “I want to be able to give a home, an actual home, to our people. A place where they can live, and thrive, that they can be proud of…” 

Bilba recalled her conversation with the dwarrowdams earlier in the year; Ursa’s words about how Ered Luin was a place where they could survive, but not thrive. 

“Then I will help you.” She declared. 

Yet again, Thorin was left stunned by her words. 

Bilba said nothing else as she walked to where the water had started to boil in the kettle. She pulled it away from the fire and put it on the table. Then she pulled a small bag full of leaves out of her bag, adding a few to a mug, later pouring boiling water on top. In a short time a deep, herbal, and not entirely pleasant scent permeated the room. Bilba used the spoon to stir the contents of the cup for a minute or two; then after confirming it wasn’t quite so hot that it might burn her tongue, she drank it. 

“What’s that?” Thorin asked, he’d seen his wife prepare tea before, but never from the contents of that jar. 

“Smartweed tea.” Bilba answered promptly. “Once we’re back in the shire I can get some stoneseed, but for the time being, this will do.” 

Thorin’s eyes went wide at that. He knew that both herbs served as contraceptives, even if not the details of what was different to each of them. He did understand though what Bilba making such plans meant. 

“You’re not leaving me behind, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilba stated sharply. “If you’re going on an insane mission to kill a dragon and reclaim Erebor I’m going with you. That means I cannot give you a child at this time. You won’t be leaving me behind. So don’t even try!” 

Thorin said nothing, but when Bilba got close enough to him, he wound his arms around her and pulled her tight against him. Truth is, the mere thought of Bilba following him into such an insane quest terrified him, as much as undertaking such a mission himself; yet somehow, the only thing that he feared even more, was leaving her behind. After their fight to overcome the loss of the baby, and her depression, he couldn’t imagine being without her for long. Thorin needed Bilba, he knew that. And as insane as it might be to be willing to bring her along on such a quest, on such dangers, he knew, instinctively, that it was the better option. 

Thorin and Bilba spent the rest of their time doing business, focusing on making preparations. They made sure to acquire sturdy clothes, dried food, packs, and other things that’d be useful for traveling. The nights she and Thorin spent making plans, trying to decide what the best route to take would be. They were near the trollshaws, buying dried meats (Bilba had always got great deals, ever since helping save that child the trolls had taken) from a farmer, when Thorin noticed his wife looked strangely nervous. 

“What makes you doubt yourself yasthûna ?” Thorin questioned as they climbed back on the wagon. “I hope I have not given you cause to feel thus.” 

“Not at all,” Bilba hurried to reassure him. 

“Then tell me, what thoughts hold you captive?” He pressed gently. 

“Your grandfather’s map, you said the symbol on the corner marked that moon runes had been used somewhere on it.” Bilba pointed out. 

“That’s indeed correct.” Thorin agreed. “Though try as I might to see them, none have shown yet. You know this.” 

“I know. I also know that moon-runes are also known as moon-letters, and while they were invented by dwarrow, they’re done with ithildin , which is something elves know more about than any other race.” She took a deep breath before getting to the point. “I think we should go to Rivendell. See Lord Elrond. He might be able to help us.” 

Thorin’s expression twisted minutely, but unlike what would have happened years prior, he did not immediately go into a rant about the evil and disloyalty of the elves and whatnot. He knew his wife considered some of them her friends, and they’d been helpful to her before. Even the elves they happened to come across while traveling, or the one time they happened to visit the Grey Havens, were never anything but kind to the two of them. Also, he cannot stop his eyes from straying to the sword he keeps on the edge of the wagon proper, right behind the bench; Orcrist. The elven lord from Rivendell had that sword in his hands, and he gave it to Bilba, presumably so she’d then give it to him… Thorin cannot help a strange desire to meet this elf who’d part from such a blade, a relic of his own race, for no apparent reason. Did he see something? And if so, what was it? Would he even be willing to tell Thorin? 

He got at least some answer the moment he and Bilba made it to Rivendell. 

“Thorin, son Thráin, son of Thrór…” Elrond began, then trailed off, giving the impression like he’d been about to say something and stopped himself. “Bilba Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, wife of Thorin…” 

Bilba’s eyes narrowed, clearly picking up on the same thing Thorin did. However, before she had the chance to even think of something to say, Elrond switched topics. 

“It’s good to see the blade has found its rightful wielder.” The elven lord stated. 

Orcrist was on Thorin’s back, less out of necessity, and more out of habit. He’d grown so used to taking the blade and putting it on his back every time he climbed off the wagon, that he did it on automatic the moment they arrived to Rivendell. Just like he knew his wife had grown used to keeping her own little blade on her waist, and at least two of her throwing knives strapped to her person at all times. 

It was strange, because a part of Thorin truly mourned the loss of Bilba’s innocence, of the little hobbit-lass who knew nothing about killing and about strife and would have never known a thing about war. Yet at the same time he couldn’t help but feel pride at the queen who stood before him.  The lady who outwitted three trolls to save a child of man, who jumped off a cliff to save a dwarf-girl; who, when a blade was placed in her hands, instead of running away, or hiding, chose to learn how to wield it. Who was willing to face a dragon for him, and his people, Their people! 

“You knew!” Bilba blurted out. “You knew the sword was meant for him but… but how? I’d barely even met Thorin back then.” 

“There are a great many mysteries in this world, Lady Adamantine,” Elrond stated, purposefully using another of her names. “Some the Valar have seen fit to make me privy to, yet others remain a mystery.” 

“You know why we’ve come.” Thorin wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or not. 

“I know a great Fate lies before you.” Elrond stated formally. “A path has started to take shape at your feet, yet only you can choose whether to set foot onto it or not. I cannot know how many twists and turns this road might have, nor how long it might be. I know not even whether you stand a chance at making it to the end.” He made a pause, seemingly thinking something over before adding: “Yet I do know this, whatever your choice, however this goes, what’s coming will reverberate, like boulders thrown into a river,” boulders, not mere pebbles. “The ripples and the waves will carry on and may change everything we’ve known as truth till now.” 

And wasn’t that a heady thought? 

xXx

Even knowing he’d fail, Thorin couldn’t help but want to at least try. So he sent missives to the leaders of the different dwarven tribes, summoning them to a council in the spring, on the southern end of the Blue Mountains (close enough to home, and with halls already carved for commodity, yet not in his people’s actual home, so as to ensure their continued safety). 

Once the year’s trip was finished the two started truly preparing for the upcoming trip. At Bilba’s insistence they’d be taking her wagon, as well as two or three dwarrow carts. 

“It’s only logical, it means more space for supplies, not just for the long trip, but to allow us to survive, once we actually make it there.” Bilba explained. “You’ve told me that the dragon didn’t just destroy Erebor, it did the same to Dale. I don’t imagine there’s much in Esgaroth, the maps in Rivendell show little more than that town on the Long Lake. Even if there might be a few farms here and there… it might be better for us to have our own supplies.” 

Thorin had to agree with her logic there. 

“Also…” Bilba paused, hesitating just for a bit. “I know you worry, about individuals trying to stop us.” Like he had with Elrond. “Having the wagons and the carts would give us a cover. We can claim that we’re merchants. We can even use BCS! Claim we’re looking to expand the business east of the Misty Mountains.” 

“Or Dáin.” Thorin offered. “We can pretend our final destination to be the Iron Hills, instead of the Lonely Mountain.” 

Not like most people would believe them, if they were to admit they were heading to Erebor. But it was never a bad idea to be cautious. Especially with something as important as Lord Elrond implied their quest would be. 

Where it came to Headship duties Bilba continuously would push Drogo to take charge, until he started doing it on his own. Then she began planning on the ceremony to cede the position to him. The time was coming, things were starting to happen faster. 

To say Dís wasn’t happy at Thorin and Bilba’s plan to try and reclaim the mountain would be putting it kindly: 

“Have you gone out of your bloody minds?!” She demanded. “I expect such insanity from Durin males, but I expected you to be more level headed, nana’ .” 

Thorin winced a bit at the comment and took offense at his sister’s words; more at the ones directed to his wife than to him. To his surprise though, not only the hobbit didn’t wince, but she did not back down either. 

“Your home was taken from you a long time ago; now I don’t know how much I might be able to do, but I have to try, I will help you take it back if I can.” Bilba stated solemnly, looking Dís straight in the eye. “You deserve to have somewhere where you, all of you, can do more than just survive, Dís, a place where you can thrive…” 

A sound escaped Dís and it alarmed Thorin, terrified that his sister was about to start crying. She hadn’t cried since the fall of Erebor! Not during their years and years wandering, not after Azanulbizar and all the losses there; he hadn’t even seen her cry after her One’s death! (Though on that last one he at least knew she had, just nowhere where he, or her boys, could see). In the end Dís did not cry, though she did stare at Bilba. 

“You better not die.” She hissed. “You hear me nana’ ? If you die I’ll walk straight into your Green Lady’s land and bring you back… by your braids!” 

“I hear you nana’ .” Bilba nodded solemnly. “No dying.” 

Thorin wondered if it was fair, making promises they might not be able to keep. But Dís must have known that so… 

Fíli’s and Kíli’s insistence on joining them on the journey the moment they heard about their plans did not help matters any. But neither could any of them stop the two, not really. Much as all three of them might sometimes treat them like children, they weren’t. They were both off-age already, had their crafts (Fíli as a jeweler, Kíli as a wood-worker), were old enough to court, to move into their own quarters, make their own lives, they just hadn’t been too interested in any of it… yet. 

“This just feels like something we gotta do, you know?” Kíli told Bilba one winter morning. “Like… like there’s something out there, far in the east that’s calling to me, to the both of us. You understand that, don’t you Auntie?” 

Bilba couldn’t say she understood, exactly, yet wasn’t that basically the same as her own feelings regarding her need to be with Thorin as he undertook this quest? So perhaps she did understand, in a way; not the exact feeling, but the core of it. She could only hope and pray to the Green Lady and Mahal that it wouldn’t end with all of them dead… Dís would never forgive them. 

Nor would several of her other friends. As in the following weeks she learned that among those to volunteer to join them on the quest were Bombur, his brother Bofur and their cousin Bifur, as well as Glóin and his older brother Óin. And Balin and Dwalin; though those two Bilba didn’t doubt for a second they’d be joining them, Dwalin took his position as Thorin’s second (the one who’d be his personal guard, were such a thing needed, or possible, very seriously), and Balin probably missed Erebor almost as much as Thorin did. 

Drogo’s birthday was in early spring. Bilba decided not to accompany her husband to the summit on the Southern Blue Mountains, not just to be there to celebrate with her heir his coming off-age, but also because she was planning on passing on the mantle once and for all in Ostara. The Equinox was the perfect moment, the magic of the day (so connected to spring and blooms and life) ideal to help the ritual along. 

“So soon?” Drogo asked, startled, when she informed him of her plans on the day of his birthday. 

“It’s time.” Was all she said. 

She didn’t tell him about the Quest. There was no need. She knew most thought simply that she planned on moving to Ered Luin permanently. A few even believed it to be connected to her miscarriage; that either she was fleeing the memories of the tragic event, or perhaps hopeful that being closer to her husband, or just in a different place, would allow her to become pregnant again, and to carry to term this time. And while she was in fact hopeful to have the chance someday, that wasn’t the priority just yet. 

Just like she’d said to Thorin that morning in Bree, she’d acquired some stoneseed and brewed an infusion which she drank over a period of time. All hobbits knew their herbs, she prepared just enough to ensure infertility for a year or so. After that… well Mahal and the Green Lady willing they’d have a new home and a new chance to start a family of their own. 

Drogo managed to take everyone by surprise when during his birthday celebration he presented young Primula Brandybuck with a single red carnation… Hobbits knew their flowers and a red carnation symbolized love, admiration, fascination, it said ‘My heart aches for you’… It wasn’t like hobbits never made such declarations during parties (it was even fairly common to do it during someone’s birthday celebrations), but rarely when one half of the pair was still so young… Primula was still a tween, not even 21 just yet. And yet it was clear that not only she understood what was going on, as she accepted Drogo’s flower and, before anyone could say a thing about it, pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek; but her parents too knew and accepted it. Well, it was at least one less thing for Bilba to worry about. 

On the business front, Bilba was still the owner, though Holman and the Gammidges agreed to keep taking care of the books, and help Drogo where he might need it. Drogo and Isengar Took (the youngest of Belladonna’s brothers) had come to an accord and would be doing Bilba’s usual routes. They’d be sharing a dwarven cart they’d commissioned. While Isengar was very interested in the world outside the Shire and adventure, for Drogo it was mostly a matter of honoring his position as his cousin’s heir; also, Primula had expressed an interest in joining him in those trips when the time came (just like her aunt Belladonna would travel with her husband). 

xXx

So it was that on a certain morning, a week or so before Beltane, Bilba found herself sitting on the bench outside her smial, smoking a pipe and doing a mental list of what tasks might be left to be done before they could depart. She was mostly packed already, and once her husband and the rest of their companions joined them, she planned on having a dinner they’d all remember. One night to enjoy and celebrate, and prepare for what was sure to be a hard quest. Fíli and Kíli in fact were already inside, fixing the bedrooms that usually went untouched to ensure everyone would be able to sleep comfortably at least one more night (or more, depending on when exactly Thorin got back from the Blue Mountains). The last thing she ever expected was for the Grey Wizard of all people to show up at her door! Talking about adventure! And making assumptions about Bilba, judging her choices, judging her! Like he knew her at all! Like having seen her one time, when she was a little girl, somehow gave him the right! Who did this wizard think he was?! 

“Share in an adventure…” Bilba mutters, not at all quietly, as she steps back into her smial, closing the door behind her, none-too-gently. “Old wizard has gone a little barmy, I say. Expecting a hobbit to agree to go with him! On an adventure!” 

Her speech devolves as she starts muttering in a mix of Westron, Hobbitish, Sindarin, even a word or three in Khuzdûl. 

“ Marlel ?” 

The single word is enough to halt her ranting instantly as she turns her attention away from her recent encounter with the Gray Wizard and focuses instead on the one who just called her ‘love of all loves’, only one person does that. 

“Thorin!” She cries out as she raises her head and sees him standing there. “You’re back already! Yavanna! How late is it? Lunch is not quite ready just yet.” 

It isn’t. Truth is, ever since she started traveling, and especially since she started spending time living among dwarrow, Bilba cut down the number of meals she has every day. Some of her relatives would probably have an apoplexy if they just knew! It isn’t that she’s eating less, or at least, not by much, she still has good meals, and will snack on something whenever she feels like it. But she no longer has seven fixed meals every day. 

“It is quite alright, Bilba, I can wait.” Thorin assures her. “I just got back, left the pony with Holman’s apprentice. Is everything quite alright?” 

“Yes I…” She begins, then exhales and shakes her head. “No? I… I don’t actually know.” 

It’s the truth, her own annoyance at Gandalf’s words and his belief that she ought to be jumping for joy and following his plans just because they were his aside, she doesn’t actually know that it’s a problem. 

“Who has vexed you so, yasthûna ?” Thorin asks, a hint of amusement in his tone (though that might be mostly because he’s not the one she’s annoyed with, this time). 

Thorin always so enjoys getting to see his little wife let loose… as long as it’s not against him. 

“Gandalf.” Bilba mutters, a hint of annoyance slipping back into her voice. 

“ Tharkûn ?” Thorin arcs a brow, not expecting that. 

“Yes, the old wizard came, apparently to invite me on an ‘adventure’!” Thorin can easily make out the quotation marks through his hobbit’s sarcasm. 

“On an…” Thorin trails off. “You?!” 

“Me what…?” Bilba begins, though there is something in Thorin’s expression, in his eyes, that makes her realize where his thoughts have gone. “What?!” 

“That must be it.” Thorin nods, having no doubt that they have both reached the same conclusion. “When I met with Tharkûn last in Bree he told me he’d found our final member, our Burglar.” Thorin points out, slowly, knowing his wife isn’t gonna like that. Bilba wasn’t present for that meeting either, as it happened while he was on his way back from the absolute disaster that was the meeting with the representatives of the seven tribes (because no one, not even Dáin, had the minimum respect for Thorin and his station to attend in person). He hasn’t even thought yet how he’s going to explain it all to his family, and to the Company. It’s not like he expected their answer to be yes, exactly. But still, it could have hardly gone any worse! He’s right, of course; Bilba isn’t happy at all. 

“What… Burglar?!” Bilba’s voice rises as she gets into her stride. “Me?! But I’m a respectable lady-hobbit!!!” She exhales loudly before revising. “Well, as respectable as one can possibly be with a dwarf king-in-exile for a husband.” 

Thorin cannot help himself, he laughs. 

Chapter Text

Interlude 

Gandalf doesn’t understand how any of this has happened. How could things go so wrong? So… not according to his plan? It makes no sense! He planned everything so very carefully. He knew Thorin would want a chance, for riches, and glory, and vengeance against the creature that took the mountain from him and his people. And granted, it was risky, Thror’s madness was no secret, or Thráin’s. Thorin was at considerable risk of becoming gold-mad as well, yet that did not change what Gandalf knew. And what he knew was that too much was happening, shadows moving, powers stretching out, testing their reach. If the wrong individual took control of the Lonely Mountain instead of the dwarves it could spell doom for all of Arda. Which is why it was so important that Thorin undertake this mission! He’d thought the dwarf understood it last year, even a few weeks prior, when they met briefly in Bree… so how did things end up going so wrong once they were all in the Shire? 

Ah yes, Bilba Baggins. Gandalf truly expected better of the daughter of Belladonna Took. For her to dismiss him in such a way when he just wanted her to realize how good an idea it was for her to go on adventure! It’d have made things much easier, much smoother, if Bilba could have convinced herself that it was all her own idea. She seemed like the ideal candidate, clearly with an interest for the world beyond the borders of the Shire, and Belladonna always did love going on little adventures! To think that her daughter would be so different… 

Of course that did not explain everything. Bilba was clearly angry about Gandalf’s plans, and deeply offended by him calling her a Burglar… for that matter, all the dwarves seemed similarly offended by that. But why? What did they care about such things? Miss Baggins wasn’t one of their own, she was to be their employee, nothing more… Well, of course Gandalf hoped the trip would allow for more, some friendship, there was a lot Bilba could learn from the dwarves, and they from her. But still, that did not explain their hostility towards Gandalf himself! 

So, of course Gandalf had to leave. Of course, he clearly wasn’t welcome. Which once again, surprised him. The last time a hobbit was rude enough to actually make him leave was the Old Took! The last time he took young Belladonna on an adventure. And granted, things had gotten… complicated on that trip, but no one died, Belladonna healed and everything was alright! Hobbits are sturdy folk after all, no need to worry. 

Gandalf won’t lie, he did worry what consequences his early departure might have. What if the dwarves didn’t manage to convince Miss Baggins to join them? What if she kept refusing to be their burglar? What if the dwarves refused to take her?! The company needed Bilba Baggins, Thorin needed Bilba Baggins. Even Gandalf himself wasn’t quite clear on the why, his Sight not showing him that much, but he knew that just like Thorin Oakenshield needed to take the Lonely Mountain back, Bilba Baggins needed to be part of the Quest. 

He knows for sure now that the dwarves left the Shire, he also knows that Bilba went with them. Though that does not solve the question of Where Exactly Are They?! 

When Gandalf decided to leave the Shire ahead of the dwarves he thought he’d join them once they made it to Bree. Even decided to take his time, move around, check on some rumors, and things that were less than rumors. Yet once he made it to Bree, there was no sign of the dwarves, or their burglar. He even waited a few days. Considering how inexperienced Miss Baggins must be there was a chance their travel would take longer than initially planned… which wasn’t entirely a bad thing, not if he could use it as an excuse for them to take the path that would lead them to Imladris, and Elrond… The dwarves would never consider stopping at an elven settlement, but if it just happened… or if it were to be made necessary… 

After several days with still no sign of dwarves or hobbit in Bree, Gandalf finally considered the possibility of them choosing to avoid the town entirely. It wasn’t impossible, or a bad idea, exactly. Gandalf did make Thorin aware of the fact that he was being hunted, and while the wizard did not believe Azog and the orcs to have become yet so bold to mount an attack on a place like Bree, their presence in the town would still have been noticed, and the talk of it would have only made it easier for the orc to track its prey. So no, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea for Thorin and his Company to avoid Bree. 

The issue was when, even after leaving the town, Gandalf still could find no sign of anyone. One would expect for such a Company (thirteen dwarves! And a hobbit woman!) to leave some sort of trace of their passing. Even if they were being conscientious enough to muddle their physical tracks, there are a number of ways to find someone through magic. None of them were working. Gandalf couldn’t find hair nor hide of any of them! 

The most confusing part was when he went past the Last Bridge, he came across several farmers and, not having a better idea, decided to ask them if they’d seen a company of dwarves, or a hobbit. Of course a part of him expected he’d have to explain what a hobbit even is in the first place, except that didn’t happen. And not just that, but one of the farmers even told him that it was still early in the year for her to pass by on her usual trip. Gandalf had no idea what that was supposed to mean! 

So, as a last resource he makes his way to Imladris. Hoping that Elrond might know something… while he does get some answers, they certainly aren’t the ones he expected! 

“We’ve been hunting a pack of Orcs that came up from the South.” Elrond informs him, he’s still dressed in riding leathers, a sword in his hand (which was strapped to the horse Lindir guided away). “We slew a number near the Hidden Pass. Almost as if they were looking for something… or someone.” 

Ah… yes. Gandalf expected something like that. It only makes him worry about Bilba and the dwarves even more. 

“Why are you here Gandalf?” Elrond finally asks him. 

So the wizard tells him. About Thorin Oakenshield, about the Quest, the dwarves who are following him, and about the burglar Gandalf recruited for them. 

“And you expected them to come here?” Elrond’s disbelief is clear. “Why?” 

While he might not share the dislike many of his kin have for dwarves; or at least, he takes his position as Warden of Middle Earth and as the Lord of the Last Homely House serious enough that old grudges will never stop him from being a good host to whoever might come to him looking for refuge. 

“Because they need to!” Gandalf finally loses his composure, just a bit, but it’s telling. “You are the only one who may be able to help Thorin read that map!” 

For a moment Elrond just stares at him, and Gandalf cannot help the feeling that he’s missing something. Something huge. 

“They’re not coming.” Elrond states bluntly. 

“What…?” That throws the wizard. “But… the map!” 

“The map has been read.” Elrond informs him calmly. “Last year.” 

For several moments all Gandalf can do is blink, not quite understanding what’s going on. This… this is big, huge! How did he miss something like this?! 

“How did this happen?” The wizard lets himself fall onto a nearby chair, feeling at a loss. “How did I miss… any of this?” 

“That’s what I would like to know.” Elrond admits. “Tell me Gandalf. Whenever you speak of Miss Baggins, you refer to her as the Company’s Burglar, as someone you recruited for them, an employee. Is that truly all you believe she is?” 

“I…” Gandalf hesitates for a moment. “Of course I have hopes for friendship. There’s a lot Bilba can learn from them, as well as some things I believe the dwarves could learn from Miss Baggins. But it’s early days still. They barely know each other.” 

Again there was that look, that disbelief… 

“Tell me something Gandalf, before you chose to have the dwarves hire her for this venture, when was the last time you met Lady Baggins?” 

The question threw Gandalf, mostly because he didn’t understand what it had to do with anything that was going on? Certainly enough for him to miss Elrond’s choice of words when referring to Bilba Baggins. 

“She was a child, running off in search of elves in the woods, playing with a wooden sword.” Gandalf reminisces, chuckling. “I believe she was trying to vanquish me.” 

“Have you considered my friend that the Lady Baggins might not be the little hobbit girl you remember?” Elrond suggests. 

This time Gandalf doesn’t fail to notice the ‘lady’… He tilts his head to the side, staring at Elrond, wondering what exactly he’s missing. 

“The first time I saw Bilba Baggins was five years ago.” Elrond reveals quietly. “She came to Rivendell in a damaged cart, which several rangers took it upon themselves to not just fix, but improve entirely. She came after saving a human child, one who was almost killed by three trolls, off the Great East Road, same which she drugged with belladonna, enough that they could not make it to their hideout before the sun came out.” 

Gandalf says nothing, he simply doesn’t seem to know what to say. 

“Gilraen met her that summer, taught her how to use an elven dagger that was found in the troll hoard.” When seeing the wizard’s hand stray to his own sword, he nods. “Yes, the same where Glamdring was found. And Orcrist.” 

“Orcrist?” Gandalf echoes. “I was unaware that another blade was found. Did you keep it?” 

“I did not.” Elrond does not delve into that. “Gilraen came to see me after Lady Bilba left. She had a vision regarding her.” 

“A vision…?” Gandalf’s shocked. 

It’s not that he was unaware that the Sight presented itself in the Dúnedain, especially those with the blood of Númenor’s Kings. Yet he also knows it doesn’t happen often, even less often are such visions shared with others. 

“Aye,” Elrond nods. “She saw the young hobbit lady dressed in royal blue and gold with the Lonely Mountain on her right, a huge white tree on her left, and seven stars over her head.” 

A powerful image indeed. 

“I saw her too.” Elrond continues “Though it was more what I could hear than what I could see.” 

“And what was that?” This is important, Gandalf knows it, even if he cannot fathom how much. 

“Bilba Adamantine Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna, wife of Thorin Oakenshield… Queen Under the Mountain…” 

Chapter Text

Seven stars and seven stones. 

In another world the Company formed by thirteen dwarves and a hobbit lead by the king-in-exile Thorin Oakenshield would have chosen to follow the Great East Road all the way to the Misty Mountains, using a Mountain Pass to cross, then taking the Old Forest Road through Mirkwood and all the way to the River Running, which they’d then follow north to Esgaroth and the Lonely Mountain. However this is not that world. In this world more than a company they’re a group of friends and family. They’ve all known each other in different groupings for years. The young hobbit in the group is not a tag-along, ‘hired help’, she’s Thorin’s wife, the Lady Adamantine, queen of the dwarrow, and they respect her as such. Also, a number of them are much more familiar with the roads and traveling than they might have been otherwise. And this quest they have chosen to undertake, it’s not something they’re unprepared for. They’ve spent months making all sorts of preparations in fact. 

While in Rivendell, Bilba decided to take advantage of the wealth of knowledge to be found in their library. After Lord Elrond helped them with the secret writing in the map, the couple spent days going through maps, plotting out possible routes and the different traveling times, discussing which option might be better in the long run. They also talked to rangers and elves, about the things that might not be in the maps, dangers and possible foes. They’d be ready. 

One of the first things they agreed on was Bilba’s plans to use BCS as a cover for the trip, in case it ever became necessary. It meant traveling with her wagon, and a few carts, as well as the dwarven ponies, which meant potentially bringing along more supplies, it also meant that some routes would be impossible to traverse, the roads not wide enough for most carts, much less a full wagon, like Bilba’s. 

Something else they all eventually agreed on, was that it might be preferable to travel through a lesser known route. One those who might oppose them (those hunting Thorin in particular, and the Line of Durin in general) would not expect. 

And so it is that almost a week before Beltane, the Company steps out of Bag-End for what might probably (hopefully) be the last time. A young lad is sent to Holman Greenhand with a small note confirming their departure. All arrangements have been made already. Bilba’s chosen heir, Drogo Baggins, moved all his possessions into the smial before taking off in a cart for his portion of the yearly travels for Baggins Carting Service; once he’s back he shall fully install himself in the smial as the new ‘Baggins of Bag-End’. Everyone in the Shire knows Bilba Baggins isn’t coming back, though most hobbits believe it to be a matter of her wanting to move permanently with her husband and his family in Ered Luin. 

Bilba takes the lead of the group with her own wagon, Thorin with her; Fíli and Kíli are on ponies right behind them, along with Dwalin. The others will be taking turns between riding on ponies and on the other two carts they’d acquired for this trip. They head Northeast, towards Overhill and then the Greenfields, where they take the fork in the road that goes east, crossing the Brandywine easily enough. 

Even after having left the Shire, Bilba, Thorin and some of the others know the area well enough, they have no problem setting up camp each night. The only town they stay in is Fornost and Bilba’s sure that with the wagon and carts, and people having seen her and Thorin before, no one thinks them to be anything more than what they claim to be. 

They cross Arnor, or what was once the Kingdom of Arnor, next. There’s no road, not really, but the land is flat enough for them to have no trouble as they keep moving east. They eventually reach the Hoarwell river. Rather than cross it they follow the river north and then east, all the way to a pass through the Misty Mountains. It’s there that the Company meet their first challenge, in the form of the Anduin River. 

“North or south?” Dwalin asks as he moves his pony to be level with the front of the wagon. 

“South will eventually take us to the Old Ford and the Old Forest Road, and the bridge there.” Balin points out thoughtfully. 

“Too long.” Glóin shakes his head. “What if we don’t make it to the mountain in time?” 

“Also, if we have to head that far south, what was the point in going north first?” Fíli points out. 

“What other option have we?” Ori looks at the wild current of the river doubtfully. 

There’s been rain in the last few weeks. Most of it they could hear at a distance; but they did get some while they were going through the mountain pass. It was probably a good thing they can waterproof cloaks and oil-cloths to cover the carts and wagon. 

“We’re going north.” Thorin announces. 

“According to several maps and records we had access to during our visit to Rivendell, until four centuries or so ago, there was a kingdom of men that settled far in the north of the Anduin River.” Bilba explains even as she guides the ponies north, the rest following. “The Éothéod, throughout their history they formed different settlements in between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood; being forced to move whenever their enemies got too close to crushing them. One of those attempts was the formation of a capital city: Framsburg, where the Greylin and Langwell rivers meet and the Anduin is born.” 

Ori almost falls off his pony, focused as he is on writing down everything Bilba’s explaining, which makes Nori reach from his own pony and pull him up. Kíli and Fíli, riding on their own ponies, notice what’s going on and chuckle while several others roll their eyes good-naturedly. 

“The point to all of this is that while the Northmen no longer live in these lands, and haven’t for centuries, we believe that there must be remains of their cities still there.” Thorin explains. 

“Bridges.” Balin realizes. “You believe that, since they were living surrounded on two sides by rivers, there will be bridges there.” 

“Even if the bridges are old and half in ruin, we should be able to do something with that.” Fíli says confidently. “We’re dwarves, after all.” 

Stone-shaping isn’t his craft, not really, but it is his mother’s, he knows what some are capable of. Like the Ur family. Even if Bombur might be a cook, and Bombur and Bifur either work at the mines or do woodwork, Fíli has heard about the gift their line possesses for stone-work. And like he said, they’re dwarves, building things is what they do. 

Turns out, there are bridges there, at the point where the two northern rivers meet to form the Anduin. Three bridges, each going over one of the rivers, and while they’re certainly old, they’re far from the ruin the dwarrow might have been half expecting. 

“This is good work.” Glóin points out when he gets off his cart to go examine the bridge that goes over the Anduin (the one they’ll have to cross). “Dwarven craft.” 

“Dwarves did this?” Several more get off their carts and ponies to study the bridge. 

“How is this possible?” Kíli asks in obvious fascination. 

“Ered Mithrin?” Bilba suggests. “According to the records they were allied with the Northmen back when Framsburg was founded, and until dragons and orcs made holding these lands no longer feasible.” 

Even then Bofur and Bifur study the bridge very carefully, testing different points, and then insisting on riding their own cart through first, just in case. They find some loose stones near the edges, and just past the middle point of the bridge some stones crumble, narrowing the path somewhat, but that’s the worst of it. All dwarrow are eventually satisfied with the safety of the bridge and manage to cross safely. 

They move less than a handful of miles up the river, to a spot where the current is slow enough and some pools are formed. There they set up camp. They all take the chance to fill up their waterskins, as well as wash themselves, and even some of their clothes. Bilba in particular is extremely glad for the opportunity. Never has she gone so long without a wash before! Not even during all her trips for BCS! She chooses a pool that is around a bend and behind some bushes to keep some privacy. While she might not have all the hangups she used to, that does not mean she’s become an exhibitionist either! 

After she’s had a thorough wash, and while her clothes are drying on nearby bushes and branches, Bilba sits on a warm rock on the edge of the waterpool, combing her hair and carefully redoing her braids. 

“Would you like a hand, mesmel ?” Thorin asks as he approaches her slowly. 

“Always,” she answers promptly. 

Thorin makes sure to wash his hands and arms thoroughly before touching his wife’s hair, but once that’s done he starts working on her braids, one at a time. There’s of course their marriage braid, with the star-sapphire bead; also the ‘valor’ braid, with its bead of smoky quartz shaped by Dís; the Durin braid, which marks her as part of that line, through marriage (something that is made clear in the runes carved into the metal bead), it also marks her as the wife of the king; then there’s a ‘family braid’ with a wooden bead that has a stylized B on one side and a T on the other (for she’s both a Baggins and a Took), the B is especially adorned to show she was the Head of that Clan; and finally the ‘adult braid’ which shows she’s off-age and has two beads, one marking her as a scholar and the other as a merchant (as she’s both). The beads in those last braids are all wooden, white, made of weirwood, to be precise, the same wood from which she carved her husband’s marriage bead. The magic so deeply embedded in the white wood helping keep her connected to her hobbit roots, as well as her own magic. Which she’s starting to realize might be more than she ever expected. 

It’s small things at first: flowers. Bilba started noticing flowers in unexpected places (like clusters of tiny white blooms in Rhudaur, in the area where they set up camp; water lilies, irises and even hyacinths on the riverbanks they passed; asters and bellflowers in the mountain pass) as they traveled. It hits its high point however when, as her husband works on washing himself (after Bilba’s helped him wash and re-braid his own hair), she goes to pick up her dress and put it on, and on the ground she’d laid it to dry she finds a growing bush of mountain laurel. 

“You do know that wasn’t there before, right?” Thorin points out. “Nor were those.” 

He points at the lobelias and wild geraniums that seemed to have sprouted near the big rock where she was just sitting. 

Bilba’s speechless. 

“Hey, hey…” He whispers, stepping out of the waterpool and approaching her slowly. “Everything’s alright marlelê …” 

“You… you don’t seem surprised.” She cannot help but notice this fact. 

“I’m not.” He admits. “Several of the dams have pointed out that, ever since you started helping tend to the fruit trees and bushes in Ered Luin, they started giving more. More blossoms, more fruits; and not just in greater number, but size and just, everything’s better. Most of them chalked it up to your magic and left it at that.” He smiles softly at her, cupping her face in his hands. “I’ve told you before, yasthûna , you’re a blessing, to me and mine…” 

“It is, magic, I mean, hobbit magic.” Bilba admits quietly. “I just didn’t expect… this.” 

“I never thought it was anything else.” Thorin nods. “You mentioned hobbit magic before, the green of the Shire, the protections…” 

“Yes but that… that’s all of, all the hobbits, in the whole of the Shire, working together…” Bilba tries to explain why she’s so surprised by the discovery. 

“You’ve talked before about the importance of being magically strong, as Head of Family.” Thorin reminds her. “It’s why you had such a hard time choosing an heir.” 

“Yes but… it’s not that simple.” 

“As with everything where you hobbits are concerned.” 

Like kings who aren’t really kings, even though it’s an important, inherited position, they’re social and military leaders, and considered very important. 

“Shush you!” Bilba smacks him lightly on an arm. “And dress yourself!” 

Thorin laughs at the light blush high on her cheeks, even as he picks up his own clothes from where he left them after washing them. 

“Tell me then,” He insists as he ties up his pants, leaving the shirt to dry for a bit longer, and pretending not to notice the way his wife’s eyes keep straying to his bare chest. “Why is the matter of your magic not simple?” 

“The Head of a Hobbit Clan must have strong magical potential.” Bilba eventually manages to make herself focus enough to clarify (though she has to force herself not to stare at her husband’s chest). “It’s not… they don’t need to have strong active magic. Most don’t. But they need the potential, need to be able to handle the magic running through them, so they can keep control of the magic of the whole family.” 

“Ah…” Thorin nods, that makes sense actually. 

“It’s… many hobbits have magic, I’ve told you that.” Bilba reminds him. “Our ability to make pretty much any kind of plant grow, at practically any time of the year. It’s how our crops remain so fruitful, our flowers so plentiful. Dark magic can counter ours, but it rarely happens. The Fell Winter being the most recent instance.” she shakes her head. “For us hobbits, planting, and tending to those plants is as natural to us as… as your craft is to you dwarrow. Not something we’re born knowing exactly, we do have to learn, but it comes naturally to us. It’s not… it’s not the kind of magic that most would consider that great…” 

“If it has the potential to keep my people fed throughout the year I will consider it a huge boon indeed.” Thorin points out solemnly. 

“Yes but we cannot, actually. I mean, a single hobbit might have enough magic to grow enough fruits and vegetables and the like to keep food on their own table, perhaps even their family’s table… though with how great hobbit families can be that’s not always the case. And even that is with the help of the magic of every other hobbit, the magic already in our Shire. And that’s… that’s having the right seeds, and water, planting and caring for those plants Not… not having them suddenly sprout, out of nowhere simply because we slept there, or bathed there, or just… just sat for a little while! This,” she waves a hand in the direction of the various blossoms. “This isn’t normal Thorin!” 

“Ah, but you’re not a normal hobbit, marlel . You’re also a fairy. You yourself told me before, there’s magic in being what you are, you said that’s what made your potential so great.” 

“Still, I…” 

“And if, like you said, hobbits rarely leave the Shire, or at least they didn’t before the start of your parents’ venture. How do you know this isn’t perfectly normal?” 

That question does throw her for a loop, especially because, well, he’s not wrong. If she actually stops and thinks about it, well she cannot even say for sure that what’s happening now is a new development, can she? All her travels in the past have always been to and through green areas. Wild flowers in such places aren’t strange to find, so it’s not like she’d have noticed… and even if blossoms suddenly sprouting everywhere she goes happens to be a new thing… well, before this trip her magic had still been tied to the Baggins Headship, hadn’t it? First as her father’s heiress, then as the Head herself… She wonders, if her magic’s changed, seemingly grown, so much in such a short time, what that might mean for her in the long run… 

Bilba’s collecting the rest of her clothes, which she took the chance to wash and hang to dry while her husband washed himself, when she notices something glinting in the riverbank, apparently having become trapped in the leaves of a cardinal lobelia. She briefly considers the chance that Thorin’s lost a bead, though pushes it aside quickly, she was the one who redid his braids, so if he were missing a bead she’d know. There’s always the chance that someone else lost one though, so she bends to pick it up. Turns out it’s not a bead, but a ring. A plain, golden ring, nothing special about it… except for how something inside her feels almost sick the moment she touches it. 

She comes close to tossing it, throwing it back into the river, as far away from her as she can, so badly she wants to not be touching it. But then she thinks better of it. She might not know what that ring is, what kind of power it holds, but she knows there’s something wrong with it. Just how dangerous might it be? And if she throws it away, what will happen to it? Who might find it next? While the whole area seems to be abandoned, and has been that way for a very, very long time; it might not stay that way forever. Especially… If all goes well, if they succeed, it might not be a bad idea for the dwarrow in Ered Luin to follow the same route as them. Does she wanna risk one of them to find that ring? Someone like Dís? Or Solveig? Or worse, like Gimli or Liv! No, she doesn’t. 

With that in mind Bilba tears a piece of cloth off a ruined skirt (it tore on some thorny bushes shortly after leaving Fornost, badly enough that it cannot be mended. Still, while she may not be able to use the skirt anymore, the cloth is still in fairly good condition, it might prove useful at some point, which is why she decided to wash it. She takes the piece of cloth, folds it several times, then puts the ring on top and folds it a few more times, making sure there are a good number of layers in between the awful ring and her. She keeps it in her pocket only long enough for them to get back to camp. She fishes out her old weirwood jewelry box, an old Took heirloom that was gifted to her after the last Fairy: Rosalind Took, passed. She hopes the weirwood will keep whatever dark power the ring might have, contained. 

“Auntie Bilba!” Kíli cries out as he hurries towards her. “Come on, Bombur says dinner’s ready.” 

Fíli, right behind his brother, as usual, seems to notice there’s something off about the hobbit, even if Kíli does not. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks her quietly as his brother rushes back to Bombur when Bilba suggests the others might eat all the food, leaving them with nothing. 

“Yes, of course.” She agrees immediately. 

She prays to Yavanna that she’s not lying. 

xXx

Knowing as they do that the Grey Mountains are likely to be filled with orcs and goblins, the Company decides not to get any closer to them than they have to. They head east all the way to the Forest River. There are no bridges there, and it takes them almost half a day, and sending parties up and down the river, until they find a spot where it’s shallow enough (and the ground level enough) for the ponies and the carts to be able to pass. It means going a bit northwest, which in turn means losing a day or two, but in the end it’s worth it. Once on the other side of the river they follow it to the edge of the forest, where they come across their next hiccup. 

From the start they’d decided to avoid entering Mirkwood. Not just for the rumors of all the dark creatures that can be found in it nowadays, or even the old grudge between Thorin and Thranduil (though each of those things on its own would certainly be enough for them to want to avoid the place entirely). Bilba just had a bad feeling, from the moment she saw Mirkwood on the maps, back in Rivendell. A feeling that is reaffirmed, several times over, the moment they get anywhere close to the treeline. They’re on foot, having followed the Forest River southeast for a bit, wanting to see if they can find a spot deep enough to collect water, maybe wash their clothes and themselves a bit. Bombur has also promised them a good dinner if anyone can get him some meat (while they still have some jerky in the packs, along with dried fruits, nuts, and other foodstuffs; they’ve decided that whenever they can hunt, fish or something like that, to go for it first, saving the dried provisions for when they cannot find anything else). 

Bilba starts feeling off from the moment they reach the shadow of the trees. She does her best to ignore it all at first, focusing on washing what clothes need it, and getting a quick, perfunctory wash herself. There’s no privacy anywhere, so she doesn’t strip completely, but she at least manages enough to feel less dirty. She heads back towards where several of the others are when she hears Bifur’s triumphant cry, he just caught a fish, a big one. Afterwards… she’s not sure what happens exactly, one moment she’s just walking towards her friends, there’s something: like a breeze, a hiss in the wind, she sways, almost trips, and then she’s rushing behind a bush, her latest meal coming back up. 

It’s absolute mayhem for a handful or so of minutes, as all the dwarrow rush to her. Thorin picks her up in his arms, carrying her to the bench of the wagon, only pulling back when Óin demands it so he can check on her. Fíli and Kíli rushing towards the river for some cool water at Óin’s request. A damp cloth is ran across her face and the back of her neck, she’s also given some water to drink, until she feels… not exactly better, but at least at a more even keel. Then she hears the whispers from the youngest members of the company. 

“I’m not pregnant!” She snaps, loudly. 

“Lass, you know there’d be nothing wrong…” Balin begins. 

“No, listen to me.” Bilba cuts him off. “I am not pregnant. I took some herbs some time ago. They… well, simply put I’m essentially infertile for the time being.” 

“You sure it works?” Balin wants to make sure. 

“You sure the effect is temporary?” Dori asks practically at the same time. 

“Yes, and yes.” Bilba nods at them both. “It’s an old hobbit recipe, should last me close to a year. And yes, it’s most definitely temporary. It’s proven, usually used by hobbit lasses who marry particularly young, when the healers recommend they wait to have little ones. Or when the couple is trying to save for a house or something, before making a proper family. There’s a version of it that’s quite permanent. Given to those who want no more children, or who might be in danger were they to become pregnant again. Trust me, we hobbits know all about herbs.” 

“Okay, so you’re not pregnant.” Bofur nods. “Then what was that, exactly lass?” 

“There’s… there’s something deeply… wrong about that forest.” Bilba cannot find better words to explain herself. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it other than to say that the magic in me feels sick at the mere thought of going anywhere near it, much less into it.” 

“It makes sense.” Balin nods. “Mirkwood used to be known as the Greenwood. The name changed due to all the darkness that invaded it. Your magic is good, so it makes sense that it wouldn’t want you anywhere near the darkness…” 

Bilba nods, that makes as much sense as anything really. 

“So we’re staying away from the forest?” Glóin wants to confirm. 

“We’re staying away from the forest.” Thorin agrees, then turns to his nephews. “We might want to avoid hunting in it too, just in case.” 

He can tell that Kíli is somewhat disappointed, probably wanting to prove himself by hunting some big buck or something. But he also understands, so he nods, same as his brother. 

The dwarrow move the camp a bit up-river, away from the shadow of Mirkwood, and Bombur makes a meal with the fish Bifur caught, and some of the vegetables, roots and herbs they still have (or that they’ve collected along the way). 

In the morning they fish some more, cleaning the fishes and packing them tight, and after making sure that all their waterskins are filled to the brim (as they don’t know when they might come across a water source next (there were none marked on the maps, not until the River Running, but Balin thinks he remembers there being another river, or at least a stream, northwest of the mountain… Thorin and Bilba suppose that if it wasn’t common knowledge, no one might have known to put it on any maps). They’re on the way almost as soon as the sun is up. 

The next leg of the journey is a bit like when they went from Fornost to Rhudaur, and at the same time nothing at all like that. There’s a wide expanse of mostly level, empty land… only it’s not quite so dry as Arnor. There’s green here and there, mostly grasses, which become more common and abundant the further they go east. And sometimes, at the foot of the mountains they think they can see wild goats, and other such animals. 

“This is a good sign.” Óin declares thoughtfully as he looks around. 

Kíli has managed to hunt a deer (after getting Thorin’s permission, and confirming that Bilba doesn’t sense anything wrong with the animal), several of the dwarrow get to work to ensure each part of the animal will be used to its fullest. 

“Yes, it is.” Bilba agrees. 

Like her father used to say: ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope.’. It’s a very good sign indeed. 

xXx

It takes them around a month to clear Mirkwood, and by then it’s already early autumn. 

“We’ve made good time.” Thorin announces as they set up camp that night. “Better than I ever expected, actually.” 

“We’re no more than a fortnight away from the mountain, quite possibly less.” Balin points out as he looks at the map they’ve once again rolled out in between everyone. “That means we’ll be early. Have you considered what we’ll do then?” 

“That depends on what we plan on doing exactly.” Thorin admits grimly. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dwalin demands. 

And it’s clear he’s not the only one surprised by that. 

“From the start the plans for this quest have been… loose.” Thorin reminds them. “I know some thought the idea of a burglar to be good. Send them into the mountain for the Arkenstone so I might be able to call the seven armies of the dwarrow to arms and storm the mountain.” 

“Not the best of plans.” Balin points out evenly. 

“We don’t even have a burglar!” Glóin scoffs, grumbling under his breath. “The wizard expected Lady Adamantine to fill that part.” 

“No.” Thorin admits. “Not the best of plans. And not just because I’d never send my One to steal from a dragon. We already faced Smaug with an army, the very best army of all the dwarrow kingdoms, and they were nothing to the worm. After the last hundred years, even seven armies would not be better than the Ereborean soldiers were back then.” 

“We’ve always known we were going against a dragon.” Bofur points out. “Have known it since we volunteered. Tis also why it was not that surprising that so many said no.” 

“True.” Nori agrees. “I do still hope someone has more of a plan than just rush in and hope not to get killed… and miraculously kill us a dragon!” 

“We do.” Bilba nods. “Several actually.” 

“First there’s the legend.” Kíli offers excitedly. “We’ve all heard the story. That on the day the dragon attacked, Girion of Dale fired his black arrows at Smaug, and while he didn’t manage to kill the creature, he did manage to hurt it some, loosen some scales, something along those lines. Which would mean the dragon has a weakness, we just need to find it.” 

“And a weapon long and powerful enough to kill the dragon.” Bofur points out unhelpfully. 

“If Girion’s line still lives, or even if they don’t, we might be able to find at least one black arrow, either in Esgaroth, or the ruins of Dale.” Fíli points out. 

“There’s also the belladonna.” Bilba offers. “I prepared a fair number of packets, they're in a small sack in the back of the wagon.” 

“Belladonna?” Bombur asks, not understanding. 

“Well, it’s not just belladonna, actually.” Bilba admits. “Several poisonous plants, the most toxic parts, as poisonous as I could make them. A single packet would be enough to kill… well, I don’t actually know, since I surpassed the poison-levels required to kill pretty much any animal. Surpassed by far the poison used against the trolls too.” 

“Do you think they’ll be enough against a dragon?” Ori asks, curious. 

“Even if they’re not enough, they should be good enough to stun it, make it slower.” Thorin intervenes. “Which will in turn give us an opening.” 

“It’s not an entirely bad plan.” Dwalin admits. “Though there’s space for improvement.” 

“Like what?” Thorin asks, brow arched. 

“We find one of these black arrows before facing that dragon.” Dwalin declares. 

Which is probably easier said than done. From what Thorin can remember, the black-arrows were forged by his grandfather, half of them gifted to Girion of Dale, to be used on his Wind Lances. The other half were in Erebor’s armory. The latter is unreachable, as for the former… he supposes they could go to the ruins of the city of men and see what they can find. As for finding a descendant… Thorin doesn’t hold much hope. And even if there were a descendant, what are the chances of them having any black arrows? 

Regardless, they have a plan, and a little over a month to go before Durin’s Day. 

xXx

It takes the Company a fortnight to reach the westernmost side of the Lonely Mountain, where they set up a semi-permanent camp. Sturdier and more protected than any of the camps they made during the journey, yet they will still be able to take it down when the time comes. They also make sure that they’re out of sight from everyone in Lake-Town, or the few farms on land, not wanting to call anyone’s attention. 

The day after they settle camp Fíli and Kíli find a river that comes down from the Grey mountains, crossing the plain and going straight for the north side of the mountain, disappearing underground at some point. 

“It goes under the mountain.” Balin nods when the brothers explain their discovery. “Generations ago, the dwarrow of Erebor found a way to use the underground river and the water it carries, along with the melted snow from the top of the mountain, to give water to all of Erebor. It was a master stroke of craft, and part of what made our kingdom the greatest since Moria, as no dwarf in the mountain, whether rich or poor, was ever without water.” 

A guarantee they all know isn’t afforded to everyone, everywhere. 

At some point someone has a brief, half-insane idea of perhaps using the stream as a way into the mountain. At least until Balin points out just how ridiculous that is, and that there’s no way anyone could possibly hold their breath long enough to make it into the mountain. 

Even then, the stream means a place where they can bathe, wash their clothes, it also means access to drinking water, and to fish. Several of the other dwarrow are also able to hunt some game so their dinner that night is particularly good. 

The following fortnight is spent exploring all around the mountain, and as far as Dale. They find the stairs leading to the secret door easily enough, though of course there’s no trace of the entrance to be found, and there won’t be until Durin’s Day. The last few days they even make a point of going into every building they can be fairly certain will not fall over their heads as they search for anything resembling an armory, or perhaps one of the arrows that Girion fired on that fateful day and failed to kill Smaug. They find nothing. 

They’re less than a month away from Durin’s Day, and Bilba can tell that the Company’s starting to fray the longer they go without being able to find a black arrow, or something else that might serve as a suitable weapon. There’s no doubt in any of them that there must be something inside the mountain, but the chances of them getting such a weapon before Smaug finds them aren’t very high. 

One particular morning Bilba decides they need a break, so after a bit of an argument with both Thorin and Dwalin she manages to convince them that maybe they could do some training or something, let off some steam. She also recruits Fíli and Kíli to go with her to Lake-Town. Where she hopes to be able to buy something fresh for a meal. While she knows she could probably use some of her seeds to plant vegetables, or fruits and use her magic to make them grow faster, she’s actually saving her magic for their confrontation with Smaug, just in case. The brothers of course are all for that plan. Thorin wants to send someone else with them, but Bilba dissuades him. 

“Three of us can be explained easily enough.” She tells him. “More, especially with someone who acts clearly as a guard, would be a different story.” 

“We can do this Uncle.” Kíli hurries to assure him. 

“We’ll protect Auntie.” Fíli confirms. 

In the end Thorin gives in and lets them go. The three take only ponies, in order to move faster across the Desolation, and hopefully call less attention. Still, they fill their saddlebags with some supplies, and even a few things they’re willing to trade, in case their coin isn’t as easily accepted this far in the east. 

Lake-Town is… Bilba has trouble finding the right word for it. She’s seen poor towns before, yet nothing could possibly compare to this. It’s not entirely obvious at first sight, but as she and the boys wander through the market she starts noticing things: like the people dressed in rags, sitting in the shadows, looking much too thin under the threadbare clothing. The children walking around barefoot… Bilba’s a hobbit, she knows all about walking barefoot, but she sorely doubts that human feet are made for going around without shoes the way a hobbit’s are, and children? No, she cannot imagine any of them walking around on bare feet by choice. 

And then there’s the sharp contrast of the guards, in their thick clothes, boots and clearly well-groomed. It’s a striking difference. As is the way some of those guards treat the poorest villagers. As expected, most businesses won’t take gold, having no use for it. More than once Bilba makes a deal she knows isn’t exactly in their favor, but she just cannot help it. Even a fair deal seems like cheating when the people have already so little. 

Hours later Bilba’s pondering what they ought to do. While there was a part of her that hoped they might be able to find an inn, or at least someone willing to rent them a room. Not so much due to any accommodations, but to ensure that all three of them got to sleep. As sleeping on the road, especially with just the three of them, has meant the need for someone keeping watch, just in case, and the brothers keep refusing to let Bilba keep watch on her own. So she really wanted them to have one night of sleep before they made their way back. Yet considering the condition Lake-Town is in, she doubts they even have an inn… 

It’s Fíli’s abrupt tension that first alerts Bilba to something being off. She follows his line of sight, to find two girls, brunettes with dark eyes, in old but sturdy clothes and worn shoes, arguing with a merchant. An argument that seems to have already attracted the attention of a couple of guards, one whom is slowly but surely invading the older girl’s personal space, even as she keeps the other (her younger sister probably) behind her, leaning back, away from the man, without actually stepping back herself. 

Bilba’s moving before she’s fully aware of what she’s doing. As she approaches she pays attention, can hear the older girl… Sigrid, as the younger calls her… complain about how many coins the merchant is demanding for the cloth she intended to purchase, claiming that wasn’t the price he had given her before. The man implies that she’s a thief, to which the youngest girl cries a denial… her name is revealed to be Tilda, as her older sister shushes her… And then the guards are there and things seem to be escalating really fast. Bilba reaches the group right as one of the guards reaches to touch Sigrid, even as she’s telling him no, she tries to avoid him and he ends up with a loose lock of her hair through his fingers… it takes all of Bilba’s control not to pull a blade on the despicable man (a man has to be despicable to ignore a girl saying no and still intending to put a hand on her!). 

“Miss Sigrid!” Bilba cries out, probably louder than entirely necessary. “Here you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

All eyes turn to Bilba and the dwarves that are quickly following her. Sigrid looks particularly startled, and like she might say something, which makes Bilba start talking before she might say anything that gives away the lie: 

“Is there an issue with the cloth?” Bilba questions the merchant. 

“Cloth?” The merchant echoes, clearly not expecting that. 

“Yes, when I met with Miss Sigrid earlier and told her what I wished to acquire she told me she knew a merchant who had the cloth I wanted, so she offered to purchase it for me while my nephews and I got some things from other stalls.” 

“Your cloth?” It’s clear the lake-men are still trying to catch up with everything. 

“Yes,” Bilba nods. “Is there something wrong with it? Will I have to look for it with some other merchant? Elsewhere?” 

As expected, the threat of taking her business elsewhere makes the merchant react. In seconds he’s cutting the exact amount of cloth Sigrid had requested and packing it. He barely even remembers taking the coins when they’re offered to him. 

Deciding to take full-advantage of the flabbergasted men Bilba makes an effort to get the two girls away before any of them can react. No such luck. 

“Who are you?” The merchant demands as he blocks Bilba’s path. 

“Bilba Adamantine,” She introduces herself. “These are my nephews, Fíli and Kíli.” 

“And why are you here?” The other guard demands. 

“We’re just passing.” Fíli intervenes. “We’re merchants, traveling to the Iron Hills to visit family and do some business.” 

“Merchants?” The disbelief in the man is obvious. 

Though behind him they can hear the merchant from the cloth-stall comment that that explains how they have coin when hardly anyone does. 

“Yes, now if that’s all gentlemen, we have some more business to conduct before we can rejoin my husband and the rest of our travel party.” Bilba states in a lofty tone. 

“And where is this traveling party?” The second guard demands sharply. 

“Hunting.” Kíli blurts. 

“We didn’t want to stretch the town’s resources by trying to purchase too much.” Fíli adds. 

The excuse works. Also, once the guards realize how many people are turning their attention in their direction, they let them all go. The girls, clearly realizing they need to keep up the story, take the lead as they guide Bilba and the two dwarves away. None of them realize where it is they’re going until they’re inside a wooden building and Sigrid lays heavily against the door as soon as she closes it. 

For several moments none of them say a thing. And then Sigrid exhales, straightens up and turns to look straight at Bilba. 

“Why did you do that?” She asks, straight out. 

Her voice is soft, gentle, yet there’s a core of steel to it, and to her that makes Bilba smile. 

“You needed help, I could help you, should I not have?” The hobbit asks in return. 

Sigrid expression says it all. She probably has known very few, if any, people willing to help others with no expectation of payment or reward. So it’s simply not in her to expect any stranger to help her. 

“Now, I believe this is yours.” Bilba takes the package when Fíli hands it to her. 

“I… thank you.” Sigrid finally says. 

xXx

They agree to stay when Sigrid insists; in part to keep up with the lie they’ve told the guards, but also as her way of saying thanks for helping them. Bilba still insists on helping her with dinner, while the brothers keep Tilda distracted. It takes a bit of gentle prompting, but eventually Bilba manages to get the whole story out of the girl: Sigrid lives with, aside from her little sister Tilda, her brother (older than Tilda, but younger than Sigrid) Bain, and their father: Bard. Bard is a bargeman, he makes a living from transporting wine barrels from Mirkwood across the lake as needed. Apparently he used to be the leader of the Lake-town archers, second in command of the guard. Until Alfrid Lickspittle convinced the Master of Lake-Town that Bard intended to depose him. There are apparently many people in Lake-Town who would be quite willing to follow Bard, if he were to show any inclination to be Master, like his father was before him (it was only when the other man died, his younger brother showing no interest in leadership, that the path opened for the current Master to eventually get the position); and yet the man has always been focused on his children more than any aspirations for power. 

As for what transpired at the cloth merchant’s stall… Sigrid’s been saving coin to get some cloth, so she can make a new cloak for her little sister, as winter’s coming and her old one is threadbare already. The merchant had given her a price the week prior, yet when Sigrid went to finally buy the cloth, he demanded more coin, and when she argued he’d given her a different price before, he called the guards on her. One of whom is very interested in Sigrid… 

“I became off-age just after Midsummer.” She explains. “It’s expected that I’ll start showing interest in potential suitors. And as Jan has taken care to remind me in previous occasions, father isn’t getting any younger. Were sickness to take him, or something else that might prevent him from working, I’d never be able to hold the house and keep my siblings fed and clothed on my own. He’s… expressed a willingness to help support Tilda, and put a good word in with the guard so Bain might join.” 

The brothers hiss under their breath, and from the corner of her eye Bilba can see Fíli biting his tongue, while at the same time covering Kíli’s mouth to keep him from saying something. 

“Miss Adamantine?” Sigrid questions when she notices her silence. “Is everything alright?” 

“I… I think it’s despicable that a man would use a girl’s family to get her to accept his hand.” Bilba admits somewhat bluntly. 

That startles a laugh out of Sigrid’s mouth, which calls Tilda’s attention. A part of Bilba stops to wonder when was the last time the older girl laughed… 

“You also don’t seem very partial to his attentions.” Bilba adds more quietly. 

“I will do what’s necessary for my family.” Sigrid says simply. 

Bilba does not doubt that. Something tells her the girl isn’t a stranger to doing what needs to be done, to sacrificing, for her family. 

“If it were my choice…” She adds after a very long silence, so, so quietly, like afraid of letting it be known. “If it were my choice I believe I’d never marry. Why marry a man for whom I’ll never be more than a pretty doll, someone to give him sons, to…” She cuts off, but Bilba can imagine what the rest of it was meant to be. “Pardon me, my lady.” 

“Why do you feel the need to apologize?” Bilba questions, curious. “You have a right to your own opinion.” 

“I believe you are married…?” Sigrid tries to explain. 

“I am.” Bilba nods in agreement. “And if Thorin looked at me the way that guard looked at you, if he’d wanted me for my face or my body, for my name or my gold rather than for my mind, my heart and soul, then I’d have never taken his hand in mine and bound ourselves in marriage. I am… fortunate enough, in that I am married by choice, rather than by necessity.” 

“Fortunate indeed.” Sigrid agrees softly. “Wish we could all be thus.” 

Bilba agrees. Though in the end she knows there’s nothing she can do. They’re already on hard enough a quest. There’s no time for them to try and fight a whole society to try and make things better for everyone. Though who knows? Perhaps if they happen to succeed… Yavanna willing, perhaps once the dragon is well and gone, things will change enough, and Sigrid will benefit, as will her family, and everyone else in Esgaroth. 

Chapter Text

And one white tree from all the sundered seas. 

They leave Lake-Town early in the morning (Bilba very carefully looks away when Fíli whispers something to Sigrid and hands her a small object, probably one of his knives), around the same time Bard himself sets out for work. Which means they end up walking a ways together. Bilba, Fíli and Kíli have barely met the man at all, as he arrived at his house late enough the night before, and almost directly to bed. Bilba cannot know what Sigrid told him exactly to convince him that they ought to be allowed to stay the night, yet they refuse to wear out their welcome nonetheless. So they make arrangements to depart as soon as possible. Sigrid insists on preparing breakfast for everyone, and Bilba only allows it as it gives her the chance to slip a few things from their own supplies into theirs. If the girl or her father notices, no one says a thing. Fíli and Kíli certainly do, but not only do they not complain, they seem to be fully in favor. Fíli muttering quietly in khuzdûl his regret for not being able to offer more. 

“Thank you.” Bard blurts out at some point. 

All three of them turn their attention to him. Not having expected that. 

“I know Sigrid did not tell me everything that transpired yesterday.” Bard explains. “Though one thing she did make clear is that you helped her. And for that you have my gratitude.” 

“It was no hardship on our part.” Fíli assures him. 

“We’re happy to help.” Kíli states almost at the same time. 

“Sigrid tells me you’re traveling merchants.” Bard states. 

“We are.” Bilba nods. “On our way to the Iron Hills.” 

“The Iron Hills?” Bard repeats, thoughtful. “Where do you come from?” 

“Ered Luin,” Kíli blurts out. 

“On the other side of the Misty Mountains, and farther still.” Fíli clarifies. 

“You’ve traveled some distance then.” Bard comments. 

“We have.” Bilba agrees. 

She can tell that Bard doesn’t fully believe them. But whatever he might or might not suspect, he probably believes himself enough in their debt for what they did for Sigrid, that he won’t press. That’s the end of their conversation as they part ways, Bard heading towards the docks, while Bilba and her nephews cross the bridge to the land and retrieve their ponies from the barn there, paying a few coins to the boy who kept watch over them. 

The first day of their trip back towards the camp is a bit slow. They stop in a couple of farms to buy and trade for what they can, though it’s no better than the market at Lake-Town proper. It’s halfway through the second day that something completely unexpected happens: they find themselves under attack. 

The orcs seem to come out of nowhere. One moment they are moving north on their ponies, hoping to reach the camp either late that night or early the next morning, and the next… they all hear the whistle, of something cutting the wind, then an arrow’s landing on the dirt, less than three feet in front of Fíli’s pony. The animal reacts, neighing loudly and rising on its back legs abruptly enough that Fíli cannot hold onto anything enough, he falls. It’s instinctive for him to go into a roll as he absorbs the impact. Bilba’s just opening her mouth to call to him, asking if he’s alright, when there’s a second arrow, and this time it’s followed by the cry of an animal dying as Kíli's pony is struck down, taking the brunette dwarf down with it. 

“Kíli!” Both Bilba and Fíli cry out in unison. 

Everything after that is absolute mayhem. Kíli’s on the ground, he keeps twisting and rolling around to avoid enemies while at the same time trying to get back on his feet; which isn’t easy as he hurt his leg in the fall. Bilba and Fíli, much as they might want to help him, can barely hold their ground as it is, each of them with their own swords; and never has Bilba felt so grateful that she decided to learn how to use Sting! They’re so busy fighting for their lives that at first they don’t realize they’re no longer alone, not until they hear Kíli calling to someone to throw him a dagger; or rather, when they hear a female voice respond to him (someone not Bilba…). 

“Kíli!” Bilba cries out. 

She does her best to use her sword with just one hand, with the other reaching for one of her throwing daggers, intending to lend it to her nephew, when suddenly there’s a blade flying across the air right in front of her. 

The battle ends as abruptly as it started. Enough that it takes several seconds for all the fighters to actually believe it’s over, even then they do not lower their guards, as they realize they’re not on their own. Hobbit and dwarrow stare at the two elves for a while in silence. In the end, it’s Kíli who breaks the standstill as he steps forward, crossing the empty space between the two groups. In his hand there’s a blade, a silvery dagger (the same Bilba saw fly in front of her earlier), he twirls it between his fingers a little, even throwing it into the air at one point (by which point Fíli knows he’s just showing off), then he catches it by the blade, offering it to the red-haired she-elf hilt first. 

“Thank you.” He says with a big smile. “It’s a good blade.” 

“It is.” She agrees, taking it. 

No one misses the way she twirls it a little before sheathing it on her waist. 

“Who are you?” The blonde elf asks, eyes narrowed. 

It’s clear he’s the more distrustful of the two, and by the way he’s eyeing them, Bilba can tell he’s judging them all just for being dwarves. He cannot possibly know Bilba’s no dwarf… especially as the skirt of her dress is covering her hobbit feet, while her cloak is settled on her shoulders in such a way as to hide her less-stocky figure (compared to dwarrow). 

“Bilba Adamantine,” She introduces herself simply, “And my nephews, Fíli and Kíli. We hail from Ered Luin.” 

“The Blue Mountains…” The she-elf murmurs quietly. “You’re far from home.” 

“What brings you so far?” The blonde demands. 

“You know, it’s polite to introduce yourself before trying to interrogate someone, especially after having heard who we are.” Fíli points out sharply. 

“I am Tauriel, and this is Legolas.” The redhead handles the introductions before her companion can say anything else. “We come from the Greenwood.” 

Greenwood… most people have taken to calling it Mirkwood, but Bilba’s unsurprised that its own inhabitants would want to hold onto its old name. Probably seeing it as another way of fighting the darkness slowly taking over their realm… 

“You’ve yet to explain what brings you so far from your mountains.” Legolas points out, tone even sharper than before. 

“Why does it sound like you’re trying to accuse us of something?” Kíli demands, hotly. 

“Do you make such demands of explanations of all travelers you encounter, or are we just special because we’re dwarves?” Fíli asks, almost at the same time. 

“That cannot possibly be it, after all, we’re not in the Woodland Realm, elven prince or not, he can make no demands of us.” Bilba states boldly. 

There’s a moment where the blonde seems to pale and blush at the same time, which makes him look particularly strange. Bilba mentally pats herself in the back, she hadn’t known for sure of course, but the elf did have a remarkable likeness to the paintings she’s seen of King Thranduil, so it was a decent guess to make. Also, while she has no trouble keeping to their merchant story, she doesn’t like the elven prince’s sense of entitlement. 

“We’ve been tracking that band of orcs since we first saw signs of them, near the spot where the Enchanted River crosses the elf-path, in our forest.” Tauriel explains. “They kept moving, didn’t attack anyone…” 

“… until you.” Legolas finishes for her. 

All three of them tense at that. They haven’t forgotten Tharkûn’s warning to Thorin, about Azog hunting the Line of Durin, intent on ending it… 

“You’re acting like they were after us or something,” Bilba does her best to bluff. “We haven’t even set foot in your forest. We traveled the paths on the far north, and are heading towards the Iron Hills. Whatever might be going on with those orcs, it cannot have anything to do with us.” 

It’s clear the elves aren’t entirely convinced, Legolas especially, but Bilba isn’t sure what else they can say or do to avoid suspicion, not without ending up doing the complete opposite. 

“Would Lake-Town be in danger, you think?” Fíli asks suddenly. 

The way he’s biting a nail tells Bilba that the question is about more than just trying to distract the elves away from them. He’s honestly worried. 

“We cannot know.” Tauriel admits. “We believe this band to have been little more than scouts…” 

“Which means there will be more.” Legolas adds, more forcefully. “Many more. You’d do well to return to wherever it is you came from…” 

“Once again, you have no say in where we, or anyone else, travels.” Bilba cuts him off. “We appreciate your aid in the fight, my lord, don’t think we don’t. But you have no authority over us. Now, if you don’t mind, there are those who’ll be awaiting our return.” 

For a moment it looks like Legolas might say something else, but in the end Tauriel stops him, allowing the three travelers to walk away. 

Fíli, Kíli and Bilba collect their surviving ponies from where they ran to escape the fight, they recover their saddlebags and place them on the ponies before making their way north. Kíli and Bilba share a pony, while most of the bags go with Fíli. It’s perhaps a bit more weight than they’d usually put on the ponies, but it won’t be for long. They set off towards the camp at a fast gallop. In case the elves are right and there are really other orcs out there hunting them, they don’t want to be caught by surprise and on their own again. Bilba just knows Thorin’s going to have a meltdown when he finds out about the fight… 

xXx

It’s until they’re back in the camp, unpacking the ponies and preparing for the night, that Kíli realizes he’s lost his runestone. A small piece of obsidian with engravings in khuzdûl, a gift from Dís, with well-wishes, prayers for his health, luck and her desire that he’ll return to her… Kíli nearly weeps when realizing he’s lost it. It doesn’t matter how much the others try to console him, reassure him that his mom will understand that it was an accident. Their best guess is that it must have happened when he went down with the pony, or perhaps during all the twisting and dragging himself he had to do before he was able to stand and fight. In the end there’s nothing they can do, not now. Not with orcs hunting them down and a dragon still needing to be slayed. 

“When we’re done we’ll go back and look for it, Kee.” Fíli tries his best to reassure his brother. “I promise you.” 

Bilba was right of course, Thorin practically has a meltdown when he finds out about the fight. Apparently it’s one thing hearing the Grey Wizard talk about Azog hunting them down, and something else entirely hearing about his wife and nephews being attacked by an orc hunting party (he very carefully ignores the fact that it was two elves that helped save his family). 

Bilba’s birthday celebrations are quieter and more subdued than any before, which is unsurprising considering their circumstances. But the Company at least takes the day off from their continued search for weapons, and training in preparation for fighting a dragon. The dwarrow manage to hunt a wild-pig, and between that and some of the food they’ve been saving they have a veritable feast in their camp that night. Bilba and Thorin even take some time to themselves that night, with the excuse of going to the stream to bathe. Everyone knows the truth, but they’re polite enough not to comment. 

Not a week before Durin’s Day, the Company’s settling for the night, Bombur working on dinner while Dori does a bit of mending, Óin checks over his supplies, Dwalin is sharpening an ax, and Nori one of his knives, Ori’s concentrating on a piece of parchment (probably a drawing), while Bofur does some whittling at the same time he argues with his cousin half in khuzdûl and half in Iglishmek, Glóin’s telling another story about his son that no one’s paying that much attention to, while Kíli and Fíli play some kind of game among themselves. Bilba’s busying herself studying the plants that have been growing on the edges of their camp, mostly for something to do, while Thorin stares judgmentally at some old weapons they were able to find in what might have been Dale’s old armory. They aren’t in the best state, but all they have aside from their personal weapons and Thorin is trying to see what, if anything, might be salvageable; and how many of them might be useful against a dragon. 

The quiet, easy moment is interrupted by the loud sound of a branch breaking somewhere nearby, followed by two horses’ hoofs, and finally a voice: 

“Hello!” It’s a female voice, and the owner sounds tired and clearly afraid. “H...hello? Is… is anyone out here? Please! Please I… we need help. Please!” There’s a sound like the swallowing of a sob and then: “La-lady Adamantine? Mr. Fíli…?” 

Everyone reacts to the use of Bilba’s earned-name, though none as quick as Fíli, who’s moving even before the second syllable of his own name is pronounced. 

What they find beyond the underbrush and rocks that keep their camp out of sight of anyone in Esgaroth, or even as close as Dale, is not just Sigrid, but her whole family. Sigrid looks to be dead on her feet, shaking from either cold or fright, perhaps even both. She’s holding the reins of two horses, one holds her brother, and the other both her little sister and father; and by the looks of it it’s little Tilda who’s holding their father up, despite the fact that she doesn’t look much more rested than either of her siblings. 

“What happened to you?” Kíli blurts out, shocked by their appearance. 

The dwarrow help everyone down from the horses. Tilda and Bain both look like they want to be sleeping, yet every time they start nodding off, something (worry, stress, fear) startles them, prompting them to look around wildly, only settling down again once they’ve laid eyes on every single member of their family, reassuring themselves they’re all together. Bard is unconscious, and as they soon find out, there’s a bump behind his left ear, blood matting his dark hair. Óin checks him over, quickly reassuring their children that their father will be alright, he’ll probably wake up with a terrible headache, and dizziness, but he’ll recover. 

Food is shared, and eventually Sigrid manages to get her siblings to relax enough for them to fall asleep next to their father. The dwarrow making sure to position them in such a way that they’ll be in each other’s line-of-sight. Sigrid for her part sits down, with a mug of tea in her hands as she starts her tale. The whole story comes out in starts and stops. It seems that after the fight, and each of them going off their own way, the elves decided to take the dwarves’ comment about the risk to Lake-Town seriously, at least enough to decide to try and warn them about orcs possibly attacking. Most people did not take the warning seriously, and from the few who did, the majority were easily pacified by promises to remove the planks that connect the floating town to the land. As if a little water were enough to protect them! 

Bard himself was among the scant few not satisfied by the reassurances and tried to make others understand how dangerous it all could be, that they needed to do something to better protect themselves. It was this insistence that the Master (at Lickspittle’s urging no doubt) used as an excuse to declare Bard an agitator, claiming that he was trying to stage a coup. He sought to arrest Bard; there were even threats about a long incarceration, possibly exile (Bilba, Fíli and Kíli all know what that would have meant for the little family). And then of course Jan showed up at their house, offering his ‘help’. 

“I don’t…” Sigrid hesitates, she exhales a shuddering breath, not quite paying attention even as she accepts Fíli’s waterskin, taking a drink. “I knew his offer was good. That it was the best we were going to get. For me, for my siblings. Yet in that moment… the thought of his hands on me… I couldn’t stand it!” She shudders. “I told him no. I told him no and… he didn’t like that. He… he…” 

Bilba goes rigid at that, and she knows she’s far from the only one. The thought of such violence being visited on Sigrid… Fíli looks murderous, and the hobbit-lady wonders if she’s the only one who notices it. It’s the girl who breaks the moment in a most unexpected manner: as she turns slightly to one side, throwing herself against Fíli, arms around his neck. 

“Thank you!” She exclaims as she holds him tight. “Thank you, thank you, thankyou…” 

It takes a little while for her to calm down to be able to say anything other than those two words. Eventually though, she does calm down. She takes the handkerchief Bilba offers her and after drying her eyes, blowing her nose and taking several deep breaths she manages to settle down enough to continue with her story: 

“Your knife saved me.” She explains, looking straight at Fíli. “When Jan… when he tried… I kept the blade on me at all times. Wasn’t even sure why, it just felt right. And then… when he got too close… he was so sure I wouldn’t refuse him, said that I couldn’t. And I told him no! He wouldn’t accept it, and when he got too close… I pulled the knife out, cut open his arm. He screamed. I… I think Bain and Tilda arrived then, they got him out of the house. He was yelling imprecations against me, claiming that I tried to kill him.” She swallows. “I knew then we couldn’t stay. I… the guards would have believed him and… I don’t know what they would have done.” Nothing good, that’s for certain. “Father was already imprisoned, and I couldn’t have my siblings be put on the street. So I packed our essentials. A pack for each of us, made sure Tilda and Bain were in their warmest clothes, and then we ran.” 

Apparently there were still kind people in Lake-Town, or perhaps it was like they’d told before, that there were those who held Bard in higher regard than the Master. One of them got Bard out of his cell. He made it to the house as Sigrid was packing all of them, he got a pack of his own and then all four of them were escaping Lake-Town together. They were pursued, almost caught. It was how Bard ended with that blow to his head. As for the horses… 

“I stole them.” Sigrid admits. “We needed to get away fast! And these are the Master’s horses, I knew none would be as fast as these.” 

She was right of course. The dwarrow cannot help but admire her courage and resourcefulness. Also, the fact that she was able to find their camp at all, in the growing darkness and with only the barest comments from Bilba, Fíli and Kíli to guide her. 

It takes a while, but eventually Sigrid’s nerves calm enough for her to be willing to lay down with the rest of her family. 

“Sleep, Miss Sigrid…” Fíli whispers quietly as he takes a seat close to her head. “You all will be safe here. This I promise, as Fíli, son of Dís, sister-son of Thorin, of the Line of Durin…” 

It’s the last thing Sigrid hears before exhaustion takes her and she falls into a deep sleep. 

xXx

Bard wakes up early the following morning. He wakes up dizzy, with double vision, and is violently sick the moment he tries to sit up. Óin and Bilba work together to treat it, with lavender and rosemary oils, and some clove. He doesn’t have a concussion, which is good. Still, it takes several hours for him to recover enough to start really paying attention to what’s going on, the fact that he’s not in Lake-Town anymore, or that he’s in a dwarrow camp… 

At first he doesn’t ask any questions, not really. Satisfied with seeing his children well and safe. He takes the herbs, teas and compresses Óin and Bilba insist on giving him, and in a couple of days he’s well enough to move around without his vision going gray, feeling dizzy, or vomiting. He looks at his children, how at ease they are, how happy. It’s like they barely notice they’re in a camp, that they don’t really have a roof over their heads anymore. He hears Tilda’s laughter as she runs around with Fíli and Kíli; Bain is by the river with Bofur, who’s teaching him how to fish; Sigrid is with Bilba, who’s giving her some pointers on how to best use her small blade, in case she ever needs to defend herself again (she tried to give it back to Fíli, but he refused, insisting that she keep it, and promising to get her something better as soon as possible). 

He also starts noticing other things, like the clear rank of several of the dwarves, the fact that they’re more than just merchants, they’re warriors. And of course, there’s Thorin’s very name… It all comes to a head one evening when he hears Bilba singing quietly to his children and the younger dwarves, a song he recognizes… mostly. 

“The streams shall run in gladness,

    The lakes shall shine and burn,

All sorrow fail and sadness

    At the Mountain-king's return!” 

At first Bard says nothing, they all notice that he’s staring oddly at Bilba, but most start to believe that whatever he might be thinking, he’s chosen not to share. They’re wrong. He waits only long enough for his children to be asleep, to make sure they won’t be waking up, and then he speaks: 

“That’s not how the song goes.” He murmurs, more comment than anything else. “Or at least, that’s not how I’ve heard it sung. The beginning… that was the same, but not the end.” 

“How did it end?” Bilba asks, curious as ever. 

“And the bells shall ring in gladness,

    At the Mountain-king's return!

But all shall fail in sadness

    And the lake will shine and burn,” 

Bard recites the lines more than sing them, but it’s enough. 

“That sounds… foreboding.” Nori states bluntly. 

“Nori!” Ori cries out. 

Dori goes as far as smacking him in the back of the head. 

“What?!” The dwarf with the spiky hair-do demands. “We were all thinking it, I’m just the only one willing to say it.” 

It’s not like he’s wrong so… 

“You intend to go into the mountain.” Bard’s words, they’re not a question, and none try to pretend they are. 

“Aye,” Thorin nods solemnly. 

“And what about the dragon?” Bard demands, quietly but intensely. “If you’ve deluded yourself into believing the beast is dead, let me tell you, it is not. It is very much alive. And if you go into that mountain, if you wake it up…” He shakes his head. “All you will bring upon us will be death. Dragon-fire and ruin. If you awaken that beast, it will destroy us all.” 

“Not if we destroy it first.” Kíli states boldly. 

“Have you an idea of how to achieve that?” Bard challenges. 

“Some,” Kíli mutters mulishly. 

“We have some ideas,” Bilba offers, far more kindly. “Were you to have any suggestions, they will be welcome.” 

“I know not how to fight such a monster.” Bard shakes his head. “What I do know is that I don’t want Esgaroth to burn, the way Dale did all those years ago. I don’t want my children to suffer the same fate as our ancestor, Girion, and so many others…” 

“Something you must realize, Bard, is that this, us being here, wishing to go into that mountain, to challenge that dragon, it’s not about treasure.” When Thorin speaks, everyone quiets, his voice is soft, but strong, full of power and authority. “I shall not lie. It will be good to have all that gold and various treasures once again in our hands, not only because they belong to us and not that filthy beast, but because having them will mean that our people’s future will be secured. My wife said once, that we deserve to have a home, to have a place where we may not just survive, but also thrive. And that is exactly what I want, more than anything.” 

For the longest time no one says a thing. Bard takes everyone by surprise when he stands, he heads straight for their packs, which makes more than one dwarf tense. Bard’s pack is bigger than the others, not thicker, but longer; which is probably unsurprising considering that it holds a bow and a quiver with several arrows (Kíli has been helping make it fuller, just in case, teaching Bain how to make arrows in the process). He pulls something out then, an object almost as tall as him, made of a strange metal, black, and it seems to be absorbing the light somehow… 

“Is that…” 

Whoever starts speaking, they cannot finish it, hardly anyone dares say it, ask the question, in case they turn out to be wrong. 

“Blackarrow…” Balin and Thorin whisper, almost reverently, in unison. 

“The last of Girion’s blackarrows.” Bard states solemnly as he holds it out to Thorin. “An heirloom of my house…” 

“Indeed, you just said you’re a descendant of Girion, did you not?” Bilba says with a smile. 

When Thorin takes the offered arrow he’s almost reverential about it. It is big, not as heavy as he might have expected, but still, about as big as he’s tall, and he’s tall for a dwarf, he knows. The twists to the metal, every part of it forged so carefully, clearly the work of a master… his grandfather’s work. Thorin himself is a blacksmith, his specialty is the crafting of weapons, his best work thus far being the blades he presented to his One as a courting gift, and yet even those he does not think can compare with the work that clearly went into crafting the blackarrows. 

While Thorin wouldn’t say that it’s the first time he has hope of them achieving their objective, fulfilling his quest; he must admit that having the arrow in his hand, knowing they have something truly capable of killing a dragon, does help. 

What follows is an argument that lasts hours, a good deal of the night in fact, as man and dwarves try to come up with a workable plan. At first they keep clashing with their ideas, each of them fixated on specific details, until Bilba realizes what’s wrong and intervenes. 

“Hey!” She calls, loud enough to break the argument, but not so loud that she might wake the children. “Stop thinking of it as an arrow, think of it as a weapon.” 

Indeed. Truth be told, while it might be called a blackarrow, and been meant to be used as such, it’s much too big to be fired from any common bow. They have no wind-lances, nor access to a forge, or the materials they’d need to create one. What’s more, even if they could do it, how would they get it into the mountain? Or set it up in time to use it? They still hope to be able to slay the dragon without it ever getting out of the mountain, without it attacking anyone else. Which means they must change the way they look at it… Seeing it as a weapon is a good way to put it, for anything can be a weapon, and there’s no end of possibilities on how one can be wielded. Now all they need to do is prepare, Durin’s Day is coming… 

xXx

When Durin’s Day finally dawns it almost seems like it happens too soon. After some arguing they decide to break-up camp. Arrangements have already been made to leave the ponies near Ravenhill, close to where the river runs. There was a bit of an idea of leaving the children there as well, but the thought that, if things didn’t go according to plan, Smaug might find its way out of the mountain and attack them put pay to that. So, while a part of Bard is beyond terrified at the mere idea (and not just him), Sigrid, Bain and Tilda follow them up the stairs toward the secret entrance into the Lonely Mountain, once afternoon has passed and evening approaches. 

The idea is for the children to stay just inside the mountain, with the packs, while Bard and the Company go hunting for a dragon. Bard is the one carrying the blackarrow, not just because he’s the only one who can do so comfortably (as it’s at least no bigger than he is), but also because they all think it appropriate, for him to finish what his ancestor began… 

There’s a bit of a hiccup when the sun goes down without the door being revealed, several of the dwarrow start crying out in disbelief and horror. Kíli seems to be about to wail, when Bilba smacks him in the back of the head. 

“Shush!” She snaps. 

Kíli whines softly, rubbing at the back of his head. 

“What did you do that for auntie?” He asks, the whine clear in his voice. 

“If you stopped acting like a dwarfling you’d realize that it’s still Durin’s Day, and the light hasn’t yet gone out entirely.” Bilba points out. 

It’s true. The day has yet to end, and while the sun might have set, there’s still light in the sky, that of the moon… as if on cue, a thrush approaches. Everyone holds their breath as the little bird uses the shell of a snail to knock against the wall several times; and then the moonlight seems to hit the mountain-wall in such a way that a keyhole is revealed. 

For a moment it’s like no one’s breathing, and then Thorin steps forth, pulling at the cord hanging from his neck, and the key tied at the end of it. He slowly (ever so slowly) slips the key into the hole, turns and… there’s not a sound, but from one moment to the next a seam that wasn’t there before seems to appear as a portion of the wall swings inwards: a door. 

“Erebor…” Thorin breathes out. 

“Thorin…” Balin is the first to approach. 

“I know these walls…” The dwarrow king murmurs, voice almost hoarse. “These walls, this stone. You remember it, Balin. Chambers filled with golden light…” 

“I remember.” Balin agrees, just as quietly. 

The rest of the Company enter the mountain slowly, hands reaching out to touch the stone almost reverentially. Bilba approaches her husband slowly, pressing by his side in silent comfort. Bard and his children say nothing, just watching the group in silence, clearly realizing that this is an important moment to them. They’re eventually drawn to the carving on the wall above the door, with the throne of Erebor, and the Arkenstone sending out rays of light in all directions. 

“Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s Folk. May the heart of the mountain unite all dwarrow in defense of this home.” Bilba translates the khuzdûl of the carving for the four humans’ benefit. 

It looks like Tilda wants to say something, but Sigrid stops her. Bilba imagines that the little girl does not understand what’s so special about stone, and a mountain. It’s not what she knows, after all. Bard takes a moment to kiss all three of his children’s brows, reminding them very quietly to stay where they are, to keep safe. And then he turns to them. None of them say a word, it’s not needed (and it wouldn’t do for any careless words to end up serving as warning for the worm that they’re coming). 

They split once they make it to the treasury. Some of them, like Bilba, Fíli, Kíli and Ori look for access to the galleries, high-ground from where they might be able to throw their poisonous packets. Earlier that same day, after much consideration, Kíli broke one of the packets, mixed some oil with the powdered belladonna and covered several arrow-tips with the mixture, leaving it to dry and then very carefully returning the arrows to the quiver (Bilba had explained ad nauseam how dangerous the belladonna could be, especially in the quantities that were in those packets). 

For the longest time nothing happens. Bard and the Company walk the edges of the treasure as best they can, choosing positions, none of them quite daring to set foot on the treasure itself. Eventually it’s Nori, the most light-footed of the dwarrow, who volunteers to step forth as, if they plan on killing themselves a dragon, first they need to find it. So he starts walking on top of the mountains of gold and treasures, looking for something, anything that might point to where Smaug might be exactly. Something calls his attention at one point: a cup made of solid gold. He picks it up… Next thing he knows there are coins and jewels flying and falling every which way, and hard as he tries to keep his footing, it’s all but impossible. And then they find out what’s going on: as a huge, red dragon rises from the gold… there’s Smaug! 

Nori tries to get back on his feet as fast as he can, and when it looks like he might not be fast enough, Dori rushes the dragon with a battle cry (which isn’t easy considering that the treasure keeps moving and shifting along with Smaug). It’s a brave (if perhaps stupid) move, that achieves little as Dori’s blade hits the scales on one of Smaug’s back-legs, doing little more than bounce off (with enough force to throw the strongest off the dwarrow almost off his feet). 

When Smaug turns its attention on him, there’s yet another battle-cry, and then there’s Ori, jumping clear off one of the galleries to land on Smaug’s head! What’s more, he seems to be carrying Dwalin’s warhammer, which he promptly uses to deliver the hardest blow possible on the dragon’s snout, before Smaug moves violently enough to throw him off. Ori lands in one of the middle galleries and doesn’t get up again, no matter how much his brothers yell for him. 

“THIEVES!!!” Smaug roars. “Did you think I did not know this day would come, when a pack of canting dwarves would come crawling back to the mountain?!” 

Smaug breathes fire, which makes everyone scatter as much as they can. Dwalin deviating from his path briefly to take Ori and take him out of the line of fire (literally!). 

Fíli and Bilba start throwing their poison packs at the dragon, one after the other. Some are set on fire, but some do hit the dragon, Bilba even manages to land a couple right into Smaug’s mouth, which makes the dragon cough once or twice. She can only hope they’ll work. 

“The king under the mountain is dead.” Smaug hisses. “I took his throne. I ate his people like a wolf among sheep.” 

There are roars of fury from several dwarrow, but the attempts at attacking him have little effect. And the dragon revels on it. 

“I kill where I wish, when I wish.” Smaug continues his speech. “My armor is iron. No blade can pierce me! My teeth are swords! My claws are spears! My wings are a hurricane!” 

And then it happens, Smaug rises, wings open wide, and they can see it: the hole on its armor-like scales. The spot where Girion’s blackarrow hit true… 

“Bard!!!” Several of the dwarrow yell in unison. 

Smaug reacts to the voices, looking for who Bard might be. Knowing that the human needs an opening, Kíli starts firing his own arrows, aiming for the dragon’s face. He manages to hit Smaug’s eye at one point. The roar the beast lets out is louder than any before, enough to make the mountain shudder. And the way the eye doesn’t open again reveals that Kíli has definitely done some damage. 

“Yes!!!” Several dwarrow cheer. 

Smaug roars, shaking violently, several dwarrow go flying, even when being hit by a tail, or by the flying treasure and debris. The dragon manages to break part of the balcony Kíli’s on, too suddenly for the young dwarf to manage to escape, or brace himself, he goes down, hard. And he doesn’t get back up. 

“KÍLI!!!” Several scream at the same time. 

Bílba’s the first one to notice Smaug’s next move, the way he breathes in… he’s about to breathe fire, on Kíli!!! The hobbit doesn’t even stop to think about it, she’d taken off her cloak earlier, leaving it with Sigrid, so she needs no further preparation as she runs to the edge of her own balcony and jumps off, her wings unfurling mid-fall, just in time to allow her to glide, carrying her across the treasury and straight to were Kíli lays. She reaches the young dwarf just in time to throw herself over him, wings fully open, covering them both as best as possible. And then it’s raining fire… 

When Bilba was twenty-one the Fell Winter happened. Her parents spent that whole winter doing all they could to keep other hobbits safe, and Bilba did her part, mostly watching over those less fortunate than them, whom her parents saw fit to invite into their smial. And then there was the day when the Rivers siblings went looking for refuge with them, Bilba went out to them, and that was when they were attacked. The white wolf, even emaciated as it was, was still quite big, enough to be called monstrous by most hobbits. There was little Bilba could do, she had no weapons, no place to run, and she couldn’t abandon the two hobbits. So she followed her instincts and turned her back to the predator, opening her wings as wide as they could go and bracing herself… 

No one ever understood how what happened, did. Then again, no one has ever been able to explain fairy wings either. While most hobbit-fairy wings look like those of a butterfly, or perhaps like flowers, they’re not quite as fragile as they might seem. And Bilba’s… for all her wings might look like glass at first sight, the dwarrow weren’t wrong when they compared them to diamond. They’re strong, and powerful in ways few can comprehend. 

So it happened that, all those years ago, when a mad-with-hunger white wolf leapt towards Bilba, it crashed against her wings, and whatever power lay in them was enough to not just put the animal out of its misery, but utterly annihilate it. Similarly, when Smaug’s fire hit her wings… It's not quite it hitting a wall, but a shield, and more than that, for the magic in the fairy wings interacts with the dragon-fire in a most violent way, extinguishing it entirely! 

It’s only for a moment, yet the suddenness of it is enough to shock Smaug. Enough to give others a chance to move… 

Everything happens incredibly fast then, as Thorin throws himself at Smaug’s head, aiming a blow for its one remaining eye. There’s a second roar, even more terrifying than the last. A lot of the company rush to Bilba and Kíli, seeking to get them to safety, or as much safety as is possible with the fight going on. 

And that’s when Bard rushes in. Taking advantage of Smaug’s wild motions as it tries to shake Thorin off (who’s holding tight onto Orcrist, the blade buried deep in Smaug’s eye), he reaches Smaug’s left flank right in time, throwing the blackarrow with all his strength, as if it were a lance, the bolt flies true, straight to the space where the dragon is missing a scale, and going in, like a knife through butter. 

The dragon roars a third time, a noise so loud and horrible it threatens to deafen all who hear it. Then the noise cuts off as the great beast falls, blood pouring out of both its eyes, and the wound on its breast. 

And just like that… it’s over. Smaug, the great dragon, is dead. 

Chapter Text

Here at the end of all things. 

A broken ankle (Kíli’s), some deep bruising (practically every single dwarf) and a concussion (Bard) is the tally following the group’s confrontation with Smaug. No one’s dead, or grievously injured, and the only ones incapable of moving around under their own steam afterwards are Kíli and Bard. Even then, considering they were two of the three to deliver the greatest injuries upon the dragon, including Bard who was the one to actually kill it, none of them can say it wasn’t a fair price in the end. 

All three of Bard’s children are deeply worried about him, when the man spends the first couple of days after the battle either asleep, or being in a lot of pain, dizzy and sick by turns when awake. Óin promises them it’s normal for concussions, and dwarrow have experience treating such injuries, same as hobbits. So between him and Bilba, Bard’s in good hands. Still, neither of the three have ever seen their dad in such a condition. It’s not a matter of them realizing their father is mortal, or not-invincible; knowing Bard just helped kill a dragon… nothing could ever lessen that achievement! It’s just worry, to be expected considering how hard all their lives have been, and the fact that he’s the only family they have aside from each other. 

Between the shock, exhaustion, relief, and celebrations once everyone is convinced that Smaug is very much dead, it takes a while for any of them to become aware of the outside world again. And when they do… 

“Lake-Town is burning!” 

It’s hard to tell for sure who says it first, but in no time at all they’re all at the mountain’s gates (or what’s left of them), watching Esgaroth in the distance. There’s fire on it, is true. Lake-Town is burning

“… But all shall fail in sadness, And the lake will shine and burn.” Bilba recites, so quietly only her husband standing right beside her hears her. 

It’s not on them. Smaug never left the mountain, and yet Lake-Town is burning… it may make one wonder how flexible fate truly might be… 

It surprises no one when the people of Lake-Town start arriving to Dale in the following week. A few arrive faster, those who own boats, and managed to get out of Lake-Town in them, before the fire got too bad. 

“What should we do?” Balin asks their leaders. 

The question takes Bilba a bit by surprise, when she realizes that Balin isn’t asking only Thorin, but her as well. It’s not that she didn’t know what she’d become if… when, their quest succeeded. It’s that she’s never been interested in power, to the point that it still surprises her, the knowledge that she’s to be… that she’s already, for real, Queen of the Dwarrow… 

“What do we have that can be spared?” Bilba asks quietly. 

Because while she most definitely wants to help the humans, she will not risk the well-being of her own people, her family, for anyone. 

As it turns out, they have a lot that can be spared. Food-stuffs brought along on the journey that were never consumed (mostly thanks to Bilba’s magic allowing them to get fresh vegetables, nuts and fruits practically everywhere they went; and the boys’ talent in hunting). The children and the younger dwarrow have taken to exploring Erebor (carefully keeping away from the mines), and while there was some trauma when they came across areas where mummified corpses of those who couldn’t escape Erebor were to be found, they also found other things, like some furniture and even blankets and clothes, if not in pristine condition, at least salvageable. Sigrid and Dori get to work on that. And thus they do have quite a bit to offer the human refugees when they make it to the ruins of Dale. 

If the people from Lake-Town are surprised by their reception, and by the kindness those from Erebor extend to them, no one says a thing. At least not at first. Then several more dwarves arrive, offering their recommendations of which buildings are more structurally sound, aid in securing those that can be quicker, and starting to make plans to rebuild… that’s when they can keep quiet no more. 

“Why are you doing this?” The one to ask the question is Agnes, an old widow, and the one nominated by the rest of the survivors to serve as spoke-person. 

The Master is dead, same as Alfrid and most of the guard. The few survivors all have burns serious enough to be recovering still. 

“This…?” Glóin asks, not quite understanding the question. 

“Helping us.” Agnes clarifies. “You’ve brought us food, clothes, medicine, you’re helping put roofs over our heads. Why?” 

“Ah…” Glóin nods in understanding, though it still takes him a moment to think of the best way to answer. “We dwarrow… we know what it is like, to have nothing. No food, no home, no clothes but the ones on our backs. To have those that depend on us while we have nothing to offer them. It’s not something we’d wish on our worst enemies.” Not even on the elves! “At some of our lowest points we were blessed by Mahal with help, from the most unexpected individuals at times.” Like the hobbits. “We can do nothing more than do the same when given the opportunity to do so.” 

Eventually the Company finds out what it is that happened in Lake-Town, exactly. First of all, no orcs were involved; second: it was all the Master’s fault… Apparently, even though the man publicly decried Bard’s and the elves’ statements about the danger they were all in, he wasn’t quite so foolish as to believe that they were truly untouchable. So he made plans to flee Lake-Town. He, Alfrid, and some of their most loyal sycophants. They took their packs, food, and as much gold and treasure as they could put in a couple of boats. Then, to ensure that their departure would remain unnoticed, they sought to create a ‘distraction’… The distraction? Fire. 

Suffice it to say, things got out of control really fast. Lake-Town burned and burned fast. Because he really was no good at making plans, the Master ended up trapped in the fire, Alfrid and the other minions with him. The guards who actually cared for the people made an effort to evacuate as many as they possibly could, many of them ending with burns, from lesser to serious, a couple even died. The Captain of the Guard: Braga, was among those with more serious burns, but expected to make a full recovery; while his wife too was with the healers due to some smoke inhalation, but nothing to worry about. 

The burn victims end up being the ones to try one of Óin’s experimental treatments, a burn ointment. It works perfectly, better than anything else the men have tried before, and just like that the hopes for the recovery of those hurt go up. 

So it’s perhaps not entirely surprising that when an elven army shows up two days later, with the intention of marching past Dale and to Erebor, to claim what treasure they might be able to, the humans refuse to help with their plan. 

“We’re aware of who’s been here for us, in our hour of greatest need.” Agnes explains to the baffled elf. “And with all due respect my lord, it was not you.” She shakes her head. “You intend to lay claim to things that do not belong to you. I dare say you’ll find it harder than you expect.” 

She’s right of course. By the time Thranduil and his vanguard make it to the mountain proper the entrance has been barred. 

“Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?” Fíli demands. 

He’s standing at the top of the battlements, right in the middle. Kíli remains as close as he can, sitting on a boulder since he cannot walk on a broken ankle. A few feet away and in the opposite direction Thorin and Bilba stand, in sight of the elves but without taking center stage. They know Fíli can handle a few elves. 

“Why does the king under the mountain fence himself in? Like a robber in his hole.” A blonde elf at Thranduil’s left, his advisor probably, asks. 

“Why does the king of the woodland realm come to the mountain, at the front of an army, without invitation or even notice?” Fíli asks in return. 

“I came to reclaim something of mine.” Thranduil states in an almost darkly. 

Thorin growls quietly, barely kept calm by his wife’s touch on his arm. Fíli for his part can barely keep from face-palming. He’s heard about the white gems Thranduil wants, the necklace he commissioned and King Thrór never gave him. Is it all because of those? Is the elven king truly threatening war on Erebor over a necklace?! 

Fíli’s still trying to think of something to say. While he’d have no problem whatsoever just handing over the necklace and being done with it. He knows his uncle won’t go for it, not in such circumstances. It’s not that they want war, but it’s the principle of the thing, they cannot give in to those who’d use threats and violence to get what they want. Thankfully, before he needs to really say something, another arrives, breaking the tense moment.

“Father!” A loud voice calls. 

It’s Legolas, on horseback, with Tauriel following close behind on her own horse. 

“Legolas…” Thranduil begins, a warning in his tone. 

“Father you cannot do this!” Legolas yells at him. “You cannot threaten war over some jewels.” 

“They’re more than just jewels!” Thranduil snarls. “And whatever else may be, they’re mine!” 

Kíli wants to say something about how he thought only dwarves were susceptible to the gold-sickness, but he bites his tongue. He knows it’s not the time. 

The elven father and son are still arguing among themselves in Sindarin (not realizing that some among them, Bilba included, understand every word), when another surprise comes, as a boy arrives at a run from Dale. 

“King Oakenshield, Queen Adamantine!” He calls loudly. “I’ve been asked by Mistress Agnes to pass on the message, that the survivors of Lake-Town do not in any way condone the elven King’s plans and designs on the mountain. We the refugees of Dale are not a part of this.” 

“That is, indeed, good to know, young one.” Thorin, having been addressed, steps forth to reply to the boy. “Let Mistress Agnes know that the message has been received, and the loyalty of the refugees of Dale is appreciated.” 

The boy goes red in embarrassment at everyone paying him such attention but he manages to execute a somewhat clumsy bow before turning and running back the way he came. 

It’s at that point that Thranduil seems to realize the image he’s cutting, threatening war over treasure. He mutters something else under his breath before turning and going away. 

Legolas exhales loudly and starts following, clearly intending to argue further with them. Tauriel makes to follow them both, yet before she’s moved more than a few feet Thranduil turns to look at her over his shoulder, saying something short and sharp in Sindarin. Something that freezes her in her spot, making Legolas stare in disbelief at his father. Then Thranduil continues his trek, away from Erebor’s gates. 

“Father!” Legolas yells, in Westron. “You cannot do that!” 

He says something more quietly to his friend, before rushing after his father. Yet Tauriel still isn’t moving, just sitting on her horse, watching Thranduil’s vanguard file after him in silence. 

“What…?” The dwarrow are in shock over what just transpired. 

“What just happened?” Fíli hates not knowing. 

“What did he say?!” Kíli wants to know. 

All the dwarrow turn to Bilba, knowing she understands Sindarin. She does, and they know it’s gotta be bad, judging by the way she’s just staring at the spot where Thranduil was, hand covering her mouth and looking absolutely horrified. 

“Bilba…?” Thorin asks, quietly. “What did the” he curses in khuzdûl under his breath “say?” 

“He… he exiled her.” Bilba murmurs softly, heartbroken. “For hunting down the orcs when he refused to do so, for wanting to protect the innocent when he had no interest in doing so… he’s taken away her title, her duty, even her home…” 

The whole Company explodes in insults against the elven King at that. For someone, especially a King, to punish one of their own for caring… It's ridiculous! 

Kíli is the one who says nothing, just staring at Tauriel in silence, wanting so much to be able to do or say something to comfort her. Yet what can he possibly say or do? Never has Kíli felt more impotent than he feels in that moment, and he hates it. 

xXx

It’s Tilda who finds the Arkenstone. With everyone else so busy doing this and that, the little girl is bored. She’s heard all the stories, about the wonders to be found in the treasury, though to a child as young as she is, she cannot understand what’s so wondrous about all that gold and gems (at first she might have been as fascinated as everyone else, but eventually it became boring). Perhaps it’s that she’s too young to understand the value of all that treasure; perhaps it’s simply that she understands what’s truly valuable (or so Bilba would claim). The Arkenstone’s the first gem that truly calls her attention, because while it seems white at first sight, the more she looks at it, the more it seems to show different colors, and it glows… 

“Look!” She yells, stone in hand as she runs towards where everyone else is. “Look what I found! The pretty stone glows! Like the one in the picture on the wall!” 

It’s the last part that calls the dwarrow’s attention. They were all there when Balin explained to the children what the carving on the wall, over the secret entrance, represented. 

“The Arkenstone…” 

It’s hard to tell who realizes the truth first, but in moments they’re all there, gathered around Tilda, who’s holding it out to them. 

“Look,” she repeats. “Isn’t it pretty?” 

“It is.” Thorin speaks up, gently taking the gem from the child’s hands. 

He spends a handful of seconds admiring the stone, thinking about everything that’s happened, everything he and all of his people have been through, and how they’ve gotten to this point. All the stone represents, he also remembers what his wife said one day: 

“I will never understand how your kingship can depend on a bloody stone!” She was particularly vexed that day, and still… 

“It’s the heirloom of my people,” Thorin had tried to explain to her. “A gift from Mahal…” 

“And still, in the end, just a pretty stone.” Bilba retorted sharply. “Are you not of Durin’s Line? And wasn’t he one of the Seven Fathers? Are you telling me that if some completely unknown dwarf, with no name and no house and no reputation, were to show up right now with that stone in his hand, he’d be named King?” 

It had been until she said that, til she put it in those terms, that he realized how utterly ridiculous the whole idea was. HE is the King of Durin’s Folk, He and no other dwarf! 

Also, and while he might not have admitted it at the time, he’s never liked the Arkenstone much. In his mind the stone will forever be connected to the loss of his grandmother, his grandfather’s fall into gold-madness; and the coming of Smaug. Whether there’s any connection between the events or not matters not in the end. The fact remains that he does not like the Arkenstone. And still, he needs it. He needs it because there are those who might refuse to recognize his authority otherwise, no matter how ridiculous it might seem to his wife, and to him. Though he is starting to wonder if perhaps they wouldn’t be better off without such individuals… 

“Very pretty indeed,” Thorin adds for good measure, before extending one hand and caressing Tilda’s hair. “Though no prettier than you, Miss Tilda!” 

The child lets out a squeal of delighted laughter before running again. 

“Balin,” Thorin’s voice is more solemn as he speaks again. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?” The elder dwarf asks formally. 

That makes Thorin do a double-take. 

“No, no titles from you Balin, nor from anyone else in the Company.” Thorin shakes his head. “You all… you’re the ones who believed in me. Who followed me, without need for a bloody stone.” He ignores his wife’s quiet snort behind him. “You’re my friends, my kidizbuhâ …” 

There’s some quiet cheering, and even a few groans (probably from those who aren’t eager at the prospect of having to deal with the nobles in the future). 

“I want you to keep this for me, for us.” Thorin gets back to the point, handing Balin the Arkenstone. “Later… later we’ll see what we do with it.” 

If he can, he’ll see the stone returned to the mountain. Perhaps he can spin it as them returning the mountain its heart, or something like that? There was a time when it’d have felt impossible. When he truly believed that he needed that stone to be king. Now he knows better. Or perhaps it’s more that he’s come to realize that those who won’t accept him without the stone, aren’t subjects he’s interested in having anyway… 

xXx

When the rumors start most don’t notice them, and those who do, don’t pay them much attention. Regardless, those same rumors eventually reach Thorin and Bilba, and they cannot ignore them, not with who exactly is involved. 

“Fíli?” Thorin calls him one day. “A word please.” 

The blonde has no idea what’s going on, but he goes. 

“Some rumors have reached Bilba and myself,” Thorin explains to his nephew. “We heard them just today, though apparently they’ve been going around for the last few days.” 

Fíli freezes, and Bilba has a feeling that he knows exactly what they’re about to say. 

“You know what the rumors are about.” The hobbit says. 

It’s not a question, something her husband notices immediately. 

“Yes… I…” Fíli runs a hand through his blonde hair, pulling slightly at a couple of his braids. 

If that doesn’t tell his uncle and aunt that he’s nervous, nothing could. 

“Fíli, irakdashat ,” Thorin calls as he places a strong hand on Fíli’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, know you can tell me.” 

So Fíli tells him. Tells them both. About the whispers in the refugee camp in Dale, about Bard and his children, but especially about Sigrid. The way the people kept questioning all three children’s safety, and the older girl’s virtue… It perhaps ought to come as no surprise that Fíli would take it upon himself to give a reason for Sigrid and her siblings’ continued presence in Erebor, beyond Bard’s concussion. He claimed her as his betrothed. 

Is Sigrid aware? Yes, she was there when Fíli first made the claim, and she not just didn’t deny it, but confirmed it. Does Bard know? Not quite yet, he’s still recovering from the blow to the head and Fíli hasn’t had the time to meet with him. Thorin orders Fíli to make that his priority. No matter what else might happen in the future, Bard needs to know. 

“I… I know this might not be what you wanted, irak’adad .” Fíli begins quietly. 

“It’s… I have nothing against Miss Sigrid, Fíli.” Thorin assures his nephew. “I do believe her to be a remarkable young woman.” 

“But you’d have preferred for her to be a dwarrowdam?” The blonde guesses. 

Bilba’s faster than her husband, smacking the young dwarrow in the back of the head, to which he lets out a cry that’s more drama than real pain. 

“As should be clear enough, my own wife is very much not a dwarrowdam.” Thorin points out. “She’s still my One. The other half of me.” He shakes his head. “So just to make it clear. I care not for the race of who you might choose. I just wish it had been a choice made out of love, and not a desire to protect…” 

“It… wasn’t just that.” Fíli eventually admits, then takes a deep breath before finally saying the rest: “She’s my One.” 

And well, that’s that. 

xXx

The Battle of Five Armies, it’ll come to be known as. The battle that involved the orcs of Gundabad and the goblins of the Misty Mountains, against the united forces of the Elves of Mirkwood, the Men of Lake-Town and the Dwarves (an army from the Iron Hills lead by their Lord: Dáin, as well as Thorin and his Company) Once enough time has passed for the historians to be able to collect the stories, for those telling said stories to be able to remember all they saw and heard, and said and did without losing themselves to the dark memories. And yet, no matter how much time might pass, there are some things none present that day shall be able to forget, no matter how long they might live. 

They first find out about the coming enemy a few days after the arrival of Thranduil and his own army to the plains before the Lonely Mountain. When Gandalf arrives on the back of a Giant Eagle, calling out dire warnings about goblins and orcs coming from both the north and the south, and the need for everyone to put aside their differences and ally… only to find that at least two of the three races are working together rather amiably. In fact, some might even say that all three races, as Thranduil is the only one still being in any way antagonizing; most of the other elves by then having taken to following Legolas’s lead and doing their best to help the refugees where they can (and turning a blind eye when the humans begin sharing the food the elves gave them, with those in the mountain). 

Gandalf’s clearly surprised when, following his warning, there’s a rush of movement as the men who overheard Gandalf’s warning send a runner to Erebor, to warn the dwarves about the coming threat. Not an hour later Thorin and Balin arrive at Dale. 

“ Tharkûn !” Thorin calls as she enters the city. “What is this I hear about enemy armies coming?” 

“You must set aside your petty grievances, all of you.” Gandalf states authoritatively. “War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re ALL in mortal danger!” 

“We have no grievances with the elves, they seem to have grievances with me and mine, or at least Thranduil does.” Thorin points out evenly. “The men and my Company have been working together quite well over the last week.” 

There are general nods all around, which seems to confuse Gandalf somewhat. 

“What are you talking about?” Braga asks the wizard, finally awake and properly on the way to recovery, has been trying to assume some sort of leadership among the refugees. 

“I can see you know nothing of wizards.” Thranduil states disdainfully, pretending like Thorin didn’t say a thing while unknowingly confirming every word and vague accusation. “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes a storm is just a storm.” 

“Not this time.” Gandalf denies. “Armies of orcs are on the move. And these are fighters! They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?” Thranduil is clearly still not convinced. 

“Because we forced him!” The Grey Wizard snaps. “We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor; Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position.” 

Thorin chafes at the suggestion that they were supposed to fail but says nothing. It’s not like he isn’t aware that the quest was a long shot from the start. They all know it, knew it from the start. Yet the fact remains that they did it. They won. 

“This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lothlórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall!”

No one likes the sound of that. 

“These orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir,” Thranduil of course has to press. “Where are they?”  

It’s clear the elven king doesn’t believe Gandalf’s dire warning. Thorin decides he doesn’t really care. He has his priorities. Which is how he ends up ordering his Company into the mountain, as well as offering Braga, Agnes and their own people a place. It’s no surprise when Braga immediately commits himself and what men are sufficiently recovered to the fight. With the dwarves having found Dale’s old armory during their excursions they are even able to arm themselves properly before evacuating to the Mountain. Agnes for her part offers herself and the women and children to help in the infirmary, kitchens, with clean-up, whatever might be needed. Tauriel, who was offered a place in Dale following her exile from Mirkwood and chose to accept it, at least for the time being, goes with them. 

Thranduil announces his departure, along with that of his men. Or at least that’s his plan, until his son informs him he’s staying… 

Dáin is the last to arrive before the enemy shows itself, along with 500 dwarven warriors from the Iron Hills. While Dáin denied Thorin assistance on the quest (mostly under pressure from his council) he does care greatly for his cousin. Which is why he had his very best warriors on stand-by for months, waiting for the moment when Thorin would summon the armies to help. Of course he was expecting the call to arms to be regarding a dragon, not orcs and goblins; is completely shocked to learn that the worm is dead already, and even more so when finding out about the current state of matters between dwarrow, humans and elves… 

“Just what in Durin’s name has been going on here, cousin?!” He demands when he’s told the current state of affairs. 

“You’d know if you’d been willing to help us, rather than abandon your family at their hour of greatest need.” Fíli states, somewhat bluntly. 

“Fíli!” Bilba cries out in a chastising tone. 

Thorin calls his name as well, though no one misses the fact that while there’s a hint of a warning in his tone, he doesn’t deny what his nephew just stated, nor does he give order for him to apologize for the words said. 

Dáin for his part says nothing, just bows his head penitently. He also stops questioning Thorin’s decision to ally with the men, and to allow Tauriel, Legolas and the elves following him into the mountain as well. 

xXx

Turns out that while the entrance to the Lonely Mountain has been barred, it’s not impossible to enter… if one knows how to. The stones having been arranged in such a way as to form a half-concealed staircase. The smallest children, the elderly and those infirm (or injured) might not be as capable of using it, but the dwarrow arrange a pulley system to essentially carry them into the mountain without needing to bring down what will very much become a protection against their enemies, once the battle’s begun. 

Preparations are made for the battle, volunteers that will be helping the healers; even those who know nothing at all of medicine can be quickly taught to handle herbs, prepare poultices. The children are recruited to prepare bandages and carry water as needed. Several dwarrow work together to light one of the greater forges, even without working, it’ll help keep the inside of the mountain warm, and to have a source of heat for warm water among other things. 

Kíli does not like learning that he won’t be joining the battle. Though deep down he knows he can’t, his broken ankle would make him a liability on the field. Still, he gets as many arrows as he possibly can from the armory and sets himself up on the battlements. Intent on aiding as much as he possibly can from there (if nothing else he’ll be able to give cover for the wounded who might need to seek refuge in the mountain). 

Bard himself, while fully awake and moving by now, hasn’t fully recovered. Still getting double vision, dizzy spells and even intense headaches at times. Óin and Bilba have given him herbs to treat the symptoms, but for the most part he’ll have to let things run their course. That does mean though that he won’t be on the field either. Instead joining Kíli on the battlements, his own bow and arrows at hand (there’s no doubt that his children at least feel a measure of relief knowing their dad won’t be out there; even as Sigrid cannot help the sense of guilt that she can be happy about that, while others aren’t so fortunate). 

One thing does bring surprise though, and it’s when Tauriel approaches Kíli in the evening, once they’ve all settled inside the mountain. 

“I believe this belongs to you.” She says quietly, pulling something from one of her pockets, and placing it on the hand he raises instinctively. 

It’s his runestone. The token his mother carved for him, and gave him the day the Company left Ered Luin, to serve as a reminder of her love, and Kíli’s promise to return to her… Kíli’s absolutely speechless. He mourned the loss of the stone, when he realized he’d lost it, and while Fíli promised they’d go back and look for it, truth is that with everything that’s happened since, and the battle coming to them, he didn’t think there was any chance he’d find it… and to think he didn’t have to, because someone else found it for him… 

“Thank you.” He whispers quietly. “You cannot know what this means… just… thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Tauriel bows her head with a small smile. “Will you tell me what it is?” She asks after a moment, then revises: “You don’t have to! Of course, if you don’t want to. But… I am curious.” 

For a moment Kíli considers making a joke out of it, claiming that it’s a magic talisman and that anyone who touches it other than him will be cursed… but he pushes the idea aside right away. It’s not right. Tauriel has done him a great favor, giving it back to him. She didn’t have to. She didn’t have to pick it up when she saw it either, but she did. She deserves an honest answer from him, so that’s what Kíli gives her: 

“It’s a token.” He tells her softly, rubbing the engravings gently with the pad of his thumb.  “A runestone. My mother gave it to me so I’d remember my promise.”

“What promise?” Tauriel asks, seemingly drawn by his answer. 

“That I will come back to her.” The dwarf answers promptly, then shrugs a bit as he adds: “She worries. She thinks I’m reckless.” 

“Are you?” Tauriel asks, with an arch of her delicate brow. 

He wonders if he’s the only one who suddenly remembers that moment, during the fight near Lake-Town, when he lacked a weapon and she threw him one of her knives… the way one of her hands reach instinctively for that very blade seems to answer that question. 

“Nah.” He answers eventually, making a show of throwing the runestone into the air a few times and catching it again. 

At least until he misses a catch and then almost ends up sprawled on the ground in an attempt to catch it before it hits the rocks. Tauriel’s hands catching it instead in the nick of time. 

Neither Kíli nor Tauriel know how it happens exactly, but once they start talking… they just keep doing it. Until late into the night. And that night, for the first time since she got exiled (longer, even) she doesn’t feel quite so alone… 

xXx

There’s one sole point of contention between Thorin and Bilba before the battle. It’s not her participation in it. That argument they had and took to its very limits before they ever left the Shire. Bilba reminding him of their wedding vows, of the promise they made to walk whatever path Fate chose for them, hand in hand, together. Thorin knows that the reason some dams, like his sister, Glóin’s wife, Bombur’s, and others did not join the Company wasn’t lack of belief in him, or any lack of desire to be part of the Quest, but rather that there were those (like their children, or those back in Ered Luin in general) who needed them more. 

No, the point of contention is in regards to armor. 

“Thorin, I understand you want me protected, I do, but I cannot possibly wear this!” Bilba says. 

“Why not?” Her husband demands. “It’d help keep you safe.” 

“This armor was made for dwarrow, it’s much too heavy for a hobbit like me.” Bilba points out. “And besides, even if you could find chainmail light enough that the weight wouldn’t be too much, what about my wings? You know they’re my greatest asset, not just to allow me to move, and fly, but as protection. You know how strong, how powerful my wings are.” 

Thorin knows. They all do. After seeing them be hit by dragonfire and not just endure it, but the way the magic in the wings interacted with the power in the dragonfire… it was that which gave them the opening needed to move against Smaug once and for all. Thorin knows Bilba’s right and he hates it. He wishes that he could lock his beloved in his old quarters inside the mountain and know she’ll stay put until the battle’s over and they’ve won; or better yet, that he could have convinced her to stay in the Shire, or in Ered Luin with Dís and the others… Then again, if Bilba were the kind of dam who allowed that, then she wouldn’t be his wife, his One, would she? 

“You will stay with me.” Thorin states, half-order, half-pleading. “Tomorrow, or whenever the enemy comes. You will stay with me, by my side, at all times.” 

“I will.” Bilba assures him. 

“Mahal guard you,” Thorin presses his forehead to hers, almost tight enough to hurt. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you.” 

“He’ll guard us both.” Bilba states. “Listen to me Thorin Oakenshield. We will fight, and we will win. And then we will get started on the rest of our lives, have a family, look after our people. We will live and we will thrive. You hear me?” 

“I hear you marlelê …” He whispers against her hair. 

They stay there for a long time, just holding each other tight, praying to Mahal, and the Green Lady, and every other Valar, that things will go well. 

xXx

Bilba has known for a while now that nothing in real life is like in the books she used to read. She might have thought so once, when she was much younger, before meeting Thorin, before her parents created BCS even! She never stopped loving those books, never stopped reading them. She understood though, that they weren’t the absolute truth. And that was alright. Because most people don’t want to know the absolute truth of things. Even those who claim to be scholars, to have an interest in things like history, there are things they don’t really care to know about. Like the waiting. So many books tell stories of so many battles and wars. None ever talk about the waiting. After one has prepared as much as one possibly can (when preparations are even possible at all!) having to wait for the enemy to come. The tension, the worry, the stress… a part of Bilba wonders if the wait might not be the worst part of it all… It’s not like she expects the battle to be easier, or easy in any way at all. But somehow the waiting, the not knowing, just seems worse. 

And then the time to do battle comes… 

So much chaos, and mayhem, blood and gore, pain and grief. The likes of which most of those present there that day have never seen before and, hopefully, never will again. The battle has its memorable moments, starting simply from the fact that it has warriors from three races, fighting (and dying) together side by side, in an alliance the likes of which hasn’t been seen on Arda since the Battle against Sauron at the end of the Second Age… 

It all begins with the rumbling, the earth beneath everyone’s feet seems to shift. Many of those present do their best to track the origin of the sound even as it gets louder, eyes eventually focusing on a wide hill, some distance away from both the mountain and Dale, towards the east. 

“Were-worms!” Gandalf seems to recognize the sound first. 

Massive worms, hundreds of feet long and dozens of feet thick, break through the rocks right then. Their mouths are the picture of nightmares, essentially serving as giant drilling machines, strong enough to crush the toughest rocks in their jaws. What’s even worse, behind the huge worms comes the enemy. Hundreds upon hundreds of goblins, orcs and wargs follow. 

Thranduil, who’s spent the entire morning trying to persuade his son to leave with him, seems to realize about then that the time for departure has passed. He says nothing as he watches his son give orders to the elves who’ve chosen to follow him, the ca… former captain of the guard, on his heels. And what can he do but stand there and wait? Much as he might hate his son’s choices, he won’t leave him to his fate, he won’t lose Legolas the way he lost his mother! 

The dwarrow take formation before the gates of Erebor: Thorin in the middle, Orcrist in hand. On his right is Fíli, his heir, twin-swords ready (and many more knives on his person); on his left Bilba, in a dress of the same style as usual, only with a golden bodice, black skirt and sleeves. From a thick belt, on one side of her waist hangs Sting, on the other two of her throwing knives, two more in sheathes that are part of the vambraces she wears, and the last two strapped to her calves, under her skirt. The rest of the company (save Kíli) are in a loose half-circle around them, leaving Dáin to stand at the front of his own army. 

Bilba can tell Dáin isn’t entirely satisfied with the state of affairs. Probably would have preferred to be allowed to be part of their formation. Bilba cares little. The Company is making a point. Thorin has already explained that they will be his council. Whatever the nobles in the Iron Hills and Ered Luin might believe, choices have been made, and everyone will have to live with them. For good or ill… 

Azog yells something in the dark tongue of Mordor, no one can really understand it, but they don’t need to, the basics become clear enough as the enemy army marches forth. 

“ Du Bekâr !” Thorin calls loudly. 

“To battle!” Bilba yells as she allows her wings to unfurl on her back. 

The sight catches briefly the attention of those who’ve never seen them, truly seen her before. Though the fact that none in the Company so much as react, quickly tells them that her having wings is nothing new to them. Perhaps now some will begin to understand and accept why she’s called Queen Adamantine… then again, she’s still not a dwarrowdam, so who knows? 

“To battle!!!” Fíli and the rest of the Company take on the cry. 

And so the battle begins… 

So much happens. Things both wonderful and terrible. Efforts made, blood and tears spilled, alliances formed… There are some moments that will forever stand out, like pieces, flashes of memory, trapped in the amber of time… 

Like when Tauriel temporarily loses hold of her blades and finds herself surrounded; her bow broken by a goblin when she’s forced to try and use it as a blunt weapon (as she has no more arrows), yet right as she braces for pain, injury and perhaps even death, instead the enemies around her start falling one by one in quick succession, each and every one to arrows fired from Erebor’s battlements, by Kíli.  

Once the goblins are dead Tauriel gets the chance to breathe for a moment, picking up her blades. She turns her face and whole attention to the mountain, just for an instant, saluting. Before turning her back and returning to battle. She’ll have to thank Kíli properly once the battle’s over. She’s not dying in this place, in this fight, not now that she might have finally found something worth living for! 

There’s Bofur, who somehow manages to climb onto one of the monstrous trolls, whose arms have been encased in metal that the enemy is using to bring down people and walls alike; taking control of the creature and turning it on the other trolls and orcs. It’s not easy, and there’s a bit of a learning curve, but he manages. Also, it’s fun! 

At Bilba’s suggestion, Gandalf throws several of his ‘fireworks’ into the tunnel one of the gigantic earth-worms made. Narya allows him not just to ensure that the fireworks won’t blow until he’s gotten well away, but it also helps make the explosion strong enough to not only destroy the creature itself, but also bring down the tunnel its created, burying dozens (perhaps hundreds) of goblins and orcs under dirt and stone. 

Most of the Company does their best to stick together, and while they have a number of near misses, like when Glóin almost gets skewered by one of the goblins, only to be saved by Legolas, before the elf keeps moving. Or when Ori saves (again) Dwalin from getting killed, the little scribe still has Dwalin’s war-hammer, swinging it around like it weighs nothing, showing that while he might be small his strength is truly something. And especially Bifur, whose broken ax gets unexpectedly dislodged from his head while head-butting an orc (no one knows how it’s possible but Bifur not only continues fighting, he recovers the ability to speak Westron too!). 

In the days preceding the battle Thorin, Bilba and the rest of the Company long debated the merits and risks of going after Azog once the battle began. ‘Cutting off the head of the snake’ Thorin called it. Legolas’s announcement of a second army coming from the north put paid to those intentions, at least initially. Once the actual battle is under way, the need for such actions is made clear, so the best possible plan is made: Thorin believes he must go after Azog, Bilba refuses to leave his side so she’s going with him. They refuse to take Fíli with them, instead leaving him to stand as representative of the Line of Durin (which he doesn’t much like but neither would he much like being so far away from his brother, and Kíli would hate it as well). Dáin insists on accompanying them instead, as does Dwalin. Balin commandeers one of the Iron Hills’ war-chariots, and off they go. 

The complication to their plan though, comes when they arrive to Ravenhill, and after storming the half-ruined watch-tower there, bringing down the flags and killing any and all orcs they can find (and having to contend with dire-bats as well!) they realize Azog isn’t there anymore, if indeed he ever was. 

“Where…?” Dáin begins. 

“Fíli…” Bilba blurts out, a horrifying realization hitting her. 

Azog has threatened to destroy the Line of Durin, and with Fíli in such a visible location, at the gates of Erebor… 

Dwarrow and hobbit turn towards the edge of the cliff on Ravenhill, and Erebor in the distance, despairing, knowing they will never make it back in time to warn Fíli, unless… 

“Go,” Is all Thorin says. “Fly, mesmelê , fly!” 

Promises were made and yet… and yet they must protect their family! So with that in mind Bilba nods once, before running to the edge of the cliff and diving straight off, flapping her wings once, twice, and letting the currents carry her towards Erebor’s gates as fast as possible. Time is of the essence, lives are on the line! 

The most heart-stopping moment, where Thranduil’s concerned, comes when he bears witness to his son almost taking a blow to the head, from none other than Bolg, Azog’s cursed spawn. Legolas manages to move in the nick of time, thus keeping his head, though the mace hits his shoulder instead, hard enough to wrench it, if not actually breaking the bone. The follow-up attack is almost enough to kill him nonetheless, and would have if it weren’t for the twin swords that are suddenly there, blocking it. 

It’s Fíli, one of the youngest dwarrow, and whom the elven King knows to be related in some way to the King Under the Mountain. The blonde dwarf manages to not just block the attack against Legolas, but his own follow-up leads to the orc losing its head. Regretfully, he pays for it with a deep injury to his flank. 

That moment, watching his only son almost get killed, wakes Thranduil up like nothing else possibly could have. The realization that his son, Valadhiel’s son almost died before his very eyes, and there was nothing he could do! What’s more, a dwarf, someone from that line he’s so despised for so long, was the one to save his beloved son! While Thranduil himself did nothing but stand there! That makes up his mind, as the elven King climbs on his elk, then he unsheathes his sword and rushes into battle. While he makes an effort not to call attention to the fact, he still makes a point to put himself in the path of the orcs and his son (and the dwarf who saved him), ensuring none will be able to reach them while their injuries make them vulnerable. 

Neither elf nor dwarf royal move for several seconds, just watching the corpse of their foe and getting their breath back. 

“What now?” Legolas eventually thinks to ask. 

“Now we make our way to the mountain.” Fíli states, grimacing when even just turning around is enough to send a spasm of pain throughout him. “Much as I might hate to admit it, neither of us are in the right condition to keep doing battle.” 

Legolas doesn’t like it much, but he knows the dwarf to be right. His shoulder hurts something awful, he can barely even move it! So after making sure that there are no enemies too close, the two start making their way towards Erebor’s gates. Thankfully they aren’t too far away and manage to make it there in a fairly short time. 

It gets a bit tricky, to get Legolas up the concealed steps and into the safety of the mountain, but they manage. The real trouble comes when Fíli tries to follow but finds himself accosted by goblins before he can do so. The blonde moves fast, throwing knives at his enemies, though the motion of his right arm causes pain to rush through him (expected, as his injury is on his right flank). The worst part comes when he runs out of blades, with two goblins still too close for him to be able to climb safely. And then the most unexpected thing happens: as a knife flies through the air in an inelegant arc, embedding itself in one of said goblins’ heads. Fíli reacts instinctively, pulling the blade out of the goblin as it falls dead and using it to cut the throat of the other enemy approaching him. 

The dwarf takes a moment to just… breathe. Then turns and climbs the temporary gate as fast as he can with his injury. It wouldn’t do to have more enemies corner him before he can make it to safety. When he reaches the top he turns, looking for Legolas, or his brother, or even Bard, intending to thank whoever of them helped him there at the end. Only, as he realizes the moment he turns, the one standing there, looking straight at him, it’s not an elf, or a dwarf, or even a man: it’s a girl, a young woman… 

“Sigrid…” The name practically gets punched out of Fíli. 

It’s then that he realizes: the blade in his hand? It’s one of his own, the very one he placed in Sigrid’s hand when they left Lake-Town… 

And then, the absolutely last thing anyone could have ever expected happens. As a loud, deep soul-rending shriek rips through the night: a dwarven cry… it comes from the mouth of none other than the King Under the Mountain, as his wife and queen is shot out of the sky… 

Chapter Text

All I take with me. 

The Battle of Five Armies ended with the death of Azog the Defiler, at the hands of none other than Thorin Oakenshield. Though the King Under the Mountain barely paid the event any mind, his whole focus being on reaching his fallen wife, who laid on a ground covered in snow and tiny flowers no one knew the name of, in between Ravenhill and the Lonely Mountain, a dark, orcish arrow piercing her chest… 

A week later Gandalf finally manages to slip into the Guest Apartments, on the Eastern Side of the mountain. They're not the Royal Apartments, but they were among the easiest to clean; also, they have access to a terrace, which means wind and sun for their hobbit-queen. The moment Óin was able to promise Thorin that Bilba could be moved without her life being put in (more) danger, they got her there. Arrangements were made to ensure she’d never be alone, that someone would always be keeping her company, usually one of the Company, though Tilda, Bain and Sigrid volunteered to spend time with her as well. 

Thorin hasn’t been neglecting his duties. He knows Bilba well enough to know she’d hate that. So he makes a point to attend to his duties as King, and at the same time spend time by her bedside. Fíli and Kíli have really helped on that front, stepping forth as Princes, as his heirs, taking on as many duties as they can to ensure their uncle has time to spend with his wife, to eat and rest as well. 

The first couple of nights were the worst, not knowing if she’d live or not. Much as his nephews and the Company tried to reassure him that Bilba was strong, Thorin couldn’t help but be beyond terrified. He’d already lost so much… (his mother, grandmother, grandfather, father, his little-brother, friends, family, so many of his people, he couldn’t lose her too!). After the second night Óin seemed quite certain that she was making a recovery: 

“She’s past the worst of it now.” The healer told the Company. “She’s no longer bleeding. The outer bleeding we controlled pretty quickly in fact; despite the seriousness of the injury, we got to her pretty fast, and we had the means to treat her. We also discovered that even with an arrow to the chest, she didn’t bleed as bad as it originally seemed. The blood-red flowers that were under her? They were already red, according to the elf-girl, Kíli's friend, they’re called Seregon, which means ‘blood of stone’, grimly appropriate, if you think about it.” Óin shakes his head. “It was the inside that worried us at first. But that’s been fixed by now too. Despite how bad her fall was, no bones were broken. It seems like the tip of one of her wings was slightly damaged, but it was minimal. Of course, I cannot know if the wing will heal or not, or how much that will truly affect her in the long run.” He shrugs, and truly, no one knows much about her wings; not even she. “I’ve checked her skull, no fractures there either. If the fall caused her any damage, it’s not visible. And… and that’s it.” 

“Now what?” Kíli asked, tense. 

“Now we wait.” Óin admitted. “At this point, that's all we can do.” 

Almost a week later they’re still waiting. And Bilba remains unconscious. 

Gandalf finds Thorin sitting by his wife’s bedside, in his hands a small golden harp as he plays for her softly. Óin believes that even unconscious as she is Bilba might be somewhat aware, it’s why everyone’s made a point of talking to her whenever they visit, telling her about their day, how everything’s going. Thorin sometimes feels like he can almost hear her reply. He knows it’s not real, that it’s just him, knowing his beloved as well as he does, and yet… there’s always that tiny bit of hope that it will be her… 

“What are you doing here Tharkûn ?” Thorin asks gruffly as he stops playing abruptly. 

“I… ah… well I’m visiting Bilba of course.” Gandalf hesitates just the tiniest bit. 

“You were barred from this room, from the entirety of these apartments, truly,” Thorin states firmly. “I believe you were told this. And in case you weren't, I'm telling you now, you are not welcome here, or indeed anywhere near me or mine!” 

“Thorin Oakenshield…” Gandalf begins, power and authority lacing his voice. 

“No!” The dwarven king cuts him off, finally turning to look at the Grey Wizard. “However much you may wrap yourself in your power, you hold no authority here, Wizard!” his eyes narrow. “How… how do you do it?” 

“How do I do what?” Gandalf cocks his head to a side, still thrown by Thorin’s words. 

“Manipulate everyone.” Thorin clarifies. “Treat us all like we’re nothing more than pieces in a game of chess you’re playing.” 

“I don’t…” Gandalf takes great offense to that. 

“But you do!” Thorin cuts him off, again. “Did you or did you not tell me that you’d found us a burglar? A talented and experienced thief, master in the trade? And you never even bothered saying a word to her about it! Not until the day we were expected to arrive!” 

“I did…” Gandalf yet again tries to explain, only to find himself interrupted once more. 

“I was there Gandalf!” Thorin snarls. “I heard you. What’s more, I heard her. I heard her tell you no, time and again. And I heard how that meant nothing to you. You still arrived that evening, expecting to have us there. You were expecting us to arrive at a house we were never invited to, for a meal that wasn’t being arranged for us! Have you any idea how many rules that breaks? How many customs and traditions, guest-rules and host-protocols, and even just matters concerning politeness!” He makes a pause, making sure the wizard is really listening to him. “Have you any idea the kind of image we would all have had of each other? If things had happened as you intended with your blasted manipulations?! What would we dwarrow have thought of arriving at the home of a female thief, one who had supposedly invited us to a meal, yet had nothing prepared for us? One who was said to be a burglar, yet knew nothing about what it all meant. That was going to work for dwarrow having never even met one!” 

“Ah, but she had met dwarves!” Gandalf pipes in. 

“She had,” Thorin agrees. “But you did not know that, did you? Because according to Bilba herself, the last time you were in the Shire she was but a child!” He shakes his head. “Tell me Gandalf, what if she’d had a family? What if she had children? Would you have still forced her out her door after us?” 

“Listen here Thorin Oakenshield, I did not force…” 

“Did you not? You arranged things so she’d have to receive us, whether she wanted to or not. So we’d arrive, without even knowing just how unaware she was about matters. And just listening to you ignore any and all of her objections that morning I have no doubt you would have continued to ignore them in the evening, until she did exactly as you wanted her to!” 

Gandalf just… deflates. There’s no better word for it. He seems to almost fold in on himself even as he takes a seat on a nearby stool, leaning almost heavily on his staff. 

“You needed her on this quest.” The wizard says eventually, voice quiet and so, so tired. 

“I know.” Thorin’s agreement surprises Gandalf, yet it doesn’t end there. “But tell me Gandalf. What would you have done, had she come on this mad quest due to your manipulations, only to die? If things had gone the way you intended, we wouldn’t have trusted her, not at all, not with how bad things would have started off. And that lack of trust, on a quest such as this? Even before we found ourselves fighting two armies; it could have proven deadly. Chances are, in such circumstances, she would have died before the end. What would you have done then?” 

“Are you trying to blame me for…” He waves at Bilba’s still form on the bed. 

“Not at all.” Thorin shakes his head evenly. “This is not your fault. This is… we made choices. Both she and I. And she’s not dead. She’s alive, she’s recovering and she will wake up. However long it might take. But the fact remains, the path we’re on, the path we’ve all walked, is not the one you intended for us.” And this is not just about Rivendell, not by far. “If we’d done things your way, and Bilba had still ended on this bed, or worse, in a grave, that’d be on you Gandalf.” 

“I… I never…” Gandalf doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. 

“Bilba says that your problem is that you see the big picture only.” Thorin comments, once again turning his attention from the wizard and to his sleeping hobbit-wife. “You are so focused on big things that you continuously miss the small ones. Like now, you knew that Erebor needed to be reclaimed, and sought to make it happen. You brought me the map, and the key, and led us to Bilba’s door. Never did you stop to consider the risks this undertaking might mean for each of us. If I’d died, and worse even, if my sister-sons had died with me, who would have been left to rule over Erebor? Over my people? Dáin? He barely wants to rule the Iron Hills! And Dís! What would have become of my sister, had her whole family been lost to death, leaving her alone? And what of Glóin’s wife and children, or Bombur’s, had anything happened to them? And Bilba… you clearly have no idea the kind of mess an unplanned departure on her part would have caused. Not just for her, but for all who depended on her!” 

Gandalf purses his lips, clearly not having any idea how to reply to that. Thorin is right, is the thing. His gift of Sight, rare as it is, can be very strong. When it does happen, he knows that things need to be done, knows how terrible things will be if they don’t get done and sometimes… sometimes his zeal might get the better of him. He thinks about what Thorin has said, what if things had gone according to his plan? If things had gone as he planned, with Bilba Baggins being surprised by the arrival of the dwarves, opening her door to them, and eventually agreeing to join them? How much harder would things have been with such a start of things for them? And with her not having been ready for a trip at all… He’s seen the condition of the mountain, he’s heard about all the supplies the Company brought with them, the carts, and the plants Bilba managed to plant north of the road to Ravenhill (though when she managed this, in between confronting Smaug, preparing the mountain for guests, and the Battle the wizard honestly has no idea!). He cannot begin to imagine how much worse things might be without such preparations. But the thing that hits him hardest is: if things had gone as he expected, and the little hobbit had died… what then? Never before has Gandalf felt cause to doubt himself so much, so badly; he finds he doesn’t like it. No, he doesn’t like it at all. 

xXx

In the morning, as has become his custom, Thorin breaks his fast by his wife’s bedside, talking to her about his plans for the day before fixing his braids, making sure his wedding-bead has pride of place; and that there won’t be any more idiots like that one noble from the Iron Hills who, not two days after the battle, dare suggest that Thorin think about marrying a ‘proper dam’, once he’s ‘fully free’… the idiot was lucky his Company reacted and had him out the room before Thorin could react, he’d have taken his beard, and perhaps even his life, for the insult! To think that Thorin could ever bind his life, give his braid to anyone other than his One! 

There’s a reason why, despite how much of a mess he’s made of things, he’d never think to get in the way of Fíli courting his One. And Kíli… the longer he can go pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on between him and that elf of his the better. Not because he thinks it’s wrong or… whatever remaining anger he might hold for Thranduil, he holds nothing but the utmost respect for Lady Tauriel, and even to a certain degree for Prince Legolas. It’s just… he’s aware how hard things will be for Kíli, even more so than for Fíli, when he announces the she-elf as his One and starts officially courting her. It might have been one thing for one of the Line of Dúrin to take an outsider for a wife; he was a king in exile at the time (and even then, not everyone agreed), but now it’ll be all three of them. Not a one of those in line for the throne will be marrying dams. It’s likely the reactions will be even more pronounced than when he first announced his intent to marry Bilba. He doesn’t think that’ll deter his nephews any, but he does remind himself to warn them, and the girls. They need to be ready for any possible repercussions. Having reclaimed Erebor will give them a lot of leeway, and he’ll ensure it becomes known the part each of the ladies played in things as well. But even that might not be enough, dwarrow are famous for their stubbornness for a reason! 

Thorin isn’t really surprised when he returns to the apartments in the evening and finds none other than Gandalf at Bilba’s bedside. He is somewhat surprised to see he’s the only one; he’d have expected there to be at least one member of the Company, if not one of his nephews, who have made a point to visit almost as often as he. Then again, they just had the first Open Court and both Fíli and Kíli did their best to assist. While their numbers are still fairly limited (really, aside from the Company there’s just the dwarrow from the Iron Hills and the people of Lake Town) somehow they still seem to have a fair number of grievances… mostly it is that the Iron Hills dwarrow do not seem to agree with there being outsiders inside the mountain. Thorin would have dismissed them all straight out, but Fíli decided on a rather poignant show of power and how it is shifting when he took charge and made sure that not only the dwarrow were heard, their opinions respected, but the humans as well. Bard, the widow Agnes and Captain Braga serving as leaders.  

Thorin doesn’t even comment on the wizard’s presence in the room this time. Just goes to sit on one of the chairs, the one closest to a table, where he sets the paperwork he’s brought with him. He has an office, with a proper desk, where he could be doing it, but he prefers being in the room with Bilba. Even if she remains unconscious, even if she might not even know that he’s there at all, he just… feels better knowing he’s there. Just in case. 

Most of the paperwork are lists, of the contents of the treasury, what they know to be heirlooms of specific clans, what’s been found with the seal of Dale, of Greenwood, and even other far more distant realms, some that don’t even exist anymore at all. It’d seem that Smaug had already had a hoard, long before arriving to Erebor, and at some point in the years since first attacking the mountain he retrieved it. The first three are easy enough to deal with. Rooms have been assigned to put together all that can be proven beyond shadow of doubt belongs to Dale and to Mirkwood. Heirlooms belonging to their allies can be set aside to be dealt with at a later date, coin might as well have been given in trade, negotiations or as tithe, so there’s no need to worry about those. Regarding the treasures of older realms… that’s where things get tricky, he’ll probably be consulting with the others on what to do about it. 

“Never expected you to be so willing and so quick to give your treasure away, King Under the Mountain…” The Wizard murmurs quietly. 

There’s something in Tharkûn’s voice, for a moment the dwarf wonders if he’s imagining the exhaustion he can hear there; though that thought’s pushed aside when he processes what’s just been said exactly: 

“The treasure isn’t mine, but my people’s, and even then, not all of it.” Thorin murmurs as he adds his signature to the necessary papers. “It’s clear the worm had another hoard and brought it to Erebor. Now it’s up to us to see justice made… where we can at least. I will not have us profit from the losses of others if I can help it.” 

Thorin keeps going through the paperwork for several minutes longer, until the silence calls his attention and he turns towards Gandalf, who’s staring at him. 

“What?” He asks, tone perhaps sharper than entirely necessary. 

“It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose.” The wizard explains. “I misjudged Bilba Baggins so terribly, why not you as well, King Under the Mountain?” 

Thorin takes a few moments to parse what that might mean. Then connects it with Tharkûn’s first comment, and it dawns on him: 

“You expected me to go gold-mad.” He breathes out, a hint of the horror he’s feeling deep inside threading into his voice. “You expected me to become as mad as my grandfather, if not worse. And still you sent me to reclaim Erebor?!” 

“It needed to happen.” Gandalf insists. “Erebor needed to stand as Guardian of the North…” 

“And what kind of Guardian would it be with a gold-mad King?” Thorin demands. “A King who cares more about the contents of its treasury than the people? A King who would turn his back on its allies? Who would choose war over peace?!” 

“I had hope.” Is all Gandalf says. 

“Clearly the wrong kind of hope, if you expected me to fall to the gold-madness in the first place.” Thorin scoffs. 

“Clearly.” The wizard agrees. “Yet I still wonder…” 

“Wonder?” Thorin’s eyes narrow. 

“How.” Gandalf admits. “How did you not fall? Was it the years in exile? The fact that you never touched a Ring of Power? Was it…?” Gandalf stops, freezes, then rushes to his feet, getting right into Thorin’s personal space. “What is that?” 

The dwarrow king is completely thrown by the wizard’s attitude. He’s making even less sense than usual! And then the way he gets so close… at least Tharkûn seems to retain enough sense not to touch Thorin’s hair, much less his braids. Just pointing a finger, and Thorin instantly knows exactly which one it is is he’s fixated on: 

“My marriage braid?” He asks, wondering what has the wizard so agitated. 

“Is the bead made of wood?” Gandalf questions. 

“Yes, of course.” Because really, isn’t it obvious? “Why would it not be? My One is a hobbit after all. She designed and crafted the bead herself, as expected.” 

“Do you know what wood it is made of?” The wizard presses. 

“Ah…” It takes Thorin a moment to remember. “Weirwood, I believe she called it.” 

“Hmmm…” Gandalf finally steps back, a considering expression on his face. “I suppose that could do it.” He turns back to Thorin. “What do you know of weirwood, Thorin Oakenshield?” 

“Nothing at all.” The dwarf shrugs. “I’m a dwarf, not a hobbit.” He shakes his head, then revises. “It is special, I know that much, magical in some way. But I know not the particulars. Tree-lore has never been a topic I’ve needed to know of.” 

“No, I suppose not.” Gandalf agrees, considering. “Weirwood is indeed magical. So much that even after being cut and shaped there remains a certain… life to it, I suppose you could call it. It is said that objects made of weirwood will never break and will never rot. Hobbits believe that it was their Green Lady, Yavanna, who planted the weirwoods in their Shire. Truth is… truth is it wasn’t her, not really, but it was one of her Maia: Inwin.” 

“Inwin?” Thorin does his best to pronounce the name, though it sounds odd in his mouth. 

“Inwin.” Gandalf corrects his pronunciation. “It’s hard to pronounce, not in any language that has been spoken this side of the sea since the end of the First Age. Only those at Valinor speak it anymore. If I were to give her a name in Westron… I suppose I’d call her Fairy…” 

“Fairy?” Thorin does a double-take. 

For a moment Gandalf seems to be unable to understand Thorin’s reaction, but then his eyes follow the dwarf’s line of sight: Bilba’s wings are still out, spread under her (Thorin took great care to ensure the bed she would sleep on would be the softest, fluffiest they could possibly make with the materials they had access to, to ensure his beloved wouldn’t be hurting her wings, or herself in any way). 

“Oh, I see…” Gandalf murmurs quietly. 

Thorin wonders if he does. He knows that the wizard was surprised when first seeing Bilba’s wings, as much as anyone else. Wonders if that means the wizard has never come across the hobbit-fairies. Wonders how much he thinks he knows of hobbits (of any race) and how much he truly does… But that matter aside, if he understands correctly, Tharkûn seems to be implying that it might be his wedding bead that protects Thorin from the gold-sickness. Much as the dwarrow king would like to believe that it’s all him. That he’s strong. That he’s not his grandfather and never would have been… Thorin knows better than to let pride be his undoing. If it truly is the wooden bead keeping him safe… then he’ll ensure that every member of Durin’s Line has one, from this moment to the end of time. Never again will they allow the gold to take their minds! Never again will mere treasure be valued above the things that truly matter: their homes, their family, their Ones! 

xXx

“I’m sorry.” 

Sigrid freezes mid-step. She’s in the middle of a servants’ hallway that connects the guest apartments where the humans have been staying, to a sub-level where they can get access to one of the underground streams for washing clothes (there’s another, one heated by the forges, that works as public baths), in her arms a basket full of the clothes she’s just washed, and which she’ll be hanging to dry on a balcony near the guest quarters. 

“I would ask for your forgiveness, but I know not how.” Fíli continues, for it is him that is speaking, keeping a respectful distance from her. “Nor do I believe I deserve it. I have wronged you, my lady, more than I have ever wronged another.” 

“No, you…” Sigrid spins around to face him, biting her tongue briefly. “You saved me, my lord. Me and my entire family, all of my people. All who live now, it is thanks to you, and Their Majesties. To your mercy and compassion…” 

“We did but what ought to be done.” Fíli shakes his head. “And doing right by your people, even by your family, changes not that I did wrong by you.” 

Sigrid opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again when realizing she doesn’t actually know what to say. How to reply to Fíli’s words. She’s not even fully sure what it is he’s talking about, exactly… 

“I claimed you.” Fíli finally says plainly. “Even knowing as I did that you wished not to marry. The circumstances in which you and your family were forced to leave the Lake-Town. I still did and said what I did and said. And while my intentions might have been pure, no more than to protect you, your name, your honor. That changes not that the way I went about it was wrong. I made choices that affected us both, without even asking!” 

Ah… Sigrid thinks she understands. “You did.” She agrees, taking a deep breath. 

“I release you.” Fíli blurts out. “I will tell my uncle that I was wrong, that our betrothal won’t work. I’ll talk to your father, and offer appropriate reparations. Ensure your name and your honor remain intact, that your virtue shall not be questioned. That no one ever again will think to take your choice from you…” 

Like he did, goes unsaid. And Sigrid knows this is the moment. A choice needs to be made, and this time, she’s the one that must make it… 

“I wished not to marry Jan, Guardsman of Lake-Town.” Sigrid chooses her words very carefully. “I would never have chosen to marry him. Fíli, son of Dís, Prince of Durin’s Line? I might not know him as well as I wish I did, but what I’ve seen thus far tells me he’s good, loyal, just, brave, honorable… He’s the kind of man I’d marry, were it my choice to make.” 

“It is.” Fíli blurts out, then clarifies. “Your choice.” 

“Then say you will give me your name, and I shall promise to give it to a son.” Sigrid prompts, in the tradition of her people. 

“I shall offer you my name, in the traditions of your people.” Fíli agrees. “And my braid, in the tradition of mine.” For a moment he says nothing else and then, deciding to be bold, he steps forth, raising a hand towards Sigrid and asks: “May I?” 

Though she’s not entirely certain what it is he’s asking, she nods nonetheless. Fíli steps closer still, pulling a comb out of somewhere in his clothes and with quick, fluid motions takes a thick lock of hair from behind her right ear and starts braiding. It’s a simple braid, nothing like the more elaborate plaits dwarrow may choose to adorn themselves with, or that she’ll be entitled to, after they’ve been married. But this isn’t about that. 

“We have no tradition for betrothals, besides a gift being crafted by the one proposing the union, to their One.” Fíli explains quietly as he works on the braid. “I’ve yet to carve enough free time to be able to get to a forge and craft something truly worthy of you, but I shall do that. However, in the meantime, I wish to make it clear to all in this mountain, both your people and mine, that my intentions are honest and won’t be dismissed as fancy, or anything like that. So I shall give you a braid, and seal it with one of my own clasps.” He does exactly that. “To show my intent, and that you’re under my protection. For now and for always. 

He really will need to find some time to get working on a betrothal gift. He wonders what will be more appropriate, blades? Or perhaps something more feminine? His One seems to take as much pride in showing her femininity, as well as still carrying the blade he gave her back in Lake-Town openly on her waist. Perhaps he could craft some hairpins that would double as secret weapons? Something pretty and elegant, yet dangerous at the same time? Just like her… 

xXx

Tauriel finds Kíli sitting on the battlements, staring at the world outside the mountain. Most of it is the Desolation, bare earth and rock covered with snow; except for a spot, in the halfway point between the mountain gate and Ravenhill, there the prevalent color is red, from the Seregon blossoms; a shade such that it looks disturbingly like spilled blood. In his hands is a blade, a knife, which he seems to be sharpening half-absently. Though judging by the looks of things, it doesn’t really need it; Tauriel supposes it might be just for something to do, keeping his hands busy. The she-elf says nothing, just dropping onto a spot beside Kíli and contemplating the world, same as he. She pulls the quiver off her back, placing it on the ground beside her and pulls out the first arrow, checking it over. They’re salvaged arrows, and she needs to see how many are still serviceable, and how many are useless. 

For a while none of them say a thing, each of them focused on their own tasks. It’s Tauriel who eventually breaks the silence, as she throws away the fifth arrow in a row, grabbing the next, yet instead of checking it over she just holds it tight. 

“I know not why I’m doing this at all.” She admits out-loud, more to herself than to Kíli. “I don’t even have a bow anymore.” 

Kíli says nothing to that. Though the she-elf cannot help but notice that he’s looking at the arrow in her hands. She realizes then that it’s one of his. It’s probably even one of the arrows that saved her life. Which reminds her… 

“I’ve been meaning to thank you.” She says, twisting the arrow a bit between her fingers. “You saved my life.” 

Kíli thinks about dismissing the whole thing; saying he was just doing his duty, that they were allies during the battle, something like that. But while that wouldn’t really be a lie, neither would it be the whole truth. 

“It was my pleasure.” He decides on saying eventually. 

Yet again silence settles over them. But it’s not an oppressive silence, rather a comfortable one, as dwarf and elf work side by side. They don’t break it again until Tauriel finishes working on the arrows (a handful or so were in good enough condition still, about half of them she could fix enough to be usable even if not perfect; from the rest she managed to save a few arrowtips, but that’s about it). Once again, she’s the one to speak: 

“You’re my Maranwë…” She admits, so very, very quietly. “My Destiny. I don’t… I don’t know if you might know what that means. If dwarrow even know…” 

“Not a Destiny,” Kíli breathes out. “We dwarrow call them Ones. Not every dwarf has a One, and even those that do, they don’t always realize it right away. But when a dwarf has found their One… if they cannot have them, they’ll have no one at all.” He takes a deep breath. “A dwarf shows his intent to court with a gift, something made with our own hands, for our One, to show our Craft, and how much we might know of them…” 

Tauriel’s still contemplating that when she notices Kíli holding something out to her. A long, thin package, covered in cloth. The shape is… she cannot help but guess at what might be inside, and the guess alone is almost enough to make her hands shake. She places the package on her lap, unwinding the cloth and revealing, as she suspected, a bow. Made of wood, yew if her eyes do not fail her, the string seems to be made of silk thread. It’s… it’s a beautiful bow, Tauriel would almost dare say it’s more beautiful than her old one. She runs a finger down the bow, in complete awe of it. While she’s been an archer for most of her life, the bows she’s used (from her very first training bow, to the one gifted to her by her best friend, Legolas, upon her appointment as Captain of the Greenwood’s Guard) were always made by other people, expert craftsmen. If she understands correctly, this bow was made by Kíli… the thought of using a bow her own match has crafted for her… 

For perhaps the first time since it happened, Kíli feels a tiny bit of gratitude for his broken ankle. It’s because of it that he hasn’t been as involved with the work everyone else is doing, getting the needed areas cleared, cleaned, treating with the people of Lake-Town, or with the dragon. On the last that mostly means butchering the carcass, preserving what can be useful (scales, teeth and such) and getting the rest into pieces small enough to be maneuverable, the plan being to take them out, to the same spot where they burned the corpses of the orcs, goblins and trolls, and burn it (no one really being too willing to risk finding out if it can be eaten). In any case, because of his injury, his mobility is limited enough that he’s had more free time on his hands than expected. He already had the yew wood, found a couple of pieces during their trip, at the foot of the Grey Mountains. He intended to turn at least one of them into a longbow (at least long for a dwarf), something with more power than his current one. The other piece… it was too big for him, yet he felt called to it and so took it as well. And now he knows why, it was always meant to be used for a gift for his One… He’s also planning on doing some arrowtips out of dragon-scales, has already requested them. But that’ll be later, when he can actually get access to a forge. 

“Thank you…” Tauriel whispers, breathless. 

It’s such an inappropriate thing to say, nowhere near enough to express everything she’s feeling, yet she cannot think of anything better to say either. Any way to express not just how much she loves the bow, how grateful she is for the gift, but also how honored… 

“We elves have no such traditions, I’m afraid.” She admits quietly. “We express our intent in words. And so I tell you now, with Elbereth’s own stars as my witnesses, that you’re mine Destiny, as much as I’m your One. And the day will come when I will claim you, and you will claim me; and we will walk to our shared Fate side by side and hand in hand.” 

“I like the sound of that.” Kíli agrees quietly. 

They say nothing else, instead turning their eyes once more to the outside world. Though they do move closer, slowly but surely, their sides eventually close enough they can feel each other’s warmth, and in the middle their hands stray until their fingers become entwined. And like that they stay for a moment, or for hours, it’s hard to tell. They just sit there, in comfortable silence, watching the snow fall. 

xXx

Thorin leaves the paperwork he’s been working on and begins making his way to the gates as soon as he hears there’s a caravan coming. Part of it is curiosity regarding who’d be traveling with Winter practically upon them already; and the other part is merely a desire to leave the paperwork for at least some time (he knew there would be more such work running Erebor than there was back in Ered Luin, especially with the need to inventory everything in the treasury and make sure that what treasures could be found there that did not belong to his people, were appropriately allocated; still nothing could have prepared him for just how much more). 

Modifications were made to the temporary gate as soon as the battle ended and enough stone-masons were healed and ready to work. Most of it was still sealed for protection, both from the weather and any possible enemies, but space was made and a temporary door affixed to allow people, animals and even carts and a wagon as big as Bilba’s own to pass if necessary. That turns out to be a good thing, as the visitors arrive in three such wagons, each of them filled to the brim. It’s Thorin who recognizes the couple controlling the lead wagon, even as they catch sight of him, standing at the gates: 

“Greetings Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!” The man states solemnly and loud enough to be heard by all dwarrow and humans standing in the background, curiously watching the proceedings. 

“And greetings and best wishes be sent to your wife as well, Bilba Adamantine Baggins, of the Shire, Queen Under the Mountain.” The woman adds for good measure. 

“Greetings Dírhael and Ivorwen of the Dúnedain, be welcome, you and your people, to Erebor!” Thorin says grandly in reply. 

He waits until all three wagons are inside the mountain, the temporary gate has been once again closed and all the Dúnedain have climbed off their wagons to ask the all-too-important question. 

“What brings you here?” He knows he sounds gruff, but is also certain they won’t take offense to his tone, they know him, after all. 

“We go where we’re needed.” It’s neither Dírhael nor Ivorwen who speaks up then, but Lôrloth, having climbed down from the back of the second cart. “Even when those who have need of us might not yet know it is us they need.” 

It’s a bit complicated, as far as speeches go, but Thorin believes he understands what she’s saying. They need the Dúnedain, even if they might not know it just yet. 

“We stopped in the Shire, and in your Blue Mountains, as well as Rivendell and several other places on the way.” Damrod announces with all the eagerness of youth. “We also hunted some wild cattle east of the River Running. We’ve all sorts of things here for you.” 

“Bilba shall be extremely disappointed that it is now that she’s absent that you decide to join the business.” Thorin states in his most deadpan tone. 

Damrod laughs, long and loud, and he’s not the only one. 

While Thorin wouldn’t say they are hurting for resources, thanks to all the early preparations, still the King Under the Mountain has no doubt they will all be grateful for whatever the Dúnedain have brought in their carts, especially the fresh food and clothes. Arrangements are soon made to conduct business officially. A favor the Rangers might be doing them, but Dwarrow won’t take charity, especially not now that they can do business once again; also, it’s clear that at least a couple of the rangers are interested in trading for goods, chances are they will leave with their wagons as heavy as they were upon arrival, if with different contents. 

Thorin watches conversations start between those involved. He can recognize everyone, thanks to the times he accompanied Bilba to the Dúnedain settlement. There are Dírhael and Ivorwen, leading the group; Damrod, who was driving the second cart, along with Lôrloth. In the last cart is Hallas, along with one of his brothers: Elphir. Though it is the third person that comes from the last wagon that truly shocks him. 

“Dís!” He exclaims, beyond shocked. 

If Thorin were to be honest he’d admit he wasn’t expecting his sister any time soon, not before the following summer at the earliest. 

“Greetings Dís, daughter of Thráin, Princess of the Line of Dúrin.” He greets her formally, then, more quietly he adds: “Welcome, sister mine, to Erebor!” 

It’s until after the official greetings have been handled, while the rangers start talking business with several other dwarrow and men, that Thorin gets a chance to talk to Dís. It’s not exactly a private conversation, but with everyone busy with other things, it’s enough. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon.” He admits to his sister. 

“Two of your ranger friends, they came to the Blue Mountains, looking specifically for me.” Dís explains. “They said that the ‘Sons of Dís’ have found their Ones, and that due to the nature of their unions it might not be the best idea for their marriages to wait as long as it’d take me to get to the mountain. They offered me a place in their caravan, Ursa, Solveig and even Master Frár,” the eldest Ereborean dwarf living in Ered Luin and their quartermaster. “insisted I take it. So here I am brother. Now tell me, is it true? Have Fíli and Kíli found their Ones.” 

“They have.” Thorin nods, exhaling. 

“They’re not dams, are they?” Dís knows her sons, and her brother, well enough to guess. 

“No, they’re not.” Thorin admits with a shrug. “Fíli’s is Sigrid, daughter of Bard, who shall be King of Dale once the realm of Men is rebuilt. Kíli’s is Lady Tauriel, former Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood.” 

A Daughter of Man and a She-Elf… Dís cannot say it’s what she’d have chosen for them; but who is she to gainsay Mahal’s own choice for her sons? She’s not predisposed against either race, and her hesitance comes solely because she knows it won’t be easy for her sons, not all dwarrow will accept them, and their wives. She’s seen it with her brother. Even as a King in exile, not all have been supportive of his choice of One; and she has no doubt that now that he’s to be King of Erebor there will be those who will seek to make him forsake Bilba. Not that Thorin would ever do that. So, she knows it won’t be easy, yet she’ll always support her sons, always. 

“ Amad !” And talking about sons… 

Thorin smiles, mostly to himself, as he watches his sister-sons practically rushing to their mother. Kíli comes close to falling, ungainly as he is with his crutches, yet Tauriel keeps up with him, making sure to grab him whenever he falters, keeping him from hitting the ground (which would be no good for his still healing ankle). Sigrid is following at a more sedate pace. 

Leaving his family to their reunion, Thorin turns his attention once again to the other newcomers. Arrangements are being made to stable the horses and get the wagons to the markets (that is, if they haven’t made deals for all their contents before they make it that far!). The King Under the Mountain contemplates the ones handling the wagons: six dúnedain, including two that are among the leaders of their people. The dwarf king has no doubt that it’s his wife more than him that has motivated their presence in his mountain and he cannot help but be grateful for it. He’s truly ever so grateful for all the things having Bilba in his life has brought him: her love being the greatest of all the gifts he’s ever known… 

“Good it is to see that you can value the blessings that have been granted to you.” 

While Thorin cannot say he heard Lôrloth approach, neither is he surprised when he finds her suddenly standing beside him. 

“I’m always appreciative of the great gifts the Valar have given me.” Thorin states solemnly. “Now what brings you to me, my lady?” 

Thorin is no fool, and he can still remember the blind lady, and more importantly, her prophecy made song, that day in the Dúnedain encampment… 

“Know you do, that some poisons may taste sweet; that some weapons may be beautiful.” Lôrloth doesn’t sing this time, yet her voice still carries a certain cadence, making it obvious that her words have power. “Likewise, some curses may at times shine with the same apparent light that a blessing does.” It’s eerie, the way her sightless eyes fix straight on Thorin, yet still he doesn’t back down, doesn’t even blink. “Beware King, that when a Heart is taken from a body, both may start to rot from the inside out, and spread that rot to all around.” 

Thorin inhales sharply. He suspects he knows exactly what it is she’s talking about. 

“Would returning the Heart to the Body solve the problem, or is it too late for that?” He asks. 

“Never too late it is, to do that which is right.” Lôrloth replies. 

That makes up Thorin’s mind, the Arkenstone is going back to the depths of the mountain. Today, tonight if he can arrange it! 

xXx

“You cannot do that!” 

“It’s the King’s Jewel!” 

“… the most valuable treasure in this mountain!” 

“… the symbol of your right to rule!” 

“… It’s Thror’s Crown Jewel!” 

“… Mahal’s Gift to us!” 

“It must be protected!” 

“IT’S THE ARKENSTONE!!!” 

Thorin’s not exactly surprised. While he’d have liked to have the support of what dwarrow lords and nobles chose to accompany Dáin to Erebor, he cannot say he was really counting on it… or waiting for it. He’s still disappointed though, especially when seeing Dáin himself is one of the most vocal in the insistence that the jewel must be preserved. That it’s their greatest treasure… That Thorin needs it to be king… He’s yet again reminded of his wife’s speech regarding how ridiculous it was to believe his kingship ought to depend on a stone. He agrees. And even if he hadn’t, after what Lôrloth’s implied and outright said regarding the stone… He’d give away all of his own treasure (only his own, nothing that might condemn his people) just for a chance to have his beloved hobbit open her eyes again… 

Dáin is the first to notice that Thorin’s oddly quiet and calm for someone who has a good few dwarrow screaming practically in his face, not just rejecting Thorin’s idea but doing everything short of insulting the King for even suggesting they get rid of the Arkenstone… or as Thorin very eloquently put it: giving the mountain back her heart… Dáin’s not stupid, he knows there can only be one reason for it. 

“Where are your sister-sons?” He asks Thorin directly. “And the Lady Dís for that matter?” 

“Fíli has taken his mother to dine with his betrothed’s family, presenting a united front before the Men of Lake-Town.” Thorin states calmly. “Kíli asked permission to bring Lady Tauriel to see my wife, see if elven healing might help her recover faster.” 

That’s yet something else that Dáin’s still trying to wrap his head around, and he knows that most of the Lords refuse to even acknowledge: the fact that all three royals have claimed Ones that are not dwarrowdams. It was one thing when Thorin was a King in Exile, marrying a member of another race seemed odd, but it didn’t really affect any of them. Thorin’s heirs had already been chosen, both of them proper dwarrow of the Line of Dúrin… And now those two ‘proper dwarrow’ have claimed their own Ones: a daughter of men, and a she-elf! What was that to mean for the future of Durin’s Line?! 

In any case, that’s the two sister-sons; Balin, Dwalin and the young scribe are already in the room (Dáin’s not blind to the fact that Balin’s barely able to keep Dwalin from attacking the lords for the blatant disrespect for their King); he saw two other members of Thorin’s Company standing guard outside the meeting room, and knows that another has been put in charge of the kitchens. That means… Dáin has no idea what any of it means. 

Sad as he is to see the posture his cousin has chosen to take, Thorin’s not really surprised. He even understands, to a point. Just like him, Dáin was forced into a position of power, of leading his people, at a very young age. Where Thorin was forced to take that position and do the best he could, for good or for ill, with the support of his friends, and half remembered lessons (from his and Balin’s youth mostly), Dáin still had some of his father’s counselors to help. No doubt it would have seemed like a blessing. To be able to depend on those who knew better than him, to have someone who could help bear the burden. But it was like Lady Lôrloth said, curses and blessings may shine with the same light. It was never good when Lords got too comfortable with having as much (or more) power than those supposed to be their rulers… 

It was no surprise that Dáin would ask after Fíli and Kíli and Dís, and after that turn his eyes to those who’ve been closest to Thorin for the longest time: like Dwalin and Balin; for surely if Thorin were planning something as insane as ‘getting rid’ of the Arkenstone, one of them would be involved with it. What Dáin seems to be unable to understand is that some bonds can be stronger than blood, and even time. The Company… they were those dwarrow who believed in him, who were willing to follow him into a dragon’s lair, to face said dragon in battle, despite knowing how many dwarrow had died at its claws, fangs and firebreath already. So many of the members of the Company that the nobles would never see as worthy: like the Ri brothers, themselves members of the Line of Durin, descendants of a dam who was a King’s One yet never got the chance to wed him (and the nobles refused to recognize her claim and that of her child); or the Urs, common dwarrow, who weren’t even Longbeards! Each and every one of them had all that really mattered in Thorin’s mind (Loyalty, Honor, and a Willing Heart… for really, who could ask for more than that?). In any case, it was precisely because of that, that no one would ever suspect Bofur of carrying this very special task for him. So now all Thorin has to do is wait, wait for the deed to be done; he has no doubt there will be some kind of signs when it happens. 

The dwarrow from the Iron Hills are still arguing. Or really, just repeating the same arguments time and again, as if hoping that mere repetition will make them right, or that he’ll just give up if they insist enough times (clearly they know nothing of him!). 

The ‘sign’ ends up being a great shudder. To dwarrow it feels for a moment like the mountain might be about to shake apart. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, yet it leaves enough of an impression. He doubts the men and elf felt much of anything. The dwarrow though do feel it. Silence falls just as suddenly as if Mahal’s own hammer had just rang (in fact, there are some who might even compare the feeling they all got the moment the Arkenstone returned to the depths with that very thing). 

“What have you done…?” It’s the eldest of the Dwarrow Lords that asks the question. 

“What needed to be done.” Thorin states, unapologetic. 

“You cannot…” Another begins. 

“I will remind you, all of you, that I, Thorin, son Thráin, son of Thrór, am King Under the Mountain.” Thorin states, steel and power in his tone. “It was not a stone, however pretty, that granted me my throne. I have it by right of Line and Blood, for I am a direct descendant of Dúrin the Deathless himself! The Arkenstone was a beautiful jewel, no doubt about that. But it did not give us a crown, or a throne, and it certainly did not give us this mountain! And if any of you, honorable dwarrow, believe that not having the Arkenstone somehow makes me less worthy of being your King, then I will accept your choice and wish you all the best as you leave my mountain and seek home and living elsewhere.” 

No one dares breathe a word after that. It’s like Thorin expected, as horrified and livid as some of them might be, none of them will want to lose their position, their riches, their power. Most of them will probably go back to the Iron Hills with Dáin, wanting to believe that as long as they don’t live in the same mountains, the ‘insanity’ of Thorin Oakenshield will not affect them. He wonders if they’ll hold onto that belief when they meet his Queen, or how about the to-be Crown Princess of Erebor? He supposes it doesn’t matter. Choices have been made, and he won’t back down, ever. 

Some of the lords are looking around surreptitiously, clearly looking for some excuse to leave before something else happens, though without backing down. The opportunity presents itself in a most unexpected manner, as the doors are opened abruptly, with enough force to make them slam against the walls. All eyes turn to the newcomer, though none dare say a word of chastisement the moment they realize it’s one of the Company: 

“She’s awake!” Nori exclaims loudly. “Bilba’s awake!” 

Chapter Text

Epilogue 

The first winter back in Erebor is full of activity as everyone works to get the mountain running. The first priority is lighting up the forges, not just in order for dwarrow to start working, but because the heat they give serves to warm-up everything inside the mountain. Then it’s all about cleaning the biggest halls possible, and the kitchens, to make dwarrow and men as comfortable as they possibly can be. Once the lodgings for the winter are secured stone-masons, and those dwarrow with a talent for it go through the mountain, room by room, checking that they’re still structurally sound; the ones that aren’t they must decide if things can be fixed, or whether it might be better to bring them down. It’s the same with the mines. 

Dáin leaves, along with most of his people (and all of his nobles) before the first big blizzard hits. He promises to return for Thorin’s official coronation, and there are a few among the Iron Hill dwarrow who are originally Ereboreans, or the children of thus, who choose to stay in the mountain. Thorin isn’t really surprised, he knows that a good few of them are beyond horrified by Thorin’s choice regarding the Arkenstone, and the fact that he’s shown no regret. Especially… well, as they learn the stone was sent down a mine, a particularly unstable one, so much it collapsed behind the dwarf who did the deed (no one ever gives Bofur’s name). The Lords are convinced this is a sign of Mahal’s anger at Thorin’s ‘treatment’ of the ‘great treasure’; Thorin and his Company on the other hand are pretty convinced that if Mahal did have a hand in it, it was to ensure that no one would ever be able to get the Arkenstone out of the mountain again. For all of their sakes. 

Still, Thorin stands by what he said that day: those that believe that the absence of a stone make Thorin any less of a King, that the blood and line of Dúrin are no longer enough to grant him his crown and his throne… they’re free to leave. It’s not like they can take those away from Thorin. Really, the only members of Durin’s Line who weren’t part of the Company are Dís (who will never betray her brother), Glóin’s son Gimli (who will never betray not just his King, but his father, and especially not the hobbit-queen who saved the life of his baby sister) and Dáin who, as much as he might disapprove of his cousin’s choices, he doesn’t have it in him to be a traitor. He also has no interest in being King. 

The attention turns to the towns of men, both Dale and Lake-Town in early spring, soon after the thaw. While the men are glad and grateful for having been able to winter inside the mountain, they want their own homes. Some are even planning on going back to living on the Long-Lake and the farms close to it once they’ve been rebuilt. 

It’s also around this time that Bilba finds out she’s pregnant. It takes her completely by surprise: 

“I don’t understand!” Bilba stares at Óin, Agnes and Tauriel, who each confirmed the news in their own way. “I took stoneseed. This is a well-known hobbit remedy to ensure temporary infertility. Known and tried! The effects should have lasted a year. It hasn’t been a year!” 

“Ah… but you’re not just a hobbit, are ya lass?” Óin reminds her, waving a hand at her wings. 

Her wings which are unfolded, not fully, not to their full extent, but still not folded against her back like in the past. There’s a crack running across the top of her right wing, the tip chipped a bit; it’s nothing serious, nothing that really hurts her, or can keep her from moving, or flying. Still, her deed-name is Adamantine, so it only seems right for her wings to be seen. 

“You must also remember that you bled a lot on the battlefield, my lady.” Even when they got Agnes to stop calling her and Thorin ‘Your Majesty’, she still insisted on using some title, being respectful. “You recovered, but there’s no telling how your body’s need to produce so much blood might have affected things.” 

All true points. The fact remains that Bilba’s pregnant. She’s both elated and terrified at the same time. And Thorin… he looks like he wants to scream from the battlements, with the same mixed-up feelings as her. 

Bilba’s the Queen Under the Mountain, and she’s also a hobbit, which means she likes to touch the bare earth often. With the Company having moved into the Royal Wing, and several of them working on a terrace garden for Bilba, connected to the sitting-room that is connected to her and Thorin’s own set of apartments. Until that’s ready though, she makes a point of taking a walk on the outskirts of the mountain. Grass and some flowers have begun to spring in what was once called the Desolation. Though the most striking are still the field of Seregon that seems to extend from the foot of Ravenhill all the way to the Western edge of the Lonely Mountain. And then Bilba makes a discovery: there’s a tree growing right in the middle of that field of red flowers: a tree with bone-white bark and five-pointed blood-red leaves… 

“Weirwood…” She breathes out in shock. 

She has no idea if this too is somehow connected to her, to her blood, or if perhaps it might be a sign of Yavanna’s blessing to Bilba’s choice to live in Erebor. In any case, she cannot help but see it as a good thing. Especially because Thorin has shared with her Gandalf’s theory about what’s keeping him safe from the gold-sickness, the curse of Durin’s Line. Bilba is all for his plan of making weirwood beads for every member of their family. They will ensure that never again will a dwarf lose himself to such a sickness. Never again will treasure, any sort of gold or jewel, be seen as more important than things like home, friends, family, love… 

A lot happens: the caravan from Ered Luin arrives, Fíli and Kíli marry their respective wives, the men move into their new homes in Dale and Lake-Town, and Bilba’s so big she can no longer see her feet. She’s convinced she’s carrying twins, even though Raya, the old dwarrow midwife (a survivor from Erebor) insists it’s impossible as there have never been dwarrow twins. She, on the other hand, believes that the size might be due to Bilba being a hobbit and thus smaller than a dwarf (even though she’s tall for a hobbit!). 

There’s a feast to celebrate Erebor being a proper Dwarrow Kingdom once again. Not all the dwarrow who survived Smaug were living in Ered Luin, some were forced to live in towns of men, getting any sort of job just to survive. Some of them will travel to the mountain once news reach them that Erebor is in dwarrow hands once more. Some won’t. There are even some, they all know, that might not be willing to see Thorin as king. Not just because of his choice regarding the Arkenstone, but even just due to the memory of what Thrór the Mad did in the years before the coming of Smaug. Thorin knows all this, and accepts it. In the end, all he can do is be the best dwarrow and king he can possibly be, and the rest is up to others. 

The feast is perfect, everyone’s joyful, there is chatting, songs, dancing and a lot of merry-making. Sigrid announces her pregnancy, and Dís is over the moon at the thought of becoming a grandmother. Bilba has been feeling pains in her lower back for most of the evening yet has said nothing. It’s not the first time, and the last thing she wants is to ruin the party. 

The party is starting to wind down, when unexpectedly Lôrloth (she and Damrod asked for permission and stayed longer, they’ll be leaving in a few more days) approaches the musicians, requesting a particular melody. She feels like singing. 

“A king he was on carven throne

 In many-pillared halls of stone

 With golden roof and silver floor,

 And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

 In shining lamps of crystal hewn

 Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

 There shone forever fair and bright.” 

Every single dwarrow recognizes the melody from the very first verse, even the elves (Legolas, and a couple of others, friends of Tauriel, are present) do. Most of the men don’t, but that doesn’t keep them from enjoying the song, or finding Lôrloth’s voice bewitching: 

“The world is grey, the mountains old,

 The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

 No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

 The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

 In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

 But still the sunken stars appear

 In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

 Till Durin wakes again from sleep.” 

Things seem to happen suddenly very fast: the melody comes to an end, the people cheer, Bilba’s water breaks. The babies are coming!