Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blue

was the colour of the flowers Belladonna stitched onto the corners of his jacket — one on the left pocket, three on the right — before taking him to watch the fireworks. The jacket itself had been red, naturally. That was a proper Baggins colour, sensible yet quite enjoyable, recalling autumn leaves, ripe apples, and, purely in Bilbo’s mind, ladybugs. 

He tore it apart an hour later, chasing after one.

Red

was Bungo’s old sweater, far too large for Bilbo until three extra layers filled the space beneath. He wore it the night the Horn-call of Buckland rang out. He pleaded with Bungo to let him go with him, but his father made sure they stayed home, Bilbo and Belladonna together. For each other. That night Bilbo curled into the wool, eyes squeezed shut, hands over ears, desperate to silence the howls that reached the hill. Bungo returned with the dawn. Many didn't. 

Even after the winter finally bared its teeth one last time and retreated, Bilbo refused to let go of the sweater, wearing it faithfully until it unravelled in his hands, thread by thread.

Red and blue

were the anemones he brought to the funeral. Roses, of course, had already arrived in armfuls — the Gamgees came first, followed by many others. But Bilbo had gone into the woods that evening, wandering half-forgotten trails until he lost himself entirely. When he returned, hands scratched by blackberry thorns, two buttons lost and gripping a bunch of greenery, it was nearly dawn. Anemones were an adventure trophy, wild and beautiful.

They were what Belladonna would have picked to weave a wreath, and what Bungo would have worn proudly.

Blue

was the mark Gandalf the Grey scrawled on his freshly painted door, shattering Bilbo's most ordinary morning. 

The dwarf who missed it twice had a bright blue cloak and eyes to match. There was the insistent wizard, and the map, and, of course, the song, to be blamed for awakening the Took in Bilbo. But Bilbo himself knew it was the colour, restless and daring, that finally pried his feet off the threshold.

Red 

was the berry wine the Elves of Rivendell poured — light, sweet and stronger than it seemed. Bilbo could not in his right mind let himself retire while songs still flowed through the evening air. They had long since faded by the time he woke in an armchair, the fire burned low, and for a moment, he thought he was home. 

Elrond had eyes of salt-washed grey, as though the first sight he’d ever glimpsed was a cold sea before the gale. He sat with Bilbo through quiet, grey hours before dawn, speaking gently, as if small Shirefolk deeds mattered greatly, which was a welcome change after the past few weeks. Somehow, the valley became Bilbo’s to stay at — and he promised himself he would, some day. But that day he pulled up the hood of his cloak and walked on, along the narrow mountain path.

Blue 

flickered across the blade of a letter-opener Bilbo found in the trolls’ cave. It was the first thing he saw when he woke in the deep tunnel after falling from Dori’s shoulders, and it was unsettling, to say the least. Its absence was sorely felt, though, when he was riddling with a slick, unpleasant creature who called itself Gollum. Scrambling up the hillside, overjoyed to leave the dark passages of the Misty Mountains behind, he thought about naming his sword — yes, sword — but didn't. The right name came many days later. 

Red 

was fire. Bilbo was terrified of it, of course he was. But then howls pierced the night, and this time nothing stood between him and the teeth in the dark. Could Bilbo let go of the pine branch, he would have covered his ears just to pretend none of this is real.

Then came the orc. 

And then Thorin rose to face him. 

Red became teeth — snarling, wet jaws closing around Thorin’s throat. In an instant, nothing meant anything anymore. Bilbo unclenched his hands, and then he had no time to think, no chance to feel, no right to be scared. He drew his sword and the world went very quiet.

Blue 

was the colour of Durin’s folk. Bilbo learned that by the fire at the foot of Carrock. He learned other things too — of Azanulbizar, of old mountain halls and long years in Ered Luin. There was more still he hadn’t heard, but this was already more than Thorin had shared in all the weeks before. That was an unexpected discovery, really, that with the tension gone between them, Thorin Oakenshield didn’t seem to mind long conversations. The kind that lasted well into the night and kept them close by the fire long after everyone else had gone to sleep. 

Red 

was the warmest of Beorn’s blankets, drawn close about Thorin’s shoulders. Gandalf had warned them that hasty healing could have consequences, but none foresaw a fever so fierce it nearly felled Thorin upon entering Beorn’s hall. 

The first night passed in fragments. When Thorin woke, Bilbo pressed a cup of linden brew or thin broth into his hands; when he drifted again, Bilbo kept watch, stirring honey into a huge teapot and dozing only at dawn. Morning promised better fortune at first — Thorin rose unaided and managed a few bites of flatbread, but by the afternoon the fever returned, swift and sharper than before. Thorin, of course, wouldn’t utter a word of complaint, but it was obvious he couldn’t even lie still, tossing and turning as if trying to outrun his own skin. The cloth on his forehead turned warm again. Bilbo dipped it into the basin of cold water, laid it gently back in place and then, surprising them both, began to speak softly, reciting the first lines of an old Shire tale about a water-spirit living in the mill pond. Thorin did not bid him cease. Bit by bit, his breathing steadied. 

The next time Thorin woke, there was a few minutes of expectant silence, before he asked what became of the miller’s daughter with a feigned indifference. Bilbo smiled and traded the ending for another cup of honeyed tea, and on it went. Whenever the fever rose, Bilbo was by the bedside, spinning every tale he ever heard as a child — from traditional Yuletide fright-tales to short poems Belladonna made up anytime she was in the mood for them — until just before the third dawn Thorin slipped into a deep, steady sleep, and the blanket lay cool against his skin.

Blue 

cloak among prisoners’ belongings was Bilbo’s only proof Thorin had been taken, too. 

Red

was the ivy curling over the gates of the Elvenking’s halls. And the leaves in his crown. It was only a matter of time, finding Thorin and getting them all out of Mirkwood, only a matter of time. The autumn deepened. Bilbo learned every corridor of Thranduil’s realm, memorised the guards by name and face, and spent hours in the dungeons speaking with every member of the Company — no one knew what became of Thorin. 

Hope began to thin.

Blue 

was the first true colour he’d seen in weeks. He hadn’t even realised the ring had that strange bleaching effect, not until he took it off and the world rushed back, sharp and near. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t the ring at all. Perhaps it was just seeing Thorin again, alive and unharmed. And the look on his face when Bilbo stepped out of the shadows into the dark cellar, stumbling to the bars and reaching through them, made every grim dreadful day before that moment feel worth enduring.

Red 

cinders smouldered in the hearth. The last night in Esgaroth held no peace. From his place by the fire in the common room, Bilbo had already watched Dwalin lecturing Kili on his excessive flair with a sword, and Oin muttering to himself a list of burn remedies. Then Balin appeared and, for reasons Bilbo could only guess at, suggested that he review the contract and put his affairs in order.

Bilbo could recall the word incineration perfectly well without revisiting anything, thank you very much. And while he wasn’t in danger of fainting this time, he had just enough to firmly order everyone out and to their rooms.

So when Thorin returned from a final meeting with the Master of Lake-town long past midnight, and without so much as a greeting said, “I am not certain I’ll see another night, so I would rather say this now,” Bilbo let out a groan and buried his face in a pillow.

Thorin’s plan wasn’t going to work anyway — Bilbo’s hair still wasn’t long enough for a braid. So they spent the better part of an hour going back and forth over every possible custom that might suffice, Shire and Erebor alike. But there were no flowers here in Winterfilth, no ribbons, and no one could manage to find a gift worth giving, especially with half of their belongings still somewhere in Mirkwood. It was not, by any measure, going well.

That was, until Bilbo remembered Thorin speaking once of family colours. The suggestion, unfortunately, made something shift in Thorin’s face: the royal blue, he said, was not yet his to offer, not until the Mountain was reclaimed and the crown was his by right. Bilbo kept his thoughts on that to himself, though there were many. Instead, he let out a breath and sent a slow ring of smoke curling toward the ceiling, then rolled over to meet Thorin’s gaze, storm-dark and brooding.

“Well. In that case, you might like to know that Baggins is a very respectable name. And we’ve a few traditions of our own.”

He paused, watching Thorin across the narrow distance between them. 

“How do you feel about red?”

Blue 

shadows spilled across the rock face beneath the crescent moon. Speckled shards of the snail shell glinted on the stone, and in that moment Bilbo knew — a heartbeat before the keyhole revealed itself in the moonlight, he knew. He wasn’t making much sense as he called out, barely coherent, but thankfully Thorin didn’t need much. He stepped back at the sound of Bilbo’s voice, and everything sprang into motion — the next thing Bilbo knew, they were standing before the black hollow of the door. 

The quest was nearing its end. The last threshold stood before him, and Bilbo was about to cross it. 

Alone.

Red

was absent in only one place; in a hidden, single bare patch to the left of Smaug’s chest. And Bilbo prayed to Yavanna with everything he had that somehow, against all odds, that would be enough.

Blue 

was the colour of Durin’s folk. 

Which Bilbo would have never guessed now, standing before the King Under the Mountain draped in gilded armour, crowned in gold, cloaked in cloth threaded through with fire-bright strands. Even the beads in Thorin’s hair had changed, silver traded for solid gold. Nausea rose in Bilbo’s throat at the thousand mirrored gleams, at the weightless glare of it all. Thorin was gone, swallowed whole by splendour, and Bilbo, once brave enough to steal from a dragon, could not bring himself to meet his eyes. 

Red 

was the tip of Bofur’s pipe, a lone ember against the watchtower dark. Somewhere beyond the valley, fires burned in the camps of elves and men. Bilbo had never lived through a siege before, but this feeling — the strained hush of a moonless night, breath fogging in the air, the slow weight of snow burying stone and field alike — this he remembered.

When Bofur left, Bilbo cinched his jacket tighter, checked every knot twice, and let the rope slip over the edge. Five hours remained until the next watch — five hours to make his way down the slope, cross the Celduin, and find Bard among the tents, if luck was with him.

The wind keened low through the stones, and for a moment, Bilbo shut his eyes. Then he stepped forward — feet slipping for a heartbeat on the rimed ledge, rope biting into his palm — and the snowfall drowned him, like it once drowned the hills and homes.

Blue 

were Thorin Oakenshield’s eyes, and Bilbo had never learned to fear them. Not even now, when his back struck stone, weightless mail shifting against his ribs, he wasn’t afraid. 

The world around him — the commotion of the Company, the rumble of armies at the gates — faded, narrowed to Thorin’s face and the sharp air atop the ramparts. The wind caught in his hair. Bilbo wasn’t afraid. How absurd would it be to survive goblins, outwit spiders, and outlive a dragon, only to die here, looking up at the face he could barely recognise, distorted, disgusted. Bilbo had to bite down hard on the laughter rising in his throat.

Had he ever told anyone how funerals were held in the Shire? Would they bury him with his sword, as in the old tales? That was probably a moment for his last words. He would prefer Sting to not rot in soil. He would prefer many things. Was he to say something to Thorin now, to try and stop his hands? He tried words. He tried all of them, he tried pleas and promises, and none had reached Thorin. 

Perhaps none could. Perhaps it would take something else. 

And if so, Bilbo could make his peace with it.

He decided, after all, that he could let himself laugh. So that the last thing Thorin remembered would be something kind, something to soften the inevitable weight of realisation. 

The plan was ruined by Gandalf. Then Bofur’s hands were on Bilbo’s shoulders, the rope shoved into his grasp, hooves echoed down the stone, and—

and the battle Bilbo had been ready to die to prevent had begun.

Red 

cloaks from Lake-town lay scattered across the ruins of Dale, covering the faces,

and Blue 

was the sky above.

Red 

was the sweep of Tauriel’s hair as she rushed past him,

and Blue 

were Thorin’s eyes, when Bilbo found him atop Ravenhill. In time. Alive, unharmed, familiar, in time, thank Valar, in time.

Red

was the flash when the stone struck his temple, just before the world turned dark,

then Blue 

was ice,

and Red

was blood. A lot of it. So much of it, too much of it, spilling hot and fast through his fingers no matter how tightly he pressed, no matter how steady his voice was when he begged — ordered — Thorin to hold on. 

Blue

was lamplight, shivering against canvas walls, a weak barrier against the night’s restless sounds. Footsteps rushed past, voices whispered urgent and low, punctuated by muted cries of pain. The scent of boiled willow-bark filled the air. A dull ache had settled deep between Bilbo’s shoulder blades, he could barely move his neck without a wave of pain. The wax dripped down to the edge of the table, melting the minutes away — excruciatingly long, heavy minutes. Eight candles were gone. Bilbo’s eyelids kept drifting shut, but each time they sagged he jerked upright, fingers tightening against Thorin’s wrist. Bilbo could not let himself miss anything.

Because what if—

What if he missed something last?

Red 

crept through fresh bandages. The world blurred. Someone dropped the basin, hurried orders snapped through the air, hands gently pushed Bilbo back, voices sharpening into Khuzdûl and Sindarin both. Bilbo staggered outside and coughed, choking on cold air. When another healer rushed to the tent and closed heavy tent-flaps behind him, Bilbo made a few unsteady steps and collapsed entirely. Snow stung his palms as he knelt, and he let tears spill down his face — for the first and only time.

Blue

was gentiana steeping in a copper pot. Steam curled upward, sharp with root-bitterness and the sting of crushed pine resin. Bilbo’s knuckles ached from hours spent cutting and grinding, the scent soaked into his sleeves.

The healers called the third night a first threshold, deciding whether things will get better or worse. That had passed. So had the seventh. Today was the tenth day, the last of the turning-point nights was gone, and.

and Thorin did not wake.

Red 

was the setting sun. Bilbo had ceased his whispered pleas days ago; and now found himself wishing for nothing but certainty, even if it meant any certainty. Because he could not possibly face another night of not knowing.

Yet when a quiet healer approached, finding him midway to the tent with an armful of clean linens, Bilbo froze, heart thudding painfully in his throat, ice-sharp dread slicing through his chest.

Not yet.

Please, not yet.

The elf, who had lines etched softly around eyes older than Bilbo had ever seen on her kin, paused respectfully at a distance, as if afraid to get closer. Everybody seemed to be walking on eggshells around him lately. 

Bilbo shut his eyes tightly, counted – five – six – seven – and forced himself to straighten his spine. 

“Tell me.”

Blue and red 

were the anemones in Bilbo’s wreath. It was a beautiful day, warm and gentle, and Bilbo was rather pleased with himself for slipping away from the endless stream of congratulations before they could dull the lightness in his chest. He hadn’t, however, accounted for the fact that Kings under the Mountain do not get this lucky, so he lay on his back in the meadow, bit the end off a green stem and began to bask, watching the clouds drift by.

“You were harder to find than I expected.”

Bilbo opened one eye. Thorin stood over him, the ceremonial robe still draped across his shoulders, its corners newly stitched with tiny blue flowers where golden patterns used to be. 

“Well, it’s something of a gift,” Bilbo murmured. “Helped me survive family gatherings.”

“Indeed, you have to teach me your mastery.” Thorin dropped to the ground beside Bilbo, exhaling as though something long clenched had finally been let go. 

Bilbo hummed, this time not bothering looking. “Maybe I w—”

Before he could finish the phrase, the ground suddenly disappeared from under him. Bilbo opened his eyes and let out a startled yelp as his world flipped — sky replaced by a face, close and bright and far too amused. 

“You ruined my wreath,” Bilbo informed, fingers settling more securely on Thorin’s wrist, right where the red ribbon encircled it.

Thorin laughed. 

“I’ll make you a new one,” he said. “These flowers grow wild here, come spring. Look.”

He reached past Bilbo’s shoulder, plucked one and tucked it behind his ear. The breeze stirred the grass, sunlight caught in Thorin’s hair and lit the edge of his smile.

Far beyond the green slopes, the Dale’s bells began to ring, carefree and steady through the wind.