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Chapter Text

Bilbo knew the journey would be long and arduous. Maybe not this arduous but he knew there would be inevitable complications. It had been early summer when he chased after the dwarfs to go on his ‘adventure’, and the time seemed to both fly by and creep up on him.

They were resting in the mountain, wery from the battle and healing from their wounds, when Bilbo felt the chill in the air for the first time. Fall was coming. For a moment Bilbo smiled fondly before the reminder of how far away from home he was set in. He would miss the Fall Festival.

He had loved the festival as a child, setting out treats and watching the leaves turn a brilliant shade of red and orange. Yavanna’s spirits were high during the changing of the seasons and it was always a sight to behold.

He was reminiscing (not moping thank you very much) when he felt a bandaged hand fall on his shoulder. “What’s with the long face master burglar.” a dwarf asked, Thrin if Bilbo remembered correctly, his eyes a mix of amusement and pity.

Bilbo hated the pity in their eyes, as if he had been forced away from his home against his will. The dwarfs treated him gently and with kindness, that was true, but they never seemed to understand how a ‘soft looking thing like Bilbo’ could have made it through the journey.

Bilbo smiled thinly, looking back out over the mountain from the balcony he was on. “Just thinking of the seasons. It will be Fall soon.” he explained with a wistful tone. “I’ll be missing the festival back home. Just a bit disappointing that's all.”

“Well if it's a festival you want, I'm sure King Thorin would be happy to throw one for his nogazen” Thrin said with a clap on his back. “What kind of festival do you hobbit folks throw? Planting daisies and roses I assume.”

Bilbo felt heat rise to his cheeks as he glared at the man. “Daisies and roses are hardly Fall flowers, thank you very much. And besides I couldn't possibly ask Thorin for such a thing, we barely have the supplies to keep ourselves well fed as it is.”

The dwarf smiled fondly, as if Bilbo was a temperamental child. “Now now, I'm sure he wouldn't mind one bit. We can spare some supplies for a festival if it’s really important to ya.”

Bilbo turned away with a huff. “It's fine. We don't even have all the things for a proper festival anyway. And while I don't doubt the main event would even be possible in the mountain, the real question remains of whether it's the responsible thing to do.” he said with a sigh, placing his chin on his palm as he leaned over the rail. “But i will admit i do feel a bit bad that ill be missing it. It will be my first festival away from home.”

There was a moment of silence between them, before the dwarfs' tone softened. “Well what would you be missing? Even if we can't do it all, maybe talking about it would help ease your heart.”

Bilbo allowed his mind to wander back home with a feeling of nostalgia. “Seeing as how it's the first chill, the festival would begin with communal harvesting of any remaining crops. Preparations for the upcoming winter, and stories of winter's past. Specifically, the fell winter in more recent years." Bilbo explained.

“Once the chill starts to set in, the Thain and I would go around and do inventory on our crofters. What is missing is then harvested by the community from the last of the remaining crops, and once we have enough to last us the winter a bonfire would be lit. It would be a community effort to keep it burning until winter's end. A well maintained fire at the beginning of spring is seen as a sign of good fortune for the next year, while an extinguished fire is a warning of trouble in the shire." Bilbo leaned back with a small smile.

“But most importantly is the festival of fallen leaves. It's a party that begins when our cousins return from their time away, and we all watch as the leaves turn red, the animals go into hiding, and the wind turns chilly. It's celebrated all seven nights, until our cousins must leave come morning light. We eat, and drink, and tell stories and sing songs. It's the height of the festival.”

Thrin seemed surprised with how much went into these festivals, obviously not expecting the ‘halflings’ to have much culture outside of pretty plants and lazing about in warm homes. He had a thoughtful look in his eyes as he gazed at Bilbo for a long moment before he nodded decisively. “That don't sound too hard to replicate. Though we may have to replace that bonfire with a furnace so the heat don't go to waste. Would that work?”

Bilbo hummed thoughtfully. “The point of the bonfire is to warm the community through the winter. I suppose the furnaces are for the same purpose, so yes. I believe that's an acceptable substitute.”

Thrin smiled and stood. “Then let's find a good furnace and ask King Thorin for permission to mark that one fer yer festival. No reason for you to be homesick so soon after you returned our home to us.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins was an odd sort of fellow, Thorin decided early on into the journey. Not only did he come running after them to join their quest, but he complained nonstop about the most trivial of things. His handkerchief was left behind, he was allergic to horses, he had never ridden before.

But nothing was quite as strange as what happened the first few hours after their departure.

Kili, ever forgetful, had declared that he needed to use the bathroom a mere 3 hours after they left. As he always did. So the company slowed to a stop and allowed him to go off to relieve himself. During that time Bilbo's voice rang out cheerfully.

“Oh! Hello cousin! What a pleasant surprise.”

Thorin inwardly groaned. He had assumed they were already far past the shires boundaries, but apparently the edge of the shire still had occupants.

“Me?” Bilbo mused to a voice Thorin couldn't quite hear with how far back he was. “I’m off on an adventure to help these drow reclaim their homeland, or something to that effect. I didn't quite read the contract fully.”

Thorin needed to cut this off now before they had any more delays. “We haven't got time for your pleasantries halfli-” thoring was cut off as he turned to see Bilbo alone in the back just as he was before, no other hobbit in sight.

“I am half nothing, I'll thank you very much for remembering that.” Bilbo huffed in aggravation as he readjusted on his horse.

“Where is the cousin you were speaking to?” Thorin demanded looking around for some sign of the other halfling.

Bilbo blinked looking around before shrugging, “Must have run off. Their quite shy around non-hobbity folk. And very busy from the look of things” he said looking around the forest.

Thorin looked around as well, trying to see how anything about these woods could be considered ‘busy’ but by then Kili had returned and he put the thought out of his mind.

“When we set up camp, you will read your contract in FULL burglar. I wont have you claiming we have swindled you.” he called back, only to be met with embarrassed laughter.

Chapter Text

Bilbo felt warmed to his core, touched at how easily he was being accommodated in the mountain as he followed Thrin to the medical tents where Thorin was still on bedrest. Not that that stopped him from leading his people, even if he was confined to the tent and speaking through paper decrees.

The medical tents were under strict guard, not to keep people out but to keep the wiley king IN. He kept attempting to sneak out to help with the rebuilding efforts, or even to just see his people alive and healthy. It was as admirable as it was frustrating. The man had nearly died in Bilbo's arms, the least he could do was stay put while he healed.

Seeing Bilbo, the guards allowed them in right away, having learned the hard way that the only thing harder than keeping the king in was keeping him out. They entered without fanfare, Bilbo's eyes landing on Thorin's heavily bandaged form. He never got tired of seeing his dearest friend alive.

“Bilbo, a pleasant surprise. Who is this you've brought with you?” Thorin asked, sitting up slowly and painfully, which Bilbo immediately put a stop to as always, rushing over and gently pushing him back down into the bed.

“How many times must I tell you to stay put before it gets through your thick dwarven skull.” Bilbo asked with a fond huff. “This is Thrin, Hes . . .” Bilbo petered off trying to think of how to explain Thrin’s company.

“I’m hoping to be his personal guard.” Thrin cut in, back straight and eyes resting on Thorin. Bilbo whipped around incredulously, this being the first he had heard of this. Thorin’s eyes zeroed in on the dwarf, eyes narrowed in consideration.

“What makes you think you deserve that role?” Thorin asked with a stern tone, increasing Bilbo's incredulousness.

Thrin somehow straightened even more, eyes determined. “I will discuss my reasons with you later. For now we've come with a request from your nogazen that he is too shy to bring to you himself.”

“I am NOT shy!” Bilbo cut in firmly. “It's simply not plausible to have the whole festival here in the mountains, especially the more extravagant celebrations! That's why we're compromising with a furnace is it not?”

“Festival?” Thorin asked, turning to Bilbo curiously. “What festival? Is there some hobbit holiday coming up that we don't know about?”

Bilbo stuttered for a moment, knowing exactly where this conversation would lead if he was not careful. But before he could assure Thorin that there was nothing of importance happening, Thrin cut in smuggly.

“Your nogazen has caught a bit of homesickness.” He explained. “Apparently there is a festival that hobbits have to celebrate the changing of the seasons. He is sad he will miss it.”

“That is a grievous oversimplification of the situation!” Bilbo spluttered in disbelief. “I was simply a bit nostalgic that's all! There really is no reason to make a big fuss about this.”

“You will miss your festival?” Thorin asked softly, eyes warming with understanding and something Bilbo was resolutely denying he saw if only to save his heart.

Bilbo turned to Thrin crossly, “You had this planned the whole time didn't you.” he accused pointing a finger at the unrepentant dwarf.

“Perhaps.” Thrin confirmed with a smug smile as he bowed. “Master Baggins has explained three important factors to this festival, though I believe we can only perform two of them properly. The first is a communal harvesting of the crops before winter, something we can replicate with foraging as we need to do that anyway. Then there is a matter of a winter long bonfire, that Master Baggins has agreed can be replicated with a furnace. Finally, and this is the one we may have to forgo, his family gathers around and watches the season change with a large party. I believe he said drinking, stories, and songs were involved.”

Bilbo was dumbfounded at how easily he had been played. His plans of a low effort replication of the fall festival were practically in tatters now as he watched the gears turn in thorin's mind. Bilbo needed to cut him off before he got any big ideas, or there would be no stopping the stubborn dwarf.

“Thorin, it really is not that big of a deal. It's one silly festival, it’s mostly meant for fauntlings really. A fun introduction to our cousins, with full bellies and history passed down in entertaining ways. There really is no reason to-”

“I like the sound of this festival.” Thorin declared, and all hope in bilbo died immediately. “Thrin, begin the preparations for the harvesting of wild roots and vegetables. Locate some spots where they are abundant and can make for a suitable substitute for fields.”

Thrin bowed deeply, eyeing Bilbo with a grin as he quickly left before he could complain. And he would complain, mind you. Bilbo turned to thorin with a cross yet pleading look. “This really is quite unnecessary Thorin. We have bigger things to address than some silly festival from my home.”

“Maybe.” Thorin agreed. “But don't you agree that we need something good right now to celebrate? We have our home back, yes, but there is much work to be done to repair it before it's livable. Moral is high, but it will wane as the air grows colder. Your festival might just be the thing we need to keep our spirits up.”

Bilbo's cheeks turned red at Thorin's soft tone, the need to be unobtrusive warring with the need to make people happy. He had a point, Bilbo conceded. Right now spirits were high with the victory still fresh in their minds, but that wouldn't last long as winter descended on them.

Bilbo sighed and nodded, thorin's face lighting up at his easy agreement. “Fine. we’ll have the festival, BUT it must stay within reason! We can't have any grand meals that decimate our meager rations.”

“Of Course Ghivashel” Thorin mused, ears turning slightly pink. Bilbo reached over to feel his forehead, worried about oncoming sickness from the chill, only for thorin to wave him away with a chuckle. “I am fine, simply tired. Call for Nori, tell him everything that we need for your festival. He will make sure it is done within our means.”

Bilbo huffed but nodded, knowing there was no getting out of this now. He patted Thorin's hand in farewell as he left the tent in search for the spy master. And perhaps Ori as well, he may enjoy documenting the first fall festival of the mountains.

Chapter Text

It wasn't till a few days later, when Thorin had long since put the incident out of his mind, that he was reminded of the strangeness of their new burglar. They were setting up camp when Bilbo wandered back looking worried.

“We should keep moving. There are trolls in these parts.” He all but squeaked, causing Thorin to roll his eyes at the halfling's cowardness. Trolls usually stayed in one spot, hunting and scavenging around a den. There were usually signs of trolls in an area, signs Thorin couldnt see in this place.

“We are perfectly safe master baggins. We camp here for the night.”

“But my cousin warned me of a troll near here. Really we should keep going and-”

Thorin cut Bilbo off with a hard stare. “I said we camp here. Your cousin is mistaken, there are no signs of trolls here. Maybe in the past there were but I see no sign of them now.”

Bilbo gulped nervously but nodded in acquiescence. “Very well, if you're quite sure.”

And yet, it was just as he said, later in the night a few ponies were stolen and the company came charging in on Bilbo being nearly eaten by trolls. Not to mention how they themselves were very nearly eaten themselves, if not for Bilbo's quick thinking and the wizards' timely arrival.

They found the den nearby, and realised the reason there were so few signs was because the den looked abandoned. Likely a group of young trolls who had taken over an abandoned den for their own, and had not yet traveled around it yet.

They managed to find a few good trinkets to arm themselves with, even the halfling found a small blade for himself. Not that he knew how to use it, obviously, but it was better than the nothing he had before.

He had half a mind to teach him how to not poke his eye out, but dismissed the thought. He would not be with them for long, in fact Thorin would be surprised if he was still there when they woke the next morning.

He was quite surprised the next morning to see the hobbit still there.

Chapter Text

Bilbo, despite all his misgivings regarding the necessity of this festival, couldn't help but be excited. He had always loved the festivals of the seasons, ever since he was a faunt and was being held up by his mother to better greet his cousins.

Speaking of his cousins he would have to get his hands on a calendar to be able to tell when to have the Fallen leaves festival’s main event. There was much to prepare for, and he was sure his cousins would not hold their less than grand welcome against them. Still the odd look he got from Ori when he asked for a calendar threw him.

“A calendar? I thought this festival was a season long? Are there specific days we should be celebrating?” he asked as he searched around and Bilbo understood where the confusion came from.

“The Bonfire is a season long, yes. But the harvest is before the festival and the festival itself lasts about a week, at the end of Halimath and the beginning of Winterfilth.” Bilbo explained as Ori passed over a calendar. The group had largely lost track of time in the mirkwood forest, but according to Bard it was currently the 5th of Halimath on the shires calendar. He quickly realised dwarvish calendars would be little help, so with ori’s help he set about sketchout his own.

Once the calendar was complete he took it to the tent where Thorin and the rest of the company was waiting, laying it out on a table for them to see.

“We’re a bit early-” Bilbo began as he pointed towards the calendar, “ But tradition states that the festival’s preparations should begin with the first chill, not on a specific date. Since it gets cold faster here, we will be a bit ahead of the shire as far as celebrations go.”

Thorin looked over the calendar, eyes falling on the few circled dates. “And those? What are the significance of those dates?” Thorin asked curiously.

Bilbo pointed them out with a smile. “Those are the days my cousins shall be visiting. It is also when the festival is to be at its peak, with grand parties and families gathering around the bonfire to share stories.”

“Your cousins!” Fili asked with wide eyes. “Your cousins will be here?”

Bilbo nodded with curious eyes. “Yes, naturally. It's not a fall festival without cousins. They should be arriving on this day, the 28th of Halimath, and will be here for a week before returning home.”

“They are welcome, of course.” Thorin cut in with a glare around the room. “Any family of yours is welcome in our halls.”

“Oh don't say that.” Bilbo jested with a mischievous look. “I have some absolutely dreadful cousins if you recall. Not to mention my dear aunt, may her garden wither.”

The company looked around awkwardly for a moment, struggling to recall the tales of Bilbo's extended family. It's not that he doesn't talk about them, he's mentioned his cousins and aunt plenty of times when telling stories of his home. They just . . .

What were their names again?

Bilbo continued on, oblivious to the dwarfs' forgetfulness as he continued talking about the early preparations. By the time any of them got the nerve to ask for more information on his cousins, the conversation had already long since moved on and asking now would be rude. Especially with how well Bilbo himself recalled their own extended family and familial bonds.

Yes, asking for clarification was absolutely a bad idea at this moment. Perhaps they could later on bring up the subject, but for now they had bigger things to focus on, like Bilbo's explanation of harvesting rotations to prevent overharvesting of the few naturally growing food sources they had.

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Harvesting began on the 8th of Halimath, and it was relatively simple. It was a chore they needed to do anyway, gathering food for the wounded and non-wounded residents of the lonely mountain. The river leading through the fishing caves provided plenty of much needed protein, but their vegetable and carb options were limited with the farms decimated during Smaug's initial attack.

They had already set out on rebuilding the farms, with Bilbo's materful insight being a great boon (who knew wood ash could be used to carefully control the dirt's natural properties?) but the first harvest wouldn't be until early winter, with their crop options limited to what could grow well enough in the cold.

What was new was Bilbo's voice carrying over the patches of wild root vegetables, telling stories of his home and festivals of the past. His hands were covered in dirt, his voice waxing and waning with effort as he struggled to pull the deeper roots up from the hardened soil. But even with his struggles, he did not stop telling the tale of when one of his neighbors had knocked over a bucket of corn straight into a pile of manure, and was forced to be the one to take that corn for himself.

Thorin watched from his chair, under strict orders not to stand and attempt to help with anything other than sorting the harvest by size in the nearby baskets. His eyes never left Bilbo as he spoke, hands itching to join him.

Soon others began to throw in their own stories, not of harvesting as was traditional but of their families. Of friends, and silly mishaps. And most importantly, of the mountain before the attack. Tales of towering furnaces that ran hot water through toe walls of the mountain to keep them warm. Bustling marketplaces and wild grand parties. A time when dwarf and elf, while not friendly, were on good terms with each other. Good enough for trade and celebrations, if nothing else.

There were stories of the mountain before the gold sickness too. Rumors and stories told by people too young to have experienced it themselves. But stories all the same. The dwarfs slowly came to see why the small halflings enjoyed this tradition. Something about the hard work of tending a field mixed with rambunctious laughter and heartwarming stories made the harvest feel that much more plentiful.

Bofur, never one to resist a good tale, picked up the thread. “We had a cousin,” he said, brushing dirt from a gnarled tuber, “who used to swear by a secret recipe for mining lantern oil. Claimed it burned twice as long. Turned out he’d been mixing lamp oil with cherry brandy. Worked like a charm—until it didn’t. Set half the western tunnel blinking like a firework show.”

There was laughter—raucous and genuine—and Bilbo wheezed through his chuckles, leaning on his knees.

Ori, quieter but no less nostalgic, offered a story. “My mother used to carve little figurines out of beetroot. Gave one to me before the march to Moria—shaped like a lion, though it looked more like a goat. I left it behind when we fled. Still remember how her hands smelled like earth and vinegar from the pickling jars.”

Silence followed that one, but it wasn’t awkward. Just a moment of shared weight. Bilbo met Ori’s eyes and gave a small nod—one of those acknowledgements that needed no words.

Kíli, ever the mischief-maker, was the next to break the stillness. “We once tied Uncle Thorin’s braids to the dining bench while he was reviewing mining reports. Took him an hour to figure it out. He stood up and dragged the whole bench behind him like a tail.”

“Kíli.” Thorin’s voice carried the threat of reprimand, but there was no heat to it.

Fíli grinned and added, “He made us scrub the floor for three weeks. Worth it.”

Bilbo laughed again—less at the story, more at the look on Thorin’s face. Not anger. Just long-suffering dignity.

Bilbo mentioned his family a few times, in passing. And Thorin was always tempted to ask for clarification, but the moment never seemed right. Or maybe it was his own shame that stopped him, mortified that he had paid so little attention to his dearest friend. His one.

No, there would be a better time to ask about his family than when they were elbow deep in the ground pulling up roots and sharing stories.

Chapter Text

Thorin was NOT happy with the wizards meddling, leading to them bunkering down with Elves of all creatures. They had been there for scarcely a few hours and already Thorin was ready to leave.

They had been treated with what appeared to be hospitality, but he could feel it was a veneer to hide passive aggressive insults to him and his country. They had been fed, watered, and even given room to sleep, and thorin hated it all.

It was Bofur, wiping crumbs from his coat and chuckling over Bombur’s exaggerated snoring, who first said it:

“Where’s Bilbo?”

There was a pause. Heads turned. No one had noticed him leave.

“Wasn’t he by the fig tree?” Ori asked, pointing to where Bilbo had been not long ago with a book in his lap.

Kíli shrugged. “He was. Then he wasn’t.”

That was all Thorin needed.

Halfling or not, he was not going to have any member of his company keeping the company of elves.

He was just about to go hunt down the annoying little man when he suddenly appeared in the doorway looking to be in good spirits.

“Where were you?” Thorin demanded looming over him. “Consorting with the enemy were you?”

“What? What on earth are you going on about?” Bilbo asked, looking exasperated. “I was simply visiting my cousins.”

“You have cousins here?” Oin asked, catching the attention of the rest of the company. Bilbo blushed at the incredulous tone but nodded.

“Yes, quite a few. We never see these specific cousins outside of festivals, naturally as they work here, but a cousin is a cousin and it would be rude of me not to stop by while i'm here.” he explained, and Thorin relaxed minutely.

“I've said before we don't have time for your pleasantries.” he scolded the man who had the decency to look sheepish. “But I suppose since you made it quick there is no harm done. Just don’t leave without telling someone again. Can't have you wandering off.”

“I’ll try and make myself known next time.” Bilbo said unapologetically.

Chapter Text

Bilbo couldn't help but feel slightly irritated at the thoughtless thoughtfulness of dwarfs. While it was true they couldn't hold a bonfire in the mountain, for several reasons, they could dedicate one of the great furnaces they had just spent so long excavating and repairing as a hearth.

And they would! Once Bilbo got it through their heads that it wasn't as easy as lighting the fire and being done with it. There were things to be done before, and even DURING the burning that held important significance.

Granted a few traditions would have to be forgone with the nature of the fire not being open on all sides, but still!

“I don't understand Ghivashel. What is so important about the wood we use that we can't just take from the forest?” Thorin sighed once again as Bilbo planned to lead a troop of dwarfs around the outskirts of mirkwood.

“We CAN’T use that wood! It’s beech wood! Not to mention It's clearly cursed!” Bilbo sputtered in agitation. “Think of all the bad luck we would bring onto the next year! No no, what we need is a good maple tree. Maybe a few oaks if we can manage it. I believe I saw a few in Beorn’s area, perhaps we could ask the elfs to guide us through for some.”

“Absolutely not.” Thorin said sternly. “The woods are too dangerous and-”

“And you would rather die than ask for an elf to help us.” Bilbo finished knowingly. “Yes yes i know, but we are SUPPOSED to be making nice with them. Rekindling the alliance, remember?”

Thorin grimaced but nodded petulantly. “Yes but there's no need to strain our luck with them, when we have perfectly good wood here. Not to mention how tedious it would be to get wood from beorn all winter.”

“It wouldn't be for the whole winter, just the lighting.” Bilbo explained patiently. “We simply need enough to start the fire, and to carve wishes.”

“Wishes?” Thorin asked, perking up. “What sorts of wishes?”

Bilbo looks surprised that he had not explained in detail the tradition of the bonfire yet. It must have slipped his mind in his haste to find the proper wood before the deadline. No wonder he was being so stubborn about the matter of wood.

“Every member of your family takes a piece of bark from an oak or maple tree and carve your wishes for the coming winter into it.” Bilbo added carefully, “Things like good luck, or an easy winter are common, but some also wish for more personal things such as a happy marriage or a successful business.”

“Can you carve any wish into the wood? Or only things for the winter?” Thorin asked carefully, and Bilbo smiled.

“Any wish is acceptable. You can even wish for others if you want, such as wishing for a family member's good health. It’s said that if you keep the fire going all winter, by spring time your wish will come true.”

Thorin looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding. “Very well. If it's only for the lighting then I don't see why you can't ask the elves for their assistance in gathering the wood. But I wont have you traveling there yourself! It's much too dangerous.”

“It won't be as dangerous with the elves there!” Bilbo argued sternly. “I would be fine-”

“I won't allow it.” Thorin said sharply, eyes fixed on bilbo. “Not if I can't be there to protect you.”

Bilbo's face flushed at the low tone of his voice, but his exasperation quickly overroad any feelings he was ignoring as he huffed in aggravation.

“I don't need protection Thorin. As you know, I can handle myself. In Fact if I remember correctly, I was the only one of our company to avoid being imprisoned during our travels." Bilbo said with a puffed out chest.

Thorin chuckled and nodded, placing a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. “I am well aware. But please, for my sake. Don't go. I only just got you back, and I know I was the one who . . .” His voice becomes clogged with emotion and Bilbo's heart seizes at the reminder of his temporary exile. “Who sent you away. . . but I can't lose you again.”

Bilbo allows the two of them to stand together in silence for a moment before he nods numbly. “Ok. I'll stay in the mountain.”

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn't take long for the wood to arrive, despite Bilbo’s worries through the near week it took for the pack of dwarves to return. And return they did, on the 16th of Halimath, with bundles and bundles of wood, more than enough for their wishes and lighting of the bonfire.

A pack of fifteen dwarves, mostly younger ones from the Iron Hills contingent, rounded the bend of the road leading up the mountain, their carts groaning beneath the weight of their haul. Piled high and tied down with rope, the wagons brimmed with bundles of timber—some thick and solid for burning long and hot, others thinner and dry, perfect for kindling and fire-starting.
“We brought double what was on your list, Master Baggins!” one of the younger dwarves called out, hoisting a bundle overhead with theatrical flair. “Figured it’s better to be too warm than not warm enough!”

Bilbo, caught somewhere between alarm and admiration, opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again. “Well,” he finally said, hands on his hips, “I suppose I did worry about missing roasting chestnuts... and pipeweed always smokes better beside a proper flame.”

Thorin had appeared quietly behind him, arms crossed and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, preening at finally being allowed to move around with a tentative promise to be careful. “You were worried for nothing.”

“I was not worried,” Bilbo lied with the stubbornness of someone who absolutely had been. “I was simply... planning for the worst.”

The King chuckled under his breath. “As always.”

Thorin took to ordering the group to take the wood to the hearth, where it would be dried in preparation for the first lighting of the fire.

Chapter Text

The forest had settled into a strange sort of quiet—thick, like a wool blanket pressed over the world. The usual sounds of birds and wind had faded away the deeper they went, leaving only the shuffle of boots on moss and the creak of leather straps as the Company trudged on. Even the dwarves had gone silent, sensing something strange in the stillness.

Thorin kept to the front, eyes scanning the trees, every step deliberate. There was something in the air—something off. Not threatening exactly, but… strange. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He slowed slightly, glancing behind to check the line of his Company. All present, though Bilbo was lagging a bit near the rear, frowning at nothing.

Then the hobbit spoke, voice low and distant: “We should watch our step. Trolls, I think.”

Thorin stopped short, hand instantly on the hilt of his sword. The others froze behind him.

“Trolls?” he asked, turning sharply. “Where?”

Bofur had already swung his pack around, scanning the treeline. Dwalin bristled, axe in hand. “They following us? Lurking off the path?”

“Didn’t think we were in troll country anymore,” he heard Dwalin mutter.

Bilbo looked up, blinking at their alarm like it hadn’t occurred to him that the word troll might cause a stir. “Oh, no, not… not like before,” he said with a vague little wave of his hand. “Different sort.”

Thorin frowned. “What sort, exactly?”

Bilbo just shrugged. “Just… the kind that show up when the mood’s right. Usually friendly. Mostly harmless. But, you know, best to be polite. And don’t step on anything that sparkles.”

Then he turned and kept walking as though that had clarified anything at all.

Thorin remained rooted for a moment, eyes narrowing as he tried—and failed—to make sense of what the hobbit had just said.

“Polite?” he heard Gloin grumble behind him. “We’re supposed to be polite to trolls now?”

“Something’s off with him,” Nori muttered.

“Maybe he ate something strange,” Dori added.

Thorin said nothing for a long moment. He didn’t like this. There was no scent of stone-flesh or burnt hide, no sign of tracks or shattered trees—but Bilbo had spoken with a kind of certainty. Like he wasn’t guessing. Like he knew what he’d heard.

“I don’t like it,” Thorin said quietly. “Keep your weapons close.”

They moved on, slower now, more cautious. Thorin glanced back once to find Bilbo humming something—soft, almost cheerful, and utterly out of place in the darkened wood.

The hobbit didn’t explain further.

And that, more than anything, made Thorin uneasy.

Chapter Text

“So,” Balin said, smoothing his beard, “your cousins, they’ll be joining us soon, aye?”

Bilbo didn’t look up right away. He was arranging lavender and marigold into little woven twists of straw. “Yes, in a few days now” he said. “They come when the leaves turn and the air is just right. Always have.”

Balin blinked at the poetic phrasing but nodded along as if it were completely normal. “We’d like to prepare something fitting for them, of course. Family of yours, and guests of Erebor.” A pause. “Any particular tastes we should be mindful of?”

“Oh, nothing extravagant,” Bilbo replied airily, tying off a bundle with twine. “Sweetened milk and whipped cream is traditional, but since we’re still low on dairy, a platter of fruit left in the open air will do nicely.”

Balin nodded, scribbled something into a little leather-bound ledger, then hesitated. “Fresh fruit. Right. Any preference for types?”

“They don’t like things with too many seeds,” Bilbo said, a bit too quickly. “Pears are safe. So are plums. Grapes, if they’re purple.”

Balin frowned. “No apples?”

“Only if they’re wind-fallen,” Bilbo said, not looking up. “Not picked.”

A long pause followed.

Kíli, from across the courtyard, called out as he set up lanterns, “Do they like music? Should we prepare something?”

“Nothing with cellos,” Bilbo said instantly. “Or brass. Keep to flutes and lighter strings. Or just humming.” Then, softer: “They’re particular about sound.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Are they shy?” Ori asked, puzzled.

Bilbo smiled, just a little. “You could say that.”

Ori knelt down crouching beside the table. “We were wondering if we could write out your cousins’ names on the welcome stones. It’s tradition in some of the mountain halls—names of honored guests carved by the hearthfire.”

Bilbo looked up, blinking owlishly as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh! Well… better not. It’s not really our way. In the Shire, we don’t fuss about with names at gatherings—especially not those cousins.”

Ori tilted his head. “They don’t like names?”

“Nothing like that,” Bilbo said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just that once you start carving names, you have to get the spelling just right, and my second-cousin-once-removed gets very upset about misplaced sounds. Then there’s the issue of which family names to use. If you use their Took name, the Bagginses get twitchy, and if you use the Baggins name, someone inevitably brings up the squirrel incident, and we do not have time for that.”

“Then what shall we write for them?” Ori asked, trying to find a good middle ground.

“Plant names is alway safe. Same with seasons or weather. The sound of running water will call some of them, but not all of them. It really depends on who you want where. Besides, they don't tend to stay in one place for long, much to do you see.”

“So they won't be staying very long then?” Thorin asked from the doorway and Bilbo jumped. “Oh no! No no, they'll come and go as they please. Some might just pop in for a quick hello, while others may stay and partake in some refreshments during the celebration.”

“What of the rooms we prepared for them?” Thorin asked incredulously. “Where will they sleep?”

Bilbo hummed. “I’m sure they'll be honored by the rooms we've prepared, it's not unheard of to have space in your house specifically for when the cousins visit.” he said standing as he admired his handiwork. Not bad if he did say so himself.

“They'll be fine sleeping pretty much anywhere though. And they take turns sleeping so there's always someone up and about, working and enjoying the party. Some faunts take to staying up as late as they can to try and watch them.”

“They sound like hard workers.” Thorin says admirably. “Why keep working through the festival though? Shouldn't it be a time of celebration?”

“That's just the way they are.” Bilbo explained.

“How many of your cousins should we plan to be hosting?” Balin asked scribbling down estimations on rations and necessities.

“That will entirely depend on them. After all we're not in the shire so we cant expect the cousins who show up there to show up here as well.” Bilbo said stretching.

“Well, how big are hobbit families?” Thorin asked and Bilbo looked surprised at the question before he hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, hobbit families vary quite a lot, I suppose. Some are small—just a few siblings, maybe a bachelor like myself lurking about. But the Tooks—my mother’s side—are… prolific.”
He glanced at the dwarves, who had paused to listen, a few eyebrows already rising in anticipation.

“My grandfather, Gerontius Took—the Old Took, we called him—had twelve children. And that was just him. Not to mention the brothers and sisters of his generation. When we held reunions, we needed charts and chalk to keep track of who was related to who. We used to joke that half the Shire was either married to or descended from a Took.” He shook his head, smiling at the memory.

“There were always babies. And children underfoot. Took children don’t so much grow as they explode—suddenly they’re running and climbing and shrieking and you’ve no idea whose they are, only that they’re sticky and demanding a third breakfast.”

Ori looked a little stunned. “That sounds… chaotic.”

“Utterly,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “But you get used to it. Cousins everywhere, popping out of wardrobes, getting into the preserves, tying the washing line to a pig. That sort of thing.”

Dwalin gave a low whistle. “And you kept track of them all?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Bilbo said, waving a hand. “You don’t track Tooks. You simply brace yourself and hope they don’t paint the cat again.”

Thorin, arms crossed, watched him carefully. “So, when you say ‘cousins’ might be joining us… you could mean anywhere from two to thirty?”

“At the very least ten.” Bilbo added with a smile. “We may not get many this festival because news hasn't spread of the mountain being reclaimed quite yet, but once they know we're here there will be quite a few who are curious i'm sure.”

Chapter Text

The escape from the goblins was as terrifying as it was hard, and the escape from the pale orc was even harder. But finally they were safe, hunkered down in the haven that was the shifter beorn’s home and licking their wounds like wounded dogs.

It was both a relief and a hit to his pride that he couldn't keep them safe on his own.

The wizard had a habit of coming and going, wandering around the safe garden and fields while Beorn was away hunting down the orcs. For now he was with the group, smoking a bit of pipeweed as the group reminisced on their adventure so far.

“I’m honestly surprised how far you've come, master baggins!” Bufor said joyfully. “For a while there I was worried you would leave us.”

Thorin tensed at the reminder of his harsh words, and the effect it had on the hobbit among them and couldn't help the shame that built in his chest. “I apologise again for that. My words were . . . unnecessarily harsh.”

Bilbo waved him off as if he was apologising for stepping on his shoe. “I can't say I blame you. I am a baggins after all, we’re not exactly known for our adventures.”

Gandalf hummed in disagreement. “Ah but you are just as much a Took as you are a Baggins.”

“Oh not this again.” Bilbo huffed and Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“A Took?” he asked, looking between the two.

“Don't ask-” Bilbo started but was cut off by gandalf's story.

“You see,” Gandalf began, gesturing with his pipe, “Bilbo isn’t just any hobbit. He’s part Took, on his mother’s side. The Tooks are… well, unusual for hobbits. Adventurous. Wild-spirited. Tall, by hobbit standards. And more than one of them has left the Shire to make some sort of name for themselves.”

Gloin snorted into his beard. “Aye, explains a few things.”

“But none,” Gandalf said, voice rising slightly, “quite as remarkable as Bilbo’s great-great-uncle Bullroarer Took.”

Balin leaned forward, intrigued. “I’ve heard that name before. A warrior, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, more than that,” Gandalf said, grinning now. “Bullroarer was so large—four foot five if he was an inch taller—that he could ride a horse. A real horse, mind you, not a shaggy little pony. First hobbit to do it, and I’d wager the last.”

Bilbo groaned softly into his hands. “Gandalf PLEASE-”

“And when the goblins of Mount Gram rose up and started terrorizing the North,” Gandalf said, his voice dropping into dramatic cadence, “who do you think led the charge to meet them in battle?”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Not your uncle.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo muttered, “my uncle.”

“He rode down with a great wooden club—none of this subtle sword work, no—and in the thick of the fight, he struck the goblin leader’s head clean off. Sent it flying over the battlefield like a stone from a catapult.”

Ori gasped.

“And it landed,” Gandalf said, drawing the moment out with a pause and a satisfied puff of smoke, “right in a rabbit hole.”

There was a beat of silence before Dwalin muttered, “You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” Gandalf replied, utterly serious. “And so, the game of golf was born.”

The dwarves burst into laughter—some loud, some incredulous. Bofur nearly choked on his mead.

Bilbo slumped further into his blanket nest, groaning again. “He wouldn’t stop telling that story at every family gathering. As if decapitating a goblin with a tree branch was something to put on a tea towel.”

“Your people made tea towels of it?” Dori asked, horrified and impressed.

“Two-color printing,” Bilbo muttered. “With embroidery, if you were lucky.”

Thorin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Bilbo, a little longer than necessary. Something unreadable flickered across his face—perhaps admiration, perhaps confusion at how such ferocity could be hidden under so many layers of domestic fuss.

“Well,” Gandalf concluded with a self-satisfied huff, “now you know. There’s more to our burglar than biscuits and pipeweed.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and muttered, “I’ll have you know I’m very good at biscuits.”

Chapter Text

The 27th had arrived, and the next day the festival would officially begin.

The mountain had been reimagined as if fall itself had seeped into the walls and across their halls. Garlands of dried leaves and herbs hung on twine and spanned the entire dining hall. Table cloths weaved in colors of red and orange were carefully laid over the table.

The smell of pumpkin rolls and spiced mead wafted through the air, even early in the morning.

Bilbo, flushed with excitement and flour, had explained earlier that while the true celebration wouldn’t start until the hearth was lit at midnight, hobbits always had what they called a “readying feast”—a sort of pre-party, to honor the work that led to joy. It wasn’t just about the fire or the food, he said, but about the hours spent gathering, cleaning, baking, weaving—about all the quiet magic of preparation.

Of course, the dwarves hadn’t questioned it. Not openly. Bilbo’s traditions might be strange, but they had a way of wrapping around the heart until you couldn’t quite remember when they stopped being strange and simply became his.

The table was full of delicious looking hobbit recipes, some that seemed strange and unfamiliar such as cinnamon covered whip cream that they were told is “Specifically for my cousins, you better not touch it, it's the only cream we can spare!”

Bilbo was in high spirits it would seem. For all his complaints of the necessity of this festival he certainly seemed happy to not be missing it.

Thorin was happy to watch his one as he fitted about the hall, adjusting minute details and muttering to himself. Perhaps this festival would be the day he finally made his feelings known. Bilbo would look glorious wearing his mithril shirt for all to see after all.

Thorin put the thought out of his mind as he watched Bilbo readjust the table settings for the third time. “Bilbo, it looks fine.” he called out, trying to put his burglar's heart at ease.

“Fine isn't good enough!” Bilbo cried nervously. “This will be the first Fall Festival in the mountain, many dwarfs' first impressions on hobbit culture! And I'm still not even sure my cousins will show as they do at the shire!”

“What on earth do you mean Ghivashel?” Thorin asked, perplexed. “I thought you said they would be here tomorrow?”

“They WILL be i-” Bilbo paused and gave Thorin a hard look. “You will tell me what that word means one day, don't think i haven't noticed you only use it when I'm worried. If its an insult i-”

“It’s not! It's not! I swear it.” Thorin eased him gently. “I will tell you its meaning some day. Just . . . not today.”

Bilbo harrumphed and nodded. “Good. Now, where was i?”

“You were worrying over your cousins showing up.” Thorin supplied with a soft look that Bilbo resolutely ignored lest his feelings catch him unawares.

“Right, yes. I don't even know if they will show themselves to dwarfs! They are so shy sometimes, and do their best work out of view of the big folk.”

“Much like yourself, I would say.” Thorin said smugly. “And yet you showed yourself to us just fine.”

“Don't say it like THAT!” Bilbo said, slapping Thorin's chest in admonishment. “It sounds improper!”

“I’m not the one who made it improper.” Thorin teased, delighted to see this new side of his One.

Bilbo huffed and continued with adjusting the table setting nervously. “Maybe it would be best for me to meet them first. Explain why I'm here and who you all are to me. I worry you won't get to see them if I don't.”

Thorin nodded in agreement. “If it eases your mind I don't see why you can't be the first to meet them and introduce us.”

“It's just . . . not typically done. I would have to seek one out first, perhaps near Mirkwood? No, they would never be caught dead in those cursed lands.” Bilbo murmured to himself deep in thought. “The crops though . . . perhaps i would find myself lucky enough to encounter one near there.”

“Not the roads?” Thorin asked, surprised. If hobbits were that close already he would have been told of their arrival by now. They were not due for a few more hours at the least. “I would have assumed you would travel out to meet them and accompany them back.”

“Oh! How foolish of me, I should have told you- they won't be coming by road.” Bilbo said suddenly as he moved to leave. “I shall go see if I can find a cousin near our gardens. They may not be complete, but my cousins adore new nature. Perhaps I'll stop by the kitchens and grab some fruit for them as well.”

“Bilbo!” Thorin called alarmed and confused. “Bilbo, what do you mean they won't be coming by road? Ghivashel what does that mean?”

Chapter Text

“There must be some other way!” Bilbo crooned, staring mournfully at the cursed woods of Mirkwood. “Simply look at the state of those leaves! My cousins would have a fit if they were here!”

“Bilbo, please we do not have time for this. The sooner we begin our trek the sooner we are out of the forest.” Thorin sighed not for the third time.

“Its just not right.” Bilbo mourned, following close behind the company as to not lose the path. “Everything in here is so sluggish and poorly. Why we would never let the Old forest get like this.”

“It is a sad sight to see.” Dwalin comforted as best he could. “And perhaps once we retake the mountain we can do something about the state of this place. But we can only do that AFTER we retake the mountain laddie.”

The thought of rebuilding the forest seemed to perk up the wilting hobbit and he nodded decisively. “Yes. yes if i must take a portion of gold-”

“And you must.” Thorin cut in, long weary of this argument.

“If I MUST.” Bilbo continued forcefully, “Then I shall see my gold go towards repairing this forest.”

“If you believe that a worthy cause, I'm sure you can manage it.” Dwalin said happy to put their burglar at ease. He had been more tense than ever since entering the forest, sluggish and almost sickly if he didn't know any better.

Thorin shared a look with Oin who nodded in understanding, hanging back to better be able to watch the hobbit in their mix. If he was getting ill, he had chosen a hell of a time to do so, and it would be a nightmare to get him to agree to be checked by Oin. He was nearly as bad as himself in that regard.

Chapter Text

Bilbo scoured the fields searching for his cousins. He knew there were some here, a few always came early to start the preparations. And while he would be pressed to find any this close to the still cursed Mirkwood he knew there had to be some.

“Come on, I know you're about,” Bilbo muttered as he stooped near a patch of marigolds. “You’re not usually this shy.”

A dragonfly darted past. For a moment, he thought it might not be one—but no, it moved on, wings flicking like paper.

He knelt and pressed his hand to the soil, checking under the petals. “It’s nearly time, you know. We’re doing it right. As close to home as I can make it. Garlands, lanterns, songs… even found a decent spiced mead, though the pumpkins are still a bit small.”

The wind stirred the tops of the tall grass behind him. He didn’t turn around, but a little smile crept onto his face.

“It’s not fancy,” Bilbo admitted. “There’ll be music, yes, and we’ve hung up the lanterns and filled the air with cinnamon, but it’s the company that makes it. And the dwarves… Well, they’ve never seen a celebration quite like the ones we used to have back home, with you lot hiding in the buttercups and stealing the plum tarts.”

That earned a quiet shimmer of laughter, like the tinkling of a spoon on the good china set. The fairy dipped in the air, flying a slow loop around Bilbo’s head, trailing a ribbon of golden sparkles behind her.

“Just a message,” he said, holding his hand to his chest. “Tell them they’re wanted. That they’re welcome. Tell them we’ve set places on the table, and rooms in the halls, and there’ll be what cream we can spare in chilled cups if they come early.”

The fairy, and what a lively little one it was with wild brown hair wearing what looked to be a uniform made of brown leaves, nodded with a small salute before rushing forward and pressing a kiss to Bilbo's cheek.

“Oh! Thank you cousin. Ah- here. It's not much but it's what we have.” he said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small apple slice, easily the size of the fairy itself.

The fairy circled the fruit covering it in glittering gold dust, and for a moment Bilbo worried if that gold on his sleeve would startle Thorin but he pushed the thought out of his mind, as he watched the fruit gently float out of his hand.

The fairy flew circles around the fruit causing it to twist and turn in all manners of way before giving a low bow, which Bilbo politely applauded keeping his voice down so as to not hurt their sensitive ears. “Good show as always, cousin dearest! I do love watching your handy work.”

The fairy gave a small wave before taking the fruit and zipping as fast as the wind towards the sky.

Bilbo dusted off his trousers and gave the sky a quick glance. Still plenty of time before sunset. He started back toward the path, humming under his breath, the faintest trail of golden dust still clinging to his sleeve, and his curls slightly more gravity defying than usual.

As he passed the rows of late-summer squash, he paused to fix a drooping lantern that had slipped from its hook. “Can’t have you falling during the party,” he murmured, tying it tight again with a bit of leftover ribbon.

Just as he stepped into the edge of the courtyard, a soft giggle sounded behind him. He turned and spotted a flicker of movement—just the smallest twinkle near the berry patch. Another cousin, perhaps, checking his work. He gave a wink and kept walking, pretending not to notice.

By the time he reached the hall, Bombur was already setting out trays of toasted nuts and honey cakes, and Ori was fiddling with a bundle of lavender that refused to stay tied.

“You were gone a while,” Balin called from the steps, peering over his spectacles. “Chasing butterflies?”

“Just visiting the garden,” Bilbo said easily. “Checking on a few things.”

“Well, don’t let Thorin catch you feeding the wildlife again,” Dwalin grunted as he carried a cask toward the cellar.

“For the last time I was NOT feeding it!” Bilbo grumbled through lying teeth, making his way through the halls of Erebor towards the banquet hall. His heart was at ease knowing his cousins would likely show.

He so wanted to share the wonder of his cousins with his dwarfs.

Chapter Text

Bilbo had betrayed them. Betrayed HIM. His one, HIS treasure, HISHISHISHISHISHIS

Thorin’s grip tightened on Bilbo’s collar, the weight of the mountain’s gold pressing down on his mind like a dark cloud. He could barely hear the hobbit’s quiet muttering over the thunder of his own thoughts—faith and trust, Bilbo said, as if mocking him.

Thorin’s jaw clenched. “Faith and trust,” he echoed bitterly. “You think I trust you? After all this?” His voice was low but sharp, full of suspicion and pain.

Bilbo’s eyes flickered with something—hope, maybe?—but Thorin wasn’t listening anymore. The madness creeping through him twisted everything. To him, Bilbo’s calm words sounded like taunts.

Without thinking, Thorin hauled the hobbit up and leaned him over the battlements. “Is this your game? Testing me?” he growled. The wind whipped around them, cold and unforgiving.

Bilbo’s voice trembled, “Thorin, please—”

But Thorin’s hand slipped, and for a moment, the world seemed to hang in balance. Then he caught himself, but the moment was enough. He shoved Bilbo away, watching as the hobbit stumbled back, landing hard on the stones.

“Begone!” Thorin barked, his voice cracking. “You are no friend of mine. You are exiled from Erebor!”

Bilbo lay still, hurt and shocked, but Thorin turned away, his heart heavy and tangled in gold’s cruel grasp. He wanted to believe he was protecting his people, but in truth, the sickness was tearing him apart.

Chapter Text

Dawn came, and with it came mounting excitement and curiosity. The company had built up the party from Bilbo's few stories, and the final result was strange but endearing. Bilbo had specified paper lanterns, but the concept seemed to worry the dwarfs about the fires in the lanterns, so instead they had tied paper ribbons to the metal lanterns already hanging, and had doubled the amount hanging on the walls.

Bilbo had described the concept of a potluck, where every family was to bring enough food to feed the shire. The dwarfs, though they had enough food to last them the winter now, didn't have enough food for every family to bring enough for the whole mountain. Instead the royal chefs had followed Bilbo's and Bombers teachings to create an odd mix of hobbit and dwarvish meals to feed every dwarf who passed through.

The drinks were well understood, and though they wouldn't have any spiced hobbit mead to celebrate with, they had barrels of wine and mead that had sat aging in the mountain since the attack.

All that was left was the fire.

Bilbo ran his fingers over the bark one last time, tracing the lines of his wish. It wasn’t a long one—just a name, really. A few words carved in careful Greenspeech script, his trusted acorn sat heavy in his pocket.

He hadn't meant to stay so long in Erebor, truth be told. Had expected to be sent home immediately after the battle really. But when the furnace was proposed he couldn’t walk away. Not when so much had been lost, and so much still lingered, waiting to be healed.

He watched as the fire was coaxed to life, its first flames licking gently at the wood like it knew to be reverent. Around him, Thorin and the company stood silent, eyes shadowed but no longer distant. Dis, following Bilbo's instructions, whispered something into her bark before tossing it in. Even Fili and Kili looked subdued, though that may be the early morning rather than any real somberness.

Bilbo waited for his moment. When he stepped forward, he murmured, “Keep it burning,” and let the bark fall. There, where only his eyes could see, was Thorin's name written with curling ivy and sturdy branches of the hobbit language.

Hobbits didn't use their language like many other races did, it was less letters and more pictures really. Words born through flowers and fruits drawn in elegant simplicity. To write "love" might be a winding vine with leaves in pairs, spiraling around a blooming wild rose. To say “hope,” they’d sketch a tulip just beginning to open, nestled beside a sunburst fern. “Grief” might come in the form of a drooping lily, or a row of bare branches stretched under gray cloud curls. No two Hobbits drew their words exactly the same, and no one expected them to.

Bilbo had written Thorin's name with oak leaves on ivy vines, curling around a branch of a tree. It looked sturdy but regal, just like the man who had captured bilbo's heart.

Around him, murmurs stirred as others approached. The line moved slowly, reverently, each dwarf clutching their own carved piece of wood. Some whispered as Dis had, while others held their breath and cast their offerings in silence. Children clung to parents, wide-eyed and quiet, caught in the strange stillness that comes when something sacred is happening.

Balin stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the corners of his eyes crinkled in thought. When it came time for him to step forward, he held a bit of maple bark with etchings so fine they looked more like runes than images. He didn’t speak, only gave the fire a single solemn nod and tossed the wish in.

Ori’s was messier, his bark piece so full of scribbled symbols that it had to be turned sideways to catch it all. He smiled sheepishly before adding it to the growing bed of embers. Dori followed after, shaking his head but pressing a warm hand to Ori’s shoulder as he passed.

It wasn’t a quick ceremony. The dwarves weren't people used to this kind of quiet vulnerability—not outside of the stone halls of their forefathers, and even then, rarely in the presence of others. But they tried. They watched one another and followed Bilbo’s lead, letting their offerings go one by one, until the fire glowed high and golden and full of unspoken hopes.

Thorin waited until the end.

He kept his bark close to his chest as he stepped forward, his boots heavy on the stone. The crowd parted with a kind of reverent quiet, their eyes following their king as if sensing that whatever he carried, it mattered.

Bilbo strained to see, not out of nosiness, but something quieter—curiosity laced with hope. But Thorin’s hands never strayed far from the bark. It was small, flat, and polished smooth, but beyond that, Bilbo could make out nothing. The way Thorin held it was careful, protective even, like he might reconsider offering it to the fire at all.

When he reached the furnace, Thorin didn’t kneel. He stood tall before it, his face unreadable in the shifting firelight. For a moment, he looked out over the gathered dwarves, then to the flame. Then—just briefly—to Bilbo.

The look wasn’t long, nor was it loud. But it lingered, like the echo of a familiar tune.

He didn’t speak right away. When he finally did, his voice was low and steady—meant more for the fire than for those gathered.

“For the seasons we weren’t given,” he said. “And the ones still to come.”

Then he held the bark forward. The fire accepted it gently at first, licking along the edges like it recognized something solemn in its offering. Then it flared—not wild, but bright—casting gold light across the hall, painting stone and skin in a warm wash that seemed to still time for just a breath.

Gasps rose from the crowd. Some clutched their cloaks tighter. Others whispered under their breath. Even Balin tilted his head with something like quiet surprise.

Bilbo didn’t move. He watched the flames shift and dance, trying to read some clue in their glow. But whatever message Thorin had written into that bark, it was for the fire alone now.

As Thorin stepped back into the circle of his kin, Bilbo turned toward the furnace. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle over him like a familiar blanket. Not knowing didn’t make the moment any less powerful.

Sometimes, he thought, the best wishes weren’t the ones you could see. They were the ones you trusted enough to let go.

Thorin had just returned to his place beside the company, arms folded and eyes on the fire, when he suddenly turned—sharp and abrupt, like a thought had struck him between the shoulders.

“Wait,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Bilbo. You mentioned… your cousins?”

The hall, still hushed from the furnace lighting, stirred with a few confused glances. Bilbo blinked, taken slightly off guard by the question, then gave a fond, almost mischievous smile.

“Oh! Yes, they should be here any second now,” he said, dusting his hands off on his waistcoat. “They never arrive until the fire’s been lit properly—tradition, you see. It wouldn’t be right otherwise. Once it’s burning, they come to carry the wishes off to our homeland. Back to the Green Lady.”

He said it plainly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Around him, dwarves exchanged incredulous looks, some arching skeptical brows, others narrowing their eyes toward the distant high ceilings as if expecting tricks.

“Carry them…?” Thorin asked slowly, the skepticism edging into his tone.

Before Bilbo could answer, a sudden breeze swept through the hall—not cold, but bright. It shimmered with a golden warmth, tingling across the skin like warm cider and sunlit laughter. The fire flared high for an instant, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone.

And then they came.

Tiny lights,a couple of them at first, then dozens, flitting like fireflies but with wings so fine they shimmered like spun glass. Fairies, small and radiant, glowing gold and soft amber, spilled into the room from cracks in the walls and the great vaulted windows above. They swirled through the hall in elegant chaos, trailing glowing pixie dust that hung in the air like motes of sunlight.

Gasps rang out. Bombur dropped his mug. Ori stumbled backwards into Dori, who was too busy gawking upward to notice.

Bilbo, however, only laughed, a deep and delighted sound from somewhere in his belly. He raised his arms slightly as two of the fairies circled him, and with a sudden gust of gold, he began to float—just a little at first, his toes barely leaving the ground, then higher, drifting as gently as a leaf in autumn wind.

“Well then,” he said cheerfully, spinning once midair, “Welcome to Erebor, my dear cousins! You’re just in time.”

The dwarves stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as the fairies zipped between them, brushing past their braids and beards, setting goblets floating and knocking over parchment. The golden dust sparkled in their wake, collecting in gentle piles at the corners of the stone floors.

One bold fairy landed on Dwalin’s shoulder. He didn’t swat it away. He didn’t dare breathe.

“These aren't hobbits,” Bifur whispered in stunned silence.

Thorin simply stared, eyes fixed on Bilbo’s glowing figure above the firelight, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder.

“You said your cousins were visiting.” he called out and Bilbo laughed as he was twirled in the air by the fairies like a plaything. Every fairy seemed to dart to his side at least once, pressing kisses to his cheeks, and gifts to his hands.

“And they have! My dear dwarfs, allow me to introduce some of my cousins, the fairies of neverland. The homeland of the shire and keepers of joy and the seasons.” Bilbo introduced, swimming his way back to the floor despite the fairies best attempt to keep him airborne. He laughed, gently swatting them away. “Now now, I'm not a fauntling! I'm much too old to be up here cousin. Let me down.”

The fairies, though they looked to be pouting, did as they were told before flitting between the dwarfs excitedly. They seemed ecstatic to be invited into the mountain with them, flying between the crowd as if greeting every member in the halls.

Thorin walked up to Bilbo, whose feet still stayed a few inches above the ground, taking him by the shoulder as if worried he would fly away. “We assumed you meant you cousins! The hobbits you spoke of during the journey. What was their name . . .” Thorin said, straining to recall the horrid cousins Bilbo had complained about many a times.

“ Do you mean Lobelia?” Bilbo asked, laughing. “No no absolutely not. I would never willingly invite her anywhere. How would she even get here on such short notice?”

Thorin blinked and looked sheepish. “Well we were quite confused on that front as well, but we assumed you had your own hobbit way of making it happen.”

Bilbo laughed at him, heartily and giddy with excitement at his cousins actually arriving in the mountains like he had hoped. He watched as slowly a few other dwarfs called out in alarm as they or their children began floating off the floor as well. Bilbo turned and began floating towards them with a, “i’d better show them how to right themselves before someone is sick.” leaving Thorin with more questions than answers.

Chapter Text

The world bled red and gray.

Thorin opened his eyes to smoke and sky. The light hurt. Or perhaps it was the pain in his chest—searing, hot, too wide to be a wound and yet somehow still sharp. He tried to move. Failed. Something warm soaked into the stones beneath him. He knew what it was.

He was dying.

A strange kind of quiet had settled over the battlefield. The clash of blades was distant now, muffled as if behind a closed door. All he could hear was his own ragged breath, someone begging him to hold on—and something else.

Faint. High. A sound like bells caught in wind.

His eyes fluttered. Above him, just past the shadow of ring like curls matted by blood and soot, two small lights hovered. They pulsed—soft, quick flashes—like fireflies but far too bright. Too steady. One drifted lower, casting a gold-white glow over his chest, and for a brief, impossible moment, the pain eased.

Thorin stared, unable to speak.

The second light danced near his brow, circling once before both rose, slowly, and vanished into the haze.

He blinked. They were gone.

Perhaps they had never been there at all.

He turned his head, barely, and saw the battlefield stretched before him. Crumpled banners, the snow churned black with blood. Dain’s men still fought at the outer edges. Eagles swept across the sky. And yet…

Something had changed.

He coughed, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. A shadow moved beside him, fast and low to the ground. He thought it might be a hobbit.

“Bilbo,” he rasped, unsure if it was a call or a memory.

“I'm here Thorin.” bilbo's voice sounded above him as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “I'm here.”

“ANYBODY!” bilbo's voice called heartbreakingly loud. “SOMEBODY PLEASE!”

Chapter Text

The party had caught fire in the best way—heat in the laughter, warmth in the music, a kind of golden energy that ran through the halls like something alive. And in the middle of it all were the fairies, autumn-born and brimming with their season’s magic.

At first, the dwarves had been stunned silent. Even Erebor's youngest, wildest warriors had frozen when the first clusters of wings zipped through the great mountain hall. But soon, the initial shock gave way to curiosity, and then to cautious delight.

These weren’t just lights with wings—they were people of the harvest, humming with elemental power. Their wings shimmered in shades of amber, copper, deep crimson, and gold, like leaves caught in a breeze. Wherever they touched, things changed—dwarven cloaks faded from grey to maple red, stone columns took on the warm hues of sunlit bark, and even the shadows seemed to soften at their passing.

Some danced in lazy loops above the hearth, leaving streaks of cinnamon-scented wind behind them, the kind that reminded you of wood smoke and spiced apple cider. Others dipped low to hover over plates of food and mugs of drink, adding curls of steam that smelled like roasted chestnuts or freshly baked pumpkin bread. Every breeze they stirred seemed deliberate—like it carried with it the memory of a hundred harvest festivals under golden skies.

At one point, a fairy passed near Dori, and the once-muted brown of his tunic shifted subtly into deep russet, embroidered leaves appearing along the hem as if stitched by invisible hands. He spluttered in offense, but didn’t brush it away. It looked too fine.

Bilbo sat cross-legged near the fire, a mug of tea cradled in both hands, watching the scene unfold with a lazy sort of satisfaction. A few of the fairies buzzed around him like he was something familiar—an old friend come home for the holidays.

Dís approached cautiously, arms crossed but eyes following the flickering shapes with barely concealed awe. “Bilbo,” she said slowly, “what are these things?”

“Fairies,” Bilbo replied without looking up, then added lightly, “Autumn ones, specifically. You’ll never meet two seasons alike.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I gathered that much. But they’re changing things. That one just turned Ori’s scroll orange.”

“That’s just what they do,” Bilbo said with a smile. “They’re born from a baby’s first laugh, or so the tales go. So obviously they value the joy and laughter that comes from delighting people. But they live on belief. If people forget they exist, they fade away. But while they're remembered? They can shape a whole room.”

Dwalin, nearby, looked stricken. “That’s… that’s horrifying. You're telling me these tiny, laughing things—these floating candle-glows—have the power to change things, move wind, bend color, conjure scent… and they die if we stop believing in them?”

“Exactly,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Isn’t it lovely?”

The dwarves stared around them again, this time with deeper unease. A fairy flitted past Thorin’s shoulder and left behind a breeze that smelled exactly like mulled wine and old books. Another one perched on Bifur’s hammer and turned the steel a rich shade of bronze, just for a heartbeat.

“Unsettling,” Balin muttered. “Delicate creatures wielding such potent power… and we have been hurting them without even knowing.”

“No,” Bilbo cried, looking strikken “They don't hold your ignorance against you! It was by design! They are as secretive as you dwarfs, maybe even more in some ways. You didn't know they existed because you weren't meant to know yet. Only the elves know of their existence, and even what they know is vague and storydriven.”

Meanwhile, the fairies—utterly unaware of the dwarves’ existential dread—had moved on to new tricks. One created a tiny gust that ruffled every beard in a ten-foot radius, leaving the faint scent of pumpkin scones in its wake. Another summoned a swirl of maple leaves from thin air, spinning them above the dance floor like an indoor breeze. The dwarves started laughing in spite of themselves.

Even Thorin, who had remained still and regal for most of the celebration, blinked in surprise as a fairy brushed past his cloak and left it shimmering with the subtle glow of pressed leaves. He turned to Bilbo then, gaze unreadable, but didn’t brush the change away.

Bilbo, watching all of it, exhaled into his tea like a man content with the world for once.

“The thing about fairies,” he said softly, mostly to himself, “is that they don’t ask for much. Just that you believe they matter. And in return… they remind you how beautiful change can be.”

And as if to answer, the fire behind him roared higher, fed not just by wood, but by air laced with magic and the scent of home. The fairies darted and spun and danced above it, carrying autumn in every flick of their wings and the dwarves, slowly but surely, began to believe.

The dwarves might not have understood the magic of the fairies flitting overhead, their wings leaving trails of autumn color and air that smelled like sweet apples and warm spice, but they understood a banquet. And this was a banquet.

Long tables groaned beneath the weight of pies both savory and sweet, stews bubbling in deep iron pots, golden loaves crusted with herbs, and roasted meats fragrant with rosemary and smoke. The royal kitchens had outdone themselves with Bilbo’s help—though some of the combinations still made the more traditional dwarves pause. A particularly skeptical group was side-eyeing a dish labeled “mushroom tart with chestnut glaze” as if it might grow legs and walk away.

But the moment someone tried it—and groaned in delight—all hesitation crumbled. Platters were passed, forks clinked against stoneware, and the din of contented chewing filled the air like a well-tuned song. Dwarves weren’t always loud talkers, but they made up for it with the sheer volume of their appetite.

Barrels of mead and wine—some older than Thorin himself—were cracked open, the rich liquid flowing like rivers into thick mugs and silver goblets. Toasts began: to Erebor, to the returning season, to old friends and new ones. Kili started a round of “Durin’s Beard” that had half the hall pounding their mugs in rhythm before the first verse ended, while Bofur pulled out a fiddle and began a lively reel that made even the fairies pause to hum along.

The fairies, for their part, zipped about in joyful chaos, dancing between braids and lifting loose ribbons into swirling shapes above the heads of the crowd. A few dwarves found autumn leaves mysteriously tucked into their belts or behind their ears, and though they huffed about “tricks,” not one of them actually removed the decorations.

Still, the dwarves didn’t understand the fairies. They eyed the magical breezes that carried the smell of cinnamon and the flickering lights that tinted their ale orange with wary amusement. "Showy," Nori muttered, watching as a fairy made a candied apple hover in midair for a dwarfling to chase. "But if they can roast a leg of lamb half as well as they swirl a breeze, I'll keep my complaints to myself."

Bilbo, beaming, moved between tables with a grace the dwarves lacked, checking in, sharing bites, and laughing at half a dozen conversations. He explained now and again—how fairies came with the seasons, how their magic mirrored the world around them, how their powers were as fragile as they were beautiful—but for most dwarves, this was simply another strange hobbit tradition. One they could tolerate, perhaps even admire, as long as the food stayed hot and the drink stayed strong.

And it did. Oh, it did.

By the time the third course was cleared and the desserts started arriving—treacle toffee and spiced pumpkin cakes, honey-roasted pears, and tiny acorn-shaped pastries—the dwarves had accepted the fairies as part of the evening, even if they didn’t quite trust them. Like distant cousins you didn’t know you had who showed up to a wedding with strange clothes and stranger magic, but who brought excellent presents and knew how to laugh at the right jokes.

The music drifted low and rich through the stone halls, muffled slightly by the food-thick air and the rhythmic clatter of mugs meeting mugs. Dwarves laughed, fairies spun lazy loops through ribbons of amber light, and somewhere in the far end of the hall, someone had started dancing with such determination that a whole table had been shoved aside to make room.

Bilbo stood in the middle of it all, pink in the cheeks from mulled wine and merriment, his curls askew from where children’s hands had tried to braid leaves into them. His eyes were bright, his smile unburdened. He looked, for the first time in what felt like ages, entirely content.

Thorin watched him from the edge of it all, arms folded, silent.

Then, quietly, he stepped forward and reached out a hand—not taking, just offering.

“Come with me,” Thorin said. His voice was low, but firm, just enough to cut through the noise around them.

Bilbo blinked up at him, a bit dazed. “Now? It’s just getting to the dancing—”

“I know,” Thorin said. “But I’ve been waiting long enough.”

There was something in his tone—something that stirred the hairs at the back of Bilbo’s neck. He didn’t resist. With a small nod, he took Thorin’s hand and let himself be led from the hall, down a quieter corridor just off the main chamber.

The noise faded behind them like a story closing its cover.

They didn’t walk far—just to a small chamber lit by a single lantern and the warm spill of the fairy-dotted breeze that still drifted through the mountain. Thorin stopped in the center and turned to face him, searching his face like he was trying to memorize it.

“I don’t do this lightly,” Thorin began, voice quieter now, gentler, but edged with steel sincerity. “In dwarvish courtship, we craft something with our hands. Something no one else will ever have. A gift made not just from stone or metal, but from time. From thought. From intent. A promise, forged.”

Bilbo’s heart climbed halfway up his throat.

Thorin reached into the folds of his coat and pulled something wrapped in deep blue cloth. He unwrapped it slowly, carefully, and held it out in both hands.

It was a pendant—a small, oval locket carved from obsidian veined with silver. The metalwork on its edge shimmered faintly in the golden fairy light, delicate filigree vines etched so finely they could only have been carved by someone with infinite patience and aching precision. On its front, a tree stood tall—an oak, strong and proud—its branches bearing both golden leaves and tiny acorns. The detail was almost too fine to see, yet Bilbo could make out every line.

He opened it.

Inside, instead of a picture, there was a tiny etching of words in two scripts—Khuzdul and Greenspeech. The Khuzdul was simple and bold, but the Greenspeech was drawn with winding ivy, a rose in bloom, and a crescent moon above.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered. “Did you… you made this?”

“I did,” Thorin said. “Every line. Every carving. With hands that have built kingdoms, I made this for you.”

Bilbo looked up, breath catching.

“I know we come from different worlds,” Thorin went on, eyes steady on him. “But I would see those worlds meet. Not just in one autumn night, not just in parties or peace—but in us. If you’ll have me.”

And then, softly, the final words:

“This is my gift, made by my hands, for you and you alone. Will you marry me, Bilbo Baggins?”

The silence between them felt impossibly full—brimming with years and ache and longing, with all the things left unsaid on battlefields and quiet mornings.

Bilbo took the locket in trembling fingers, pressing it close to his heart.

He didn’t answer right away, because his voice had caught—but he stepped forward and took Thorin’s face in both hands, eyes shining, smile breaking wider than it had all night.

“You magnificent, stubborn, ridiculous dwarf,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Of course I will.”

And in the quiet chamber, away from feasts and fairies, laughter and lanterns, two hands met.

"Was the party to your satisfaction?" Thorin asked lowly, eyes full of warmth.

Bilbo sighed contently and nodded, running his thumb over Thorin's fingers. "The only thing missing are the trolls."

"Trolls?!"