Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Belladonna was freezing. Her limbs were ice, and if it weren’t for the child growing inside of her, she would have stopped a long time ago.

She had realised she was carrying a child upon her arrival in Rivendell, although she knew she could not stop. Not until she reached the Iron Hills. She needed to continue on, she had no time to wait. But the pain in her stomach was too much to bear and the icy wind was whipping at her and the night had grown dark and frightening. The moon was full and shone down, but there was not nearly enough light to guide her way. 

She had crawled up the side of the mountain, slipping and tripping and tearing the skin at her knees, hoping to find some crevice or cave to crawl into.

Luckily enough, after some time of grasping along the ridges, she found one. A tunnel-like entrance that lead deep inside the Mountain. She crawled inside, relieved in finding shelter from the storm that raged outside, and went downwards. And downwards. And downwards.

She did that for some time, worming through the tunnel, groping her way through the dark, until she could see slivers of light in front of her, growing larger the closer she got.

And finally, finally, when she reached the opening of the tunnel, the room it led to, she was astounded by the sight. Piles of gold and silver and gems, covering the floor, stacked so high Belladonna was sure there was no end to how far they stretched up.

Treasure. What a sight it was. But more of a sight, and infinitely more frightening, was what accompanied the treasure. A beast.

A great big golden beast, with long claws, and a stretching tail, and a snout as large as her home back in Hobbiton.

“A visitor,” the voice was low, and snake-like, hissed out, coiling through the air and spinning dread in her gut. She clutched her stomach. The creature’s eyes opened, two great, magnificent things, golden in colour. The pupil dilated as it took in the swell of her stomach. “Two, in fact, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Please,” Belladonna beseeched. She did not come all this way to be fried to a crisp by a dragon. She had faced worse things before- well, that is not precisely true, but the point still stood. “I-” but the pain came again, breaking her sentence off. She cried out, falling to her knees. This was not the time for it, but there appeared to be nothing she could do to stop it.And the creature made no move to eat her, for which she was grateful.

She dragged herself along the gold until she could rest against a large pile of it.

“You will not live through it.” The creature said, matter-of-factly. “That much is clear.”

Belladonna already knew that. She'd been certain the moment the pain had begun, she had never felt anything quite like it. “Please,” she begged again, though she was not certain what exactly she was begging the creature to do.

“I will not kill it.” Came the assurance, lifting some of the weight from her shoulders. “Just as I will not kill you." The creature paused. "You will do that yourself.”

Belladonna cried out again, pain shooting through her body. It felt like she was being torn apart. “Baggins,” she managed eventually, falling back onto the pile of gold. “His name will be Bilbo Baggins.”

“Bilbo,” the creature repeated, whispers like fire reverberating throughout the room, “Baggins.”

She screamed again.

Bilbo had never seen any other creature before. Not unless, you count Smaug, of course, but Smaug was a dragon and Bilbo very much doubted there were many of those around. Well, more than that. He knew there were no more dragons, Smaug had told him so.

There were other creatures, of course. Elves and Dwarrows and Ents and Orc. He’d read enough about them in what was left of the Mountains library to know that much. The library had initially belonged to the Dwarrows who had lived here before Smaug's attack. At first he had thought that perhaps he was a Dwarrow, but Smaug assured him he was not one of those vile creatures.

“I saw many of them the day I took this place with my Dragonfire.” He’d say. “And you are certainly not one of those.”

Bilbo had seen himself for the first time when he was seven. He’d been investigating the upper part of the mountain, where the nicer chambers were- and he’d found a mirror. At least, that’s what Smaug called it. He’d been frightened upon catching his reflection, and had cried out in shock before running back down to the treasury.

Smaug, with a surprisingly everlasting patience for Bilbo, had explained carefully that it had been himself.

Bilbo thought he looked different from what was left of the faded and broken paintings that hung around the abandoned rooms, so he decided that Smaug must be right. His ears were pointed and sharp, his nose small and tilted slightly at the end, his eyes were large and round, his feet long and large. He had freckles on his body, a few on his hands and wrists, on his chest and legs. He couldn't see his back, so he wasn't sure if there were any there. The mirrors had been a great discovery. Up until that point he'd never seen his own face. It had been frightening, of course, but he found that as time passed he got used to it. It made him feel like he wasn't as alone, seeing himself doubled.

Needless to say, Bilbo didn’t even know what his own kind looked like (he'd assumed they probably had feet like his- unless he was abnormal) let alone anyone else.

So when he’d heard the voices at the tunnel, the arguing, he’d been both terrified and infinitely curious. The voices carried like wisps of wind, down the tunnel, bracketing off the walls and landing on his ears. At first he'd thought perhaps it was the birds- they had returned as of late, much to Smaug's annoyance. He was used to roasting them for fun, but he hadn't done that recently due to Bilbo's pleading (he'd liked the birds).

But the sounds grew louder, and he became certain that the sounds that caught his ears were not coming from a Thrush.

He crept to the edge of the tunnel, leaning inside to catch the words that echoed off the walls.

“We’ve got this far, we can’t turn back now!” One voice snapped.

“Aye,” a second voice agreed. “But how to kill a dragon?”

The words put ice in Bilbo’s veins. They were here to kill Smaug. Smaug, who was his carer and protector. Smaug, who had brought him food and told him stories and taught him how to speak.

Smaug himself was deep in sleep now, having buried himself under a large pile of gold, and although he was large and fearless at that moment Bilbo felt like Smaug was the most vulnerable creature in the world.

Bilbo knew he had to do something.

“We have to find the passageway,” a third voice argued now. Very gentle and logical and reasoning. Bilbo would have found he found it comforting, even, if not for the violence he knew they were discussing. “The lore is that it will be revealed in the moonlight to those who seek it.”

Bilbo knew about the tunnel. Of course he did- he was partway in it now. Smaug told him it had revealed itself to his mother and saved his life, although it could not save hers. It was long and winding and led right to the edge of the mountain where a pathway passed by. It was hidden from most, and until now Bilbo never had a reason to fear it. No one ever came round these parts, and if they did, they passed by very quickly, hoping not to wake the dragon.

“Then we camp until nightfall.” The next voice that spoke held an infinite amount of authority and was certainly not to be argued with. It made something jump in Bilbo's stomach, which was... odd. He'd never had that happen before. It was like a string, tugging him towards it. He wanted to listen to it more, but whoever held it did not speak again.

Bilbo heard clanking noises- perhaps things being dropped to the ground, and the conversation turned a bit lighter.

“What’s for supper then?”

Bilbo’s stomach growled at the thought. He lived off of the birds and rabbits he found in the woods nearby, and sometimes he was even lucky enough to catch a deer in the mostly blackened forest. Smaug would roast it with his fire and once Bilbo had taken his share, he would eat the rest- bones and all. The crunching noise was particularly cringe-worthy.

He had read, in one of the many books he spent his time devouring, that many forests were lush and green and abundant with wildlife. Much soil held flowers and plants of a variety of shapes and colours. He had seen green before, of course. Grass sprouted up on the side of the mountain, and in the forests occasionally, trying to grow back after the abuse from fire so long ago. But he’d never seen a whole forest overtaken with green before. The idea was alluring, and Bilbo often found himself daydreaming about going off on adventures.

Smaug had told him to be careful of strangers, of course (not that any had ever been here before) but Bilbo was far too curious to simply leave it be. Not to mention these visitors were a potential threat. And a threat is a threat no matter how small. It was his obligation to inspect it further, after all. Smaug was the creature who had kept him safe, who raised him from a little babe and who taught Bilbo all he knew.

Smaug was been the only family he ever had, save for the small grave where his mother was.

Anyone who desires to hurt Smaug in turn must desire to hurt Bilbo as well, and he could not allow that.

So he crept along the tunnel, careful not to make any noise, and when he reached the end he peered through the hidden entrance silently.

There were thirteen of them, all squarish, large creatures, sternly and stoutly built, with heavy thick clothing and heavy thick boots. Bilbo wore such clothes himself- ones he had found among the ruins.

Bilbo could only assume (as they were here to kill the dragon) that they were Dwarrows. Smau always said that Dwarrows were the only ones stupid enough to think they could match a dragon. He recalled the broken portraits he'd seen, though they were all but smashed beyond repair and he hadn't gotten to see much in them, but he could see some resemblances.

Smaug was right. They did not look like him. They were muscled and strong where Bilbo was soft and round. Their ears were curved rather than pointy, and their feet seemed alarmingly small. Bilbo couldn't imagine wearing the boots he'd found, the idea of restriction in that way seemed painful.

They may not be like him, but perhaps they knew what he was. The thought was exciting.

He watched while they set up, relaxing onto the ground and striking up conversation with one another.

Some of them were very large and round, others were very slight. But he could tell they were all of the same race. Their hair ranged in a variety of colours Bilbo had never seen before. One was golden like Smaug’s scales, others were brown like the dirt, some were black like the water at night.

It was getting dark now, though they did not light a fire. Which (with forethought) seemed smart to Bilbo. If they were here to kill the dragon they would not want to alert it to their presence. Soon the moon would rise which meant soon they would find the passageway, and Bilbo couldn’t let that happen.

But what was he to do?

The largest one (with the awe inspiring coloured hair Bilbo could not name) took something out of his pack and passed it along.

Food.

Bilbo had not eaten since breakfast, so the sight was cruel and teasing and completely unfair. He considered, briefly, revealing himself. After all, they did not seem like bad people. They were laughing and joking, even if they did seem tense. But then he thought the better of it.

He’d never seen others interact before this, so he was certainly no expert. He would not risk it.

But that food did look lovely. Perhaps he could sneak by and simply grab some.

He was very quiet- Smaug had taught him to be as quiet as air. The round Dwarrow’s bag was open behind him and no one was facing in his direction. He could…

His stomach growled loudly, deciding for him. He slipped out of the hidden entrance, creeping towards the others.

“I’m just sayin’,” a cheery-looking Dwarrow with something odd on his head was saying now, “I don’t feel like bein’ burnt to a crisp because we don’t have a plan.”

“We got all this way, though, didn’t we?” the round Dwarrow with the little legs argued: the one with hair Bilbo could not describe (like a sunset- like fire, or blood, perhaps). “We just have to think carefully before we do anything.”

Bilbo was close now. So close. His hand slipped into the bag, and he pulled out a slice of some kind of meat he’d never seen before. It was cold, though the others seemed fine eating it, so Bilbo assumed he would be, too.

The round Dwarrow was even larger from a closer distance. And he... she... (Bilbo did not know) had hair all over their face. In fact, all of them did, save for one. Bilbo thought it odd. He’d never had hair on his face. Many of them had such long hair, as well, going from their upper lips, to well past their chins.

Bilbo slowly moved away, pocketing the food.

“Well, we’ll figure out a plan,” the pointy-faced one said, and Bilbo noticed he had equally pointy hair. He was right near the entrance now, again, he could slip away and tell Smaug what he’d found. “And we can find the beast and slaughter it!”

The others cheered, mouths full of food, and Bilbo found himself in pain at the very idea. His intake of breath was quiet, but it was enough to have the strange Dwarrow (with whatever that was on his head) looking over his shoulder in his direction.

Their eyes met.

“Mahal above!” the Dwarrow got to its feet, catching the others attention.

Bilbo couldn’t go through the door now. Not if he wanted to keep Smaug safe. He’d have to go the long way round.

“Who on Earth are you?”

Bilbo didn’t answer. He just bolted, down the steep and narrow pathway that led back to the base of the Mountain. He heard the other calling after him, but did not stop. He could hear heavy boots crunching on dirt, voices calling out.

He kept running though, as fast as his legs could carry him, down and down and down until he reached the foot of the Mountain. Then, he darted into the trees to hide. He’d always been very good at climbing. He used to climb the gold piles before he’d fallen off a precarious one and would have certainly fallen to his death had Smaug not caught him, tail rapping around his torso and gently setting him back on the ground.

He climbed the tallest tree he could find, praying the sparse leaves were enough to hide him.

The Dwarrows reached the bottom of the Mountain now.

“Do you see him?” the one without hair on his face asked.

“He couldn’t have gone far.”

“Spread out,” the scary one announced, “we can cover more ground if we go two-by-two.”

The round one was the last to come through the trees, red in the face and gasping for breath. Bilbo felt guilty for making the Dwarrow run. “I looked through my pack.”

“And?” The fair one asked.

“And, the meat’s gone.”

“So we have a burglar on our hands.” Bilbo didn’t know what that word was, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. The voice that spoke it had been the one he’d heard through the tunnel, the one full of authority. The Dwarrow it belonged to looked just the way his voice sounded. Composed, stately, but with a darkness underneath. Utterly lovely, if he was being honest. Bilbo didn't know if it was a good thing or not that he thought that. The feeling of being tugged by a string came back in full force and he had to resist the urge to jump down and reveal himself.

It did that odd thing to his stomach again, which he was sure couldn’t be good, even if it felt nice.

Bilbo stayed where he was until they had all well and truly gone, searching for him through the dead forest. He slowly climbed down, ensuring he was deathly quiet, before rushing back up the narrow path. He hesitated when he reached their camp, wondering if he should search through their things once more. But he didn’t have the time, and he felt guilty. He pulled the meat out of his pocket and set it back down on the pack he’d taken it from before disappearing through the entryway again to go and find Smaug.

Chapter Text

“You will stay here.” Smaug ordered him. “Do you understand? It is dangerous outside.”

Bilbo just nodded. “But where are you going?” he wanted to know.

The moment Bilbo had told him of the Dwarrows, Smaug had panicked. Well, perhaps panicked was the wrong word. Dragons do not panic. They become angry, certainly, but they do not panic.

Concerned seemed liked a more appropriate word for it.

“I am destroying the Heart of the Earth for good.” Smaug’s claws tightened around the pale blue gem. It twinkled in the firelight. Bilbo had always found it an odd trinket. The books he’d read spoke of it often, the treasure of Erebor and the royal family. “It is what draws them here,” he hissed now, gaining Bilbo’s attention, “what poisons them.”

“And if it’s gone?”  he wondered.

“Then the poison will be gone,” Smaug replied simply.

Bilbo paused for a long while before speaking again. “But they will not.”

“No.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “You are coming back, though, aren’t you?” his tone had taken on a rather desperate edge.

Smaug did not answer, instead, he simply said. “Stay inside.” His wings began to stretch out as he spoke, scattering piles of gold.

Bilbo watched him disappear up the steps of the treasury, breathing fire down onto the stone, turning it to ash he would probably spread over the Brownlands down south.

He was alone. Dreadfully alone.

He heard the news hours later, while spying on the group of Dwarrows near the entrance. They were silent, mostly, looking in the distance for the dragon that they had seen fly off earlier. Smaug had neglected to chase them off, perhaps because of the urgency of ridding the Earth Heart.

The Dwarrow with the odd thing on his head came running over. “Munûnel!” he was waving a small slither of paper. Bilbo had read that word before, though he was unsure of what it meant. “News from Laketown by munûnâl.”

Bilbo understood now. A messenger had delivered a letter.

He read about messengers, in great epic stories, delivering news of great wins to the far reaches of Middle Earth. The messenger was often a bird, sometimes a Thrush, but often a Raven: a Bâhzundush.

The note was handed to the black-haired Dwarrow; the one Bilbo had felt a tug for. He looked down at the words, an incredulous look on his face.

“The beast is dead!” the scary one announced, reading over the others shoulder. The words struck cold into Bilbo’s chest.

He couldn’t be.

A murmur ran through the group.

“Dead,” Bilbo whispered, clutching at the stone walls of the tunnel. He slid down until his knees hit the ground. “No.”

“Dead?” one of the voices wondered.

“He was killed in Laketown,” the scary one explained, going over the note again. “Bard the Bowman shot him down with one arrow!”

Bilbo did not like the sound of this Bard the Bowman.

“The Mountain is ours.” The black-haired one, the leader, Bilbo assumed, turned and looked up at the high stone walls.

The scary Dwarrow slapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, it is.” He agreed. “We can try and get through what’s left of the entrance. And Thorin Oakenshield, rayad, can sit on the throne like he was destined to,” he looked at the other Dwarrow. “Like your ancestors did.”

Bilbo cowered in the tunnel, feeling empty and alone while he heard them pack their things and pass.

Only when he was truly alone (and he was truly alone this time) did he allow himself to cry.

He returned to the treasury once his tears had dried, though his body was still shaking with fear and grief. There he hid, behind one of the piles of gold. Because surely they would come here first, wanting to see what they had won.

Soon enough, he heard footsteps and part of a conversation floated across the room to his ears.

“Thorin,” the first voice said now. “Do you remember when they used to call me Barkith?”

Barkith, The Axe that is Young. Bilbo had read of such names. Dwarrows were given names for their accomplishments. Bilbo wondered what he would be called. Perhaps Ishuke. It seemed fitting. The Coward. He was a coward, hiding here. If he were strong, like the warriors he’d read about, he would get up and fight. But Bilbo did not know how to fight, and he was very, very scared.

He glanced quickly at the stairs to find two Dwarrows there. The first one was the tall one with the frightening expression on his face. It didn’t seem to change no matter the situation. He was looking at the second, who had paused at the stairs and was now looking over the treasure. The dark-haired one, the one who had called him Burglar, which Bilbo was certain, was an insult.

The one named Thorin rolled his eyes. At least, Bilbo was assuming he was a he. “You are not so young anymore, Dwalin.” He announced. “And you are a Lord now, as I am. So perhaps a better name is in order, Uzbad?” Lord. Lords. That meant they were men.

Dwalin frowned. “I’m not sure I like that.” He announced. “It sounds so… poncy.”

Thorin chuckled, the sound running shivers through Bilbo’s body. He shrunk down further when his eyes roamed over the pile of gold he was hiding behind.

“Do you think the Arkenstone is here?” he asked now.

The man named Dwalin seemed displeased by this. “What does it matter?” he asked. “That thing is toxic. You saw what it did to Thror-”

“It is the gem of the Mountain. A symbol.”

“It will poison you like it poisoned hm.” Dwalin countered now, voice thick with some kind of accent. “Do not think you’re above it.”

Thorin looked displeased, but let the subject drop.

They were coming closer. He had to get out of here now, or else he was certain they would find him. And Mahal only knows what they’d do to him then.

He could make a run for it. Jump up and run. He could dart through this room and out the secret passageway. He could go… well, somewhere. He could try to find those green hills he’d been dreaming about.

He managed to get to his feet, knees weak and legs shaking, and go ready to dart out from behind the pile of gold. But with the first step his hunger got to him. It made him light headed and fuzzy, it made him dizzy.

He collapsed.

“He looks sick.” The voice broke through the darkness, and Bilbo felt himself flinch.

“He doesn’t appear to have eaten much in a while.” A sigh. “If I knew more about what he was, it would help me understand his physiology more. Perhaps you could ask the Elves-”

“-treeshaggers,” he heard someone else mutter, someone familiar.

“-they’re bound to know.” The first voice finished.

There was a grumble. “Thorin won’t like that.”

“If it saves a life then I don’t care how angry our new King is.”

“Oin-”

“No, I will hear none of it.”

“Oin-”

“My obligation as a healer outweighs my obligation to The Company, you know that-”

“Oin!” the other voice snapped now, clearly irritated.

“What?” The one named Oin demanded.

“He’s moving.”

“Oh,” he felt someone lean over him. “Can you hear me, little one?”

Bilbo’s head hurt. “Mrmph.”

“Is that a language or a moan of pain?” Someone else queried.

Bilbo managed to open his eyes and stare at them. “Where am I?” he wanted to know.

“Well, you’re in what’s left of our infirmary.” Oin peered at him. “How are you-?”

But the scary Dwarrow cut him off, stepping forward.  “Where are you from, little Elf?”

“Elf?” Bilbo frowned. “Am I an Elf?”

The Dwarrows shared a look.

“Where’re you from?” the scary one asked again. Dwalin. Bilbo remembered now that his name was Dwalin.

Bilbo sniffled, trying to sit up properly. “Well, I am from here, of course.”

“No,” the fair one said, moving forward so Bilbo could see him properly, “where do you hail?”

“Here.” Bilbo answered.

Another sigh. “Where were you born?” The elderly man who had been leaning over him asked.

“Here.” Bilbo repeated. He huffed loudly, before pausing. “You are Dwarrows, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” the scary one replied.

“But you don’t know what I am?” he asked, a little desperately. It seemed that his hopes had been dashed. What was he? Perhaps he was an Elf- a very short Elf. Did that happen? He’d never read about that sort of thing before.

The fair one frowned at him. “Don’t you?”

Bilbo shook his head. Smaug hadn’t known either. He sat up, turning so his legs swung off the side of the bed.

“If you’re from here, how come you speak Westron?”

Bilbo looked at the older Dwarrow. “Smaug taught me.”

“Smaug?” he repeated, eyes widening.

“And the books,” he added, belatedly.

“You’ve been to the library?” Dwalin wondered.

He nodded. “I have.”

“And it’s still intact?”

Bilbo found himself shrugging. “Most of it. A lot of the books are damaged, but they’re still readable.”

“The stairs that lead to it are broken,” he said now, matter-of-factly.

“There are other ways in.” Bilbo had found them when he was younger. Bits of broken rock he could climb to find his way up there. Hidden passageways. And if all else failed him, he could just move things to climb on top of. He easily knew his way around the Mountain; he could perhaps even do it with his eyes closed.

Dwalin gave a grunt before turning to the others. “Someone ought ter tell Thorin that the Burglar has woken up,” he announced.

Bilbo frowned. “I do not know what that means,” he said now, “but I’m sure it’s not nice.”

“It isn’t.” Dwalin informed him.

“Well,” Bilbo continued, “I have a name, you know. I am not Burglar, whatever that is.”

“Yer wrong there,” Dwalin replied now. “That is exactly what you are. You stole from us, so you are called Burglar.”

Bilbo put his hands on his hips. “Well, you are scary, but I don’t call you…” he searched for a word before spitting it out, “Dharginh, do I?”

The fair haired one burst into laughter, although they all looked rather surprised that he knew a word from their language. “He’s got you there, Mister Dwalin.”

Dwalin didn’t reply for a few moments, but Bilbo thought he saw his lips flicker upwards just a little.

The older man, the one with the fuzzy hair, was doing strange things now, looking at Bilbo oddly.

“Vustur…” he murmured, probably more to himself than to anyone else.

Bilbo flinched away from him. “Why are you touching me?” he demanded. The Dwarrow’s hands were cold.

“He’s a healer.” The fair-haired one explained.

Bilbo hadn’t read about those before. “What does he do?”

“Well,” for a moment the fair one was silent, “he heals.”

“I try to make sick people better.” The healer informed him.

“What is your name?” the fair Dwarrow asked.

“What is your name?” he shot back.

He grinned. “I am Fili. This is Dwalin,” he put a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder now. “And that is Oin.” He pointed to the healer. “And your name?” he prodded.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he paused. “I think.”

“You think?” Fili frowned.

“I was told that was my name, but I do not know for sure. But it is what I call myself, and what Smaug called me, so I suppose it’s as good of a name as I’m going to get.”

“I think perhaps you’d best tell us the story from the start, lad.” Oin said now, patting his knee. Bilbo had never had anyone pat his knee before. It was a bit alarming, and also strangely comforting.

So Bilbo told them. He told them about the story Smaug had told him. That his mother had crawled into the Mountain one night, heavily pregnant and seeking shelter from the storm, she died later that night giving birth to Bilbo and Smaug had looked after him. Raised him, taught him, cared for him, ensured he was safe.

And now Smaug was dead. And Bilbo didn’t have anyone but strangers who didn’t seem all that pleased with him.

“I’ve never seen anyone else before,” he added when he’d finished with his stories. “Now Dwarrows, not men, not Elves. Only myself and Smaug.”

“He could be useful,” Dwalin surmised eventually. “Having lived here for so long.” He spoke to Bilbo now. “You know your way around here? Around the ruins?”

Bilbo nodded.

“But Uncle Thorin grew up here. So did you.” Fili argued now.

Dwalin shook his head. “We need someone familiar with the place now, not how it was before. There are many rooms that have caved in, many passages that are no more. We have ter be careful where ter tread. You can help.”

Bilbo liked the idea of helping. It meant they weren’t going to kill him. Yet.

Chapter Text

Bilbo met the man with the strange thing on his head next (his name turned out to be Bofur and the thing turned out to be a hat).

“It keeps you warm,” Bofur explained, taking it off and handing it to Bilbo. “Your head, that is. You can wear them to keep the sun off your face, as well, but those ones aren’t as woolly as mine is.”

Bilbo put it on his head… and immediately saw nothing.

Bofur burst into laughter, pulling it up. “It’s a wee bit too big for you, I think.”

Bilbo remembered many cold nights where he could have used a woolly hat, although nothing was hotter than the Dragonfire Smaug had used to warm Bilbo during the Fell Winters. He had curled up by it many times (although not too close, or else he'd get burnt). It felt rather disconcerting to realise he wouldn’t be able to do such a thing anymore.

The round man poked his head through the infirmary door. “I’ve brought food.”

Bofur waved him in. “Bilbo,” he began now, “this is my brother, Bombur.” So the round one with the little legs was Bofur’s brother. He had to admit, he could see some resemblance. “Bombur,” Bofur continued now, “this is Bilbo: Burglar extraordinaire.”

That sounded more like a compliment then the time Dwalin had said it, so Bilbo said nothing.

“I remember.” Bombur came further inside now. “You gave us quite the fright when we first saw you.”

Bofur laughed. “Aye, you did.”

Bilbo wondered whether he should apologise for taking the meat, but Bombur did not seem mad, and he had returned it after all.

Bombur handed him the food. It smelt heavenly. Bilbo dug into it immediately.

“He is small.” Bombur said to his brother, clicking his tongue. “We should call him Zurmmuzmnât.”

Bofur laughed.

Bilbo looked up from his food in confusion. “I do not know this word.” He informed them both.

“Squirrel,” he answered. “He’s callin’ you a squirrel.”

“Oh.” Bilbo had never seen a squirrel before. But he didn’t want to sound silly, so he kept that to himself. “May I ask you a question?” he wondered now.

Bofur cheerily replied. “O’ course!”

He looked at Bombur when he asked. “What colour is his hair?”

“Bombur’s?” Bofur asked, glancing at his brother while he guffawed. “Well, it’s red. Or orange. I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

“Orange,” Bilbo repeated. “Like fire.”

Bofur grinned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never seen hair like it before.”

“Ah.” And he said no more.

Bilbo looked over at him to find him no longer smiling. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s just... strange to find someone who’s never really seen other people before.”

Bilbo cocked his head to the side. “Does it sadden you?”

“I have another brother, as well as Bombur.” Bofur answered. “It’s strange imaginin’ bein’ without them,” he smiled again, “even if they are the most frustratin’ creatures in Middle Earth.”

Bombur voiced an argument, but Bofur just waved it off with a roll of his eyes.

Bilbo wondered if maybe he had brothers. He wondered if he’d ever find out. He thought he might like brothers.

“Come now,” Bombur nudged him slightly, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “you’d better eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Once Bofur left, Bilbo had another visitor. Well, two, actually.

“I’m Ori,” the little one said, “and this is Kili.” He waved a hand at the Dwarrow who didn’t have hair on his face. “Do you mind if we come in?”

Bilbo just shook his head.

“Bilbo, isn’t it?” Ori wondered. “You’ve become quite a talking point in our Company, I have to say. We didn’t think anyone else was here.”

He supposed the place was pretty inhabitable.

“Have you really been here since you were born?” Kili wanted to know. “Or are the others just teasing us?”

Bilbo wasn’t sure why lying about that would be teasing, but he smiled and nodded anyway. “I have, yes.”

“And you know your way around here?”

Bilbo nodded again.

The two shared a look. “Could you how us to some places?” Kili asked, leaning in, like he was whispering a secret.

“Well… I suppose so.” That was what he was supposed to do, right? “Where did you want to go?”

“Weapon’s room.” Kili said at the exact moment Ori said: “Library”.

“Oh,” Bilbo considered that for a moment. “I can do that.”

Kili grinned, looking pleased. “Really?”

“We’ll have to bring Thorin with us,” Ori said now. When Bilbo frowned, confused, Ori shrugged sheepishly. “He doesn’t trust you.” He explained. “He doesn’t trust many people though, so there’s no reason to be offended,” he hurried on.

“Well, I do not trust him either.” Bilbo announced. “So it is fine.” He was going to say that he didn’t like Thorin, but he wasn’t all sure if that statement was true. He didn’t know Thorin well enough to like or dislike him. And he still didn’t know what the strange feeling in his stomach was when he saw him, so until he found out what that was he wasn’t making any undeviating decisions.

“I can show you now.” Bilbo declared, getting to his feet. He wobbled slightly, but managed to maintain his balance.

“Are you sure?” Ori was watching him, concerned. “We were going to wait until you were better… We are not in great need of those places; we just wish to see them.”

Kili nodded, agreeing with Ori’s words, but Bilbo waved them off.

“I am fine,” he assured them. “I will show you now.”

“Well… if you insist.” Kili took him out of the infirmary and into the Throne Room where the others were.

“What is he doing up?” Oin demanded upon catching sight of them.

“I am up because I wish to be up.” Bilbo replied simply.

“Please, Mister Baggins, you ought to be resting-”

“I was resting before, I am done resting now.” He brushed past Oin. “The Library is this way.”

He heard someone snicker, and looked over his shoulder to see Ori shrugging at Oin before following him.

Some others began to follow, as well. Kili, and Fili and Thorin. The pointy-haired one looked like he was going to come along, too, until Dwalin grabbed his shirt, holding him back. “You’re on watch, Nori.” He informed him, before walking after them. Nori appeared to be rather displeased at that.

He navigated his way through the crumbling ruins, feeling much like this was some sort of test, until he reached the far halls where the library laid. The doors were ajar just enough for them to slip through without touching them, which was essential as they were about to fall off the hinges. This was not good, of course, because they were about ten feet high and made of a rather heavy wood that would probably be very hard to move. Or they’d be enough to squish the poor person unlucky enough to knock them.

He’d spent a good part of his time here in the library, moving all the books that had survived and sorting them onto the better-half of the room. And by better half, of course, he meant, the part of the room that wasn’t caved in. The rest he’d left where they were. He hadn’t had the heart to burn them or throw them away.

“My,” Ori breathed out, looking at them.

“I can’t believe so much survived.” Dwalin murmured.

Ori picked one up and looked through it. “They have been well taken care of,” he informed them all. “And most of the rubble’s been moved to that side of the room.” He pointed to the half of the library where the pillars had collapsed.

Dwalin glanced at Bilbo.

He shrugged. “They seemed important,” he replied.

“Is the Armoury near here?” Kili wondered.

“It is on a lower level.” Bilbo explained at the same moment Thorin said: “No.”

“Can we go there soon?”

Bilbo paused before answering, glancing at Dwalin to see if it was okay. He nodded.

“I can do that,” he informed them. “But it’s in worse shape than here. Most of the room has caved in.”

“But the weapons?” Thorin wanted to know.

“They’re still there. Some are bent and broken, and some are worn from disuse, but there are a few still in good shape.” At least, what he imagined to be good shape. “We can’t use the stairs, though. They crumble; it’s not safe with so many feet.”

“How do we get down there then?” Dwalin asked.

Bilbo took them down a few halls and showed them the balcony where a large pillar had fallen. “I climb down that,” he informed them. “Can you?”

“How do you get back up?” Thorin wanted to know.

“I go down to the treasury and go up the stairs again.” Bilbo explained.

Thorin nodded. “Fair enough.”

Ori looked hesitant. “I don’t know if I can do that.” He peered over the edge. “It is a ways down.”

“I can help you,” Dwalin told him. “But I’ll need to know how ter do it first.”

Bilbo climbed over the railing, grabbing hold of the pillar. He slid down slowly, both hands on either side, trying to slow his descent as much as he could. His feet touched cool stone and he jumped the few feet at the end.

He gathered himself and looked back up at them. “Your turn.”

Bilbo heard Dwalin mutter something like “unbelievable” before nudging Ori. “Come on,” he told him. “Let’s have a go.”

They were significantly slower than Bilbo had been. And Bilbo found that waiting was sort of a novelty. He felt rather impatient, which seemed to make it even more enjoyable. He’d never really been impatient before.

Fili and Kili came down afterwards, with an alarming speed and intensity. They tumbled to the ground, laughing the whole time.

Bilbo watched Thorin’s descent very carefully. Surprisingly, he was both careful and quick. He didn’t lose balance or slip at all, and he landed on his feet when he jumped.

Bilbo was impressed.

“This way,” he turned on his heel and led them down to the eastern corner, where the worst of the damage had been done. Bilbo found himself instructing them to walk along the edges of halls, rather than through the middle where the floor was the weakest, or avoiding certain areas entirely. There was a bit of a jump where a big hold in the floor was, although they had no trouble clearing that.

Finally, they reached the armoury. The doors had long since gone and there was barely enough room for them all to fit.

“Shumûkh…” Thorin murmured, running a hand over his face.

Then Bilbo realised it. At the time of the attack, there probably had been many Dwarrows in here. Guards, like Thorin had said.

They would have been crushed.

Bilbo suddenly felt very sick.

They did not spend long there.

Bilbo led them back down to the treasury, where Fili and Kili insisted they nose around for a bit.

Thorin approached Bilbo while the others peered through the gold and silver and priceless gems that Bilbo had often slept among.

“There is a place,” Thorin told him now. “One I need to get to. On the Southern Spur there is a height called Ravenhill. There was an old outpost on it, is it still there?”

Bilbo did not know about any Ravenhill, but he knew the Southern Spur. “I can take you there to see.” It was a bit more dangerous, but Bilbo guessed Thorin knew that. Else he would have said it readily before.

They left silently, after Thorin had a quiet word with Dwalin.

The Southern Spur was the steepest, and the most dangerous. Part of it had fallen down, making it all the more precarious.

He found the steps easily enough, that led to the outpost. Bilbo had never dared to take them before. In fact, he’d never been this high before at all. He’d been at the bottom once, but didn’t feel the need to climb to the top.

They climbed for some time, going higher and higher, until finally the steps ended. Bilbo, having led, reached the top first.

He paused at the edge of the outpost. There were skeletons here.  Two of them, on the ground. One way leaning against what was left of the wall, the other, sprawled on the ground.

Thorin paused at the edge when he reached the top also, looking at the two bodies.

Bilbo had seen his fair share of skeletons. He’d stumbled across many before, in his investigations of his home. He had moved most of them.  The ones he dared to move, anyhow. He’d buried them at the east side of the mountain, now where grass was beginning to grow. Flowers, too. It seemed something like giving new life to old life, in Bilbo’s perspective.

Although he had no real sentimental attachment to the people, he understood his logical, relatively painless reaction was different to what others might feel.  He felt pain, of course, he felt sad. But it was not an all-consuming pain. He did not know these people, their stories, or even how they died. He had just found them and laid them to rest.

Thorin obviously felt different.

He knelt at the body- the skeleton sprawled on the ground, and with shaking hands reached out, lifting its arm. There was a bracelet there, something silver with a jewel in the middle.

“Nadad,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

Nadad. Brother.

For a moment Bilbo stood there, unsure of what to do. He could not offer comfort, he did not even know how to. He supposed that was not something that would be welcome, anyway.

Bilbo left him to cry.

Chapter Text

“We can bury him with the others, if you’d like.” Bilbo offered as they walked back. He had been debating for a while whether to say something or not, and supposed that he might as well.

“The others?” Thorin wondered.

“There were many when I was first here. At first I avoided them, and then I decided it would be best to lay them to rest. They are buried at the stretch of land to the east. It seemed the most peaceful.”

For a moment or two Thorin did not reply. Then, finally, he said. “I think he would like that. He never liked udùrûg.”

Bilbo shuddered, just thinking about it. Cold, closed in crypts. Even lavish ones did not seem appealing.

Thorin watched him with curious eyes. “You do understand me.”

Bilbo looked at him over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Many of the books in the library are in Khuzdul, as well as Westron, and even a few in Elvish.” He rolled his eyes at that, although Bilbo didn’t have the faintest clue as to why. “And you didn’t seem all that confused when the others would switch to our language to say something to one another. You hardly even seemed curious.”

“Am I not supposed to know it?” Bilbo asked, cocking his head to the side.

“It is… a secret language. It is kept mostly to ourselves.”

Bilbo didn’t know how to reply to that. “I apologise,” he managed eventually.

“There is no need to. It is not unheard of. Just very rare,” he gave Bilbo an assessing glance. “And slightly odd.”

“Well,” Bilbo shrugged now, “what else was I supposed to do with my time?”

Thorin appeared to be amused by that. “Tell me, Mister Baggins,” he said now. “How does one live with a dragon?”

“Carefully?” Bilbo suggested.

He seemed surprised. So surprised he even laughed, which Bilbo thought was a rare occurrence. “You are a strange thing.” Thorin commented now.

“I suppose that comes from living by myself all these years.”

“Are you enjoying the company?” he queried.

“I have to admit, the stories are wonderful. Did you really escape from a Eleven prison and fall down a waterfall?”

“Yes, Dwalin managed to sneak a fork after one of the meals and pick the lock. We ran through the place, dodging elves, and threw ourselves down the waterfall.” He paused, and added (much to Bilbo’s amusement): “It wasn’t the most pleasant experience.”

“And you travelled all this way? Just to come here?”

“This is my home,” Thorin told him. “There is much to be gained by reclaiming it. My people need a home.”

“So you’re really a king, then?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “What did you think I was?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I thought perhaps you were thieves, coming to take the crown for yourselves.”

Thorin looked like he was going to defend himself, but instead he cut himself short and glanced down at his attire. “I suppose we do look rather rugged at the moment. We have been travelling for just about a year now, you know.”

“A year?” Bilbo repeated, hardly able to imagine it. “Oh, my.”

Thorin looked amused. “You ought to ask my nephews about it, they’ll be sure to tell you every detail.” When Bilbo frowned in confusion, Thorin explained. “Fili and Kili are my sister-sons. Their mother is in the Blue Mountains, to the East. They wished to come and reclaim Erebor with me, and after much prodding on their behalf, we finally relented.”

“They are young, then?”

“Oh, very. Only in their seventies.”

“Seventies? Is that normal for all people?” To him they seemed to be younger than he was, but he was certain he was not in his seventies. No, of course not. That would be silly.

Thorin looked at him. “For Men it is an unreasonable age.” Thorin replied as they walked. “They grow to perhaps eighty or ninety, and then die… if they’re lucky. We have a far longer life expectancy. Hundreds of years longer.”

Bilbo wondered what it would feel like to be hundreds of years old.

 “I read that the Elves can live for thousands of years. Do you know if that’s true?”

“Elves,” Thorin growled the word now. “Do not find interest in Elves, Mister Baggins,” he informed him now. “They are dreadful creatures.”

“They are?”

“Certainly.” He did not elaborate further, however, so Bilbo was not able to make a clear decision on that.

The others had returned to the Throne Room by the time they arrived.

“Good walk?” Fili asked. Thorin gave a quiet reply, and Bilbo said nothing.

“What will happen now?” Bilbo wondered while Bombur made supper after the sun had set later that evening.

“We will bring in men from the Iron Hills to help with the clean-up and rebuilding,” Balin informed him. Bilbo liked Balin. He was the smartest person he’d ever met. Although… he hadn’t met many, and some of the others didn’t appear to be all that smart anyway. But still. “As soon as the place is in a habitable enough state, we will send word to our people to come.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Enough to fill Erebor,” Kili announced.

“And then some.” Fili added.

“What are you to do, then?”

“We will rebuild Dale, as well.”

“Dale?” The name sounded familiar. “I think I read about it.”

“The market-town that existed once at the base of the Mountain,” Dwalin jogged his memory.

Oh, yes. He’d read that in some notebooks that had something to do with trading merchants. “Were there many people there?” he wondered.

“Aye,” Dwalin replied. “People would come from all over. They’d sell silks and fresh food and jewels.” He looked wistful, like he was remembering it.

Bilbo’s mind was filled with noise and colour and chaos. “It sounds lovely.”

“Aye, it was,” Balin said. “Very lovely.”

Thorin was no longer within hearing range. He had gone over to the edge of the throne room, where the balcony looked down onto the rest of the mountain, which no doubt used to be filled with houses and people, bustling about.

“He must have been very brave to want to come back here after what happened.” Bilbo mused, watching him.

Dwalin grinned now. “They started ter call him Khuzd Tharku after it all happened. The Dwarf Pillar: he stands tall and holds the rest of us up as well.”

They both looked at Thorin.

“He seems tired.”

Dwalin hummed an agreement. “It has been a long journey. What did you find,” he queried now, quieter, not that the others were listening any longer, “on the outpost at Ravenhill?”

“Bodies.” Bilbo answered immediately. Only because he was sure Dwalin knew what they were searching for up there in the first place. “One with a bracelet he recognised.”

“Frerin.” Dwalin sighed loudly. “His younger brother. He disappeared along with their grandfather Thror during the attack. Thorin was certain afterwards that he was still alive- said that Frerin had said something about going ter the outpost that morning.”

“You would think reuniting with your home after so long would be a joyous thing,” Bilbo mused.

“Do you think about it often?” Dwalin asked, voice returning to its normal volume. Bofur looked over at them, curious.

“About what?” he asked.

“Your home,” Dwalin explained. “Where your mother would have been from?”

“Oh.” Bilbo shrugged. “It seems a silly thing to spend time doing, thinking about a place I’ve never been or know nothing about. I like to think its green, though, filled with colour and noise.” As opposed to Erebor: dark and silent and filled with the dead.

Dwalin seemed to understand. “Some of us live better underground. We are miners at heart.”

“I did notice the mines,” Bilbo replied, shifting slightly. “Do they go down very far? I never really had the heart to try to follow them.”

“You’d be right there.” Bofur said with a laugh. “I heard they went right into the very heart of the mountain.”

“Where they found the Arkenstone,” added Fili.

“The Arkenstone?” Bilbo wondered. “What is that?”

“It is the jewel of the mountain.”

Bilbo frowned now. “What… you mean, the Earth Heart?”

The whole Company turned to look at him.

 “The Earth Heart?” asked Balin.

“Well, that’s what Smaug called it. It was a big thing. Maybe the size of my palm,” Bilbo held his hand out now. He had caught everyone’s attention, even Thorin’s, who was waking over. “And it was bright blue. It looked like it was glowing.”

“You know where it is?” Thorin asked him eagerly. “Can you lead us to it?”

Bilbo shook his head now. “I’m sorry. Smaug took it with him when he left. He said it was poison.” He turned to Dwalin . “Said it would poison everyone.”

“He had it with him when he was struck down?”

Bilbo looked up at Thorin and nodded.

“It could still be with the beast,” Balin said, “someone would have picked it up.”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo told them, shaking his head. “He was going to destroy it.”

“Perhaps he didn’t get his chance to.”

“No,” Bilbo shook his head again. “I could feel the Dragonfire when he was leaving. He destroyed it the second he was away from the things he could damage.”

“What doesn’t Smaug want to damage?” Bombur asked with a frown.

“Me,” Bilbo answered.

There was silence for a while.

“So it is truly lost, then.” Thorin said eventually.

Bilbo felt like he should apologise, but the conversation continued before he could get a word out.

“But why would he continue on?” Nori wondered. “If he destroyed it, why not return straight away?”

“The ashes,” Bilbo answered immediately.

“The ashes?” Thorin repeated, frowning down at him. “What do you mean?”

“Dragonfire Ash is very powerful. I assume he was taking it somewhere safe.” It was strange referring to Smaug in past tense. Bilbo wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Could someone have gotten their hands on it?” Balin wanted to know.

“Well… maybe,” Bilbo replied. “It is very unlikely, though.”

“Why?” Fili asked eagerly, leaning forward. And Bilbo noticed for the first time that he had everyone’s rapt attention.

“Well, you can’t touch it without protection or you get burnt,” Bilbo displayed his own palm now as an example. A large, scar dotted along the length of it, and down his wrist and forearm. “If you’re lucky you can survive a burn, but most die.” He touched the burn now. “You should always listen to what a Dragon says,” he announced now. “When they’re not being smug they have some pretty good advice to give.”

“It seems like a powerful weapon,” Ori mused.

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo replied. “He told me a story once about Dragon Ash being used over the Sundering Seas.” Ori looked at him curiously, so he continued. “There was once a large and proud race that lived there,” he began. “They were masters of magic, the Dragonriders. They had an alliance with dragons like Smaug, to achieve mutual benefit.  During this time there was this Khal, named Ridge.” Bilbo recalled the story with ease. He had requested it to be told to him often enough. “He was evil,” he continued, “and wanted to control all dragons, so he could then control the Dragonriders. He knew that Dragonfire was powerful, but could not be harnessed, but he had heard that there was something else called Dragonfire Ash, what was leftover when something had been destroyed with Dragonfire, and that that was infinitely more powerful than ay Dragonfire could be- purely because it could be handled by humans if done correctly.”

To be honest he didn’t even know if the story was true or not. But that did not stop it from being his favourite tale, and that was including all the books he’d ever read in that library.

“So for years he travelled,” he went on now, “following dragons, collecting Dragonfire Ash, until eventually, he had stockades full of it. He created weapons, swords made with the ash, shields, arrows- and he attacked. It didn’t take him long at all to win most of the land. The Dragonriders were all but wiped out, as were many dragons, and Khal ruled with relative ease for years. Eventually, though, the dragons came back. They outnumbered the Khal five to one, though the battle was still bloody. In the end, they destroyed Khal Ridge, and threw the Dragonfire Ash weapons into the deepest part of the Sundering Seas. The land there had become so covered in blood and death that it had soaked it all up and become infertile. So life in the land stopped after that, and the last three dragons came over to Middle Earth to live out what was left of their lives.”

“And one of them was Smaug?” Ori asked.

“Well, he never said, but I assume so.” He paused. “Unless he just made the whole thing up to entertain me.”

Fili burst into laughter.

“What?” Bilbo asked, frowning in confusion.

“You regale us with this amazing story about Dragonriders and Dragon Ash and you end it with ‘but he probably just made it up’.”

“What happens if Dragonfire Ash is dropped on land?” Balin asked.

“Smaug said it’s the most fertile thing in the world. One pinch of it could make the most glorious meadow.”

“Smaug fell near Dale,” Dwalin mused, rubbing a hand over his chin thoughtfully.

Bilbo felt himself pale. “That close?” he asked.

Dwalin watched him carefully. “Aye, that close.”

He wasn’t sure what to think about that knowledge.

“I thought he was struck down near Laketown,” Bilbo said, even though he had no clue where Laketown was.

“He was hit. He continued flying, probably attempting to come back here, before falling where Dale used to be.”

Had he been trying to get back to Bilbo? Had he been trying to see him while he died? The thought was painful.

“Ironic,” Bofur murmured, “that he died in the town he destroyed thirty years before.”

Bilbo got to his feet. “I think I need some air,” he explained upon gaining a few curious looks. “Excuse me.”

He stayed close by, moving to the Entrance Hall that overlooked the land that used to be Dale. The land Smaug had fallen in.

Bilbo could not see him. He peered through the darkness, through the trees (or at least what was left of them), and he thought perhaps he saw a shape, a shadow, but he was not sure.

He cried.

Quietly, mind you. He didn’t want the others to hear. Smaug had told him once that dragon’s don’t mourn. Not really. They let the earth soak up the nutrients from their kin, starting new life.

Bilbo tried to think about it like that. Now Smaug could help rebuild something he destroyed. It was like it was some form of redemption. He had hurt many people and destroyed many lives and no his death could bring hope to others. A new life.

“This used to be greenery,” Thorin’s voice came from behind him. “As far as the eye could see.”

Bilbo turned to look at him, sniffling the last of his tears away.

“It was very beautiful. At least, my father told me that when we stood out here.” Thorin came to stand by his side. “I never really appreciated it until the attack happened.”

“It can be beautiful again now.” Bilbo told him.

“Yes,” Thorin met his eyes. “It can. It’s like what you said about putting my men to rest. It’s peaceful.”

“He can finally do some good, you mean.” Bilbo muttered.

Thorin smiled a little. “Surprisingly, we all do good. It’s hard to look at it like that when you‘re suffering, but it’s true. You can’t appreciate the good things if there are no bad things. You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it. You’d take advantage of it, you wouldn’t realise how blessed you were. A lot of pain came from Smaug, but a lot of learning did as well, and a lot of appreciation for good things. It’s not all bad.”

Bilbo looked out at the barren land, now dark with night. “I guess so,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

“Why do you all have facial hair?” Bilbo queried one day a week later as they were trying to clean up the entrance to Erebor. “Well, except for Kili.” He amended, pointing at the young Dwarrow now.

“Well,” Dwalin frowned. “We just do. Beards are important. They make a Dwarrow.”

“Some of us grow into them later than others,” Fili rushed to add, trying to clear the embarrassment on his brother’s face. “Besides,” he nudged his brother now, “you wouldn’t be able to use your bow with a long beard. It would get all tangled.”

Kili shrugged. “I suppose so,” he mumbled, morose.

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said now. “I didn’t mean to upset anybody.”

“Do you grow facial hair, Bilbo?” Ori asked.

Bilbo shook his head. “Not at all.” He said now. “I’d read about beards before, but I wasn’t really sure what they were. They didn’t really offer an explanation.” He shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed. “I suppose it’s kind of obvious, it doesn’t need explaining.” He wondered if it was strange that he didn’t have a beard. He wondered if the Dwarrows thought him unmanly. Although, he’d read that the ladies had beards as well. “Can I ask a strange question?”

“Well, you’ve been asking strange questions all day, laddie,” Balin told him now, “I don’t see how one more can harm us.”

Bilbo grinned sheepishly. “If your females have beards,” he said now, “how can you tell the difference?”

There was a long pause. “Well, they certainly look different to men,” Kili scoffed, earning a slap on the shoulder from his brother, who gave him a strong glare that Bilbo was pretty sure said something like: Bilbo doesn’t know these things so don’t treat him like an idiot.

Kili had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo said instead of bringing it up. “You say that women are sternly built like men, and they have beards too. I suppose,” he considered it now, “the dressed help. But surely it’s not always that easy…” The others were laughing at him now. “No, really,” he insisted. “I’m confused.”

Ori was the one to assure him. “They don’t look like men. They have a… look about them that’s different to us.”

“You can definitely see the difference,” Balin told him. “You’ll understand when the caravans arrive.”

“I suppose so.” The idea of people filling this place, breathing life into it… it excited Bilbo. But first, of course, they had to fix the place up. Which…  Bilbo thought as he looked about the shambles before him, was going to take awhile.

He’d been more than welcomed by the Company, for which he was highly grateful. He’d even been taken down to Laketown once or twice, which was a rather shorter trek than he’d imagined.

He felt himself get angry at the realisation, at the fact that he could have been doing this before, but then he remembered he’d had no one to help. Smaug certainly wasn’t going to take him into Laketown (not unless he wanted to get killed… which did happen anyway- but that wasn’t the point) and Bilbo had known nothing of the world around him. For all he knew a few weeks ago, Erebor could have been surrounded by land that stretched on for miles and miles in isolation. It was called the Lonely Mountain, after all.

There were Men in Laketown. And they were tall. Bilbo had found himself staring in shock at the Men and Women, rushing about to do their own tasks, oblivious to Bilbo, who barely reached their waist in height. He’d never seen such a thing before.

It was marvellous.

And there were markets, and fishermen, and boats on the dock. Fili and Kili showed him what an Inn looked like, and horses and they had a pie, which Bilbo had to say he enjoyed very much.

He helped clean out the less damaged rooms, and as time passed, Erebor slowly began to show signs of the way it used to sparkle and shine. It really did start to look like a jewel.

He still cried some nights, thinking about Smaug. He tried to console himself, but grief was grief. It couldn’t be helped. And if any of the others had heard him crying, or seen the red in his eyes, they were kind enough not to say so.

The Dwarrows from The Iron Hills arrived quite quickly, and the clean-up escalated. Suddenly, whole rooms were finished and new pillars were being carved. The Armoury was cleared out, and the guards that had been crushed there were finally laid to rest.

And then people began to flood into the walls.

It was frightening at first, all the crowds, wanting to catch a glimpse of the mountain that had been reclaimed, but after a while Bilbo came to cope with it. Often he’d sit and watch them pass through the gates, looking up at the ever-reaching walls and a roof that could barely be seen, at the new pillars and the old ones that has survived.

Some cried. In fact, a lot of them cried. Many of them thanked Aüle and Mahal, a few of them even burst into laughter. Thorin greeted many of them, ever the diplomat, and Bilbo found out something else: you were stupid to not respect Thorin Oakenshield. He very much did seem to be the Pillar of The Dwarrows, like Dwalin had said. Upon just seeing him, many walked taller, smiled more. It was strange to watch the interactions. Not just with Thorin, but with everyone. Bilbo had never seen so many people before, never heard so much noise. Not even Smaug’s roar could be compared to the buzzing of a hundred different voices, all speaking in elation.

It was like a choir singing, like bells ringing- things Bilbo had read about, but never heard.

It was magnificent.

“Watchin’ again, are we?” Bilbo jumped at Bofur’s sudden presence beside him.

He smiled, relaxing. “It’s interesting.”

“I suppose,” Bofur looked at them now. “It is very excitin’ and all.”

They watched the Dwarrows walk by in silent for some time until something occurred to Bilbo. “Do you think-” he cut himself short, reddening in embarrassment.

“Think what?” Bofur asked.

“Well, do you think I’ll… well, that I’ll be able to stay?”

Bofur looked confused. “You really think we’d kick you out?”

Bilbo shrugged now. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I don’t have any money, and I can’t really help with anything.” He couldn’t build, or carve, or mine. He was barely able to help with the heavy lifting.

“You’re of plenty of use!” Bofur argued now. “You said yourself, you didn’t tell Smaug about us straight away- and that saved our skin right off the bat. And you know this place better than anyone else, including Thorin. You made sure we didn’t kill ourselves in the places that are fallin’ apart in here. And you’ve been puttin’ in great ideas for the rebuildin’.”

Bilbo flushed at the compliments. “You really think so?”

“Aye, I do.” Bofur gave his knee a pat. “You’ll do just fine here, lad.” He assured Bilbo now.

Bilbo relaxed a little. “I would like to stay.” He informed Bofur, looking out at the people again. “To see what happens.” He had nowhere else to go anyway.

Later that afternoon, he was wandering the recently refurbished halls, and passed by one of the old study rooms when he overheard half a conversation.

“…sure that was her name, Dain?” Thorin was asking. It was his voice that had caught his attention.

“Aye,” the other voice, Dain, replied. “She sent news of her travels from Laketown,” he heard, “but came no further. We don’t know what happened to her.”

“We’ll have to…” the voices trailed off into indiscernible murmurs. Gloin had told Bilbo that listening in on conversations was rude, though, so he did not stay at the door even though he wanted to. He didn’t want to be discourteous. He was trying to be as useful and helpful as possible and being caught eavesdropping was not the best way to do that.

He was a bit more restricted now, in his movements. There were guards at the treasury so he could not go down there, the walls were repaired so he could not climb, and there were people everywhere so he could not sit wherever he wanted.

He supposed there were downsides to knowing other people. Not that they outweighed his enjoyment in being around other life, however- not at all. It was just a novel experience.

It was all a very novel experience. Bilbo had often wondered what it would be like to be in company of others.

Dwalin found him later in the library, his face grim. “You’d better come with me, lad.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo had a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach during the entirety of the walk.  The whole time he was thinking: ‘This is it. I’m not useful anymore; they’re going to make me go’.

Dwalin directed him back down the halls and to the room he’d overheard Thorin talking to the other Dwarrow in a few hours ago.

Thorin was waiting inside with another man he didn’t recognise.

For a moment he felt a rush of embarrassment run through him. Has they caught him listening? But that couldn’t be it. No one was in the halls when he heard the conversation.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, tentative.

“Bilbo,” Thorin waved a hand at the other Dwarrow, “this is Dain.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bilbo.” Dain grinned. “You’re certainly the spit of your parents.”

Bilbo looked at him, surprised. “You knew my parents?”

Dain nodded. “Aye, I certainly did. They were ambassadors for your people in the West, establishing trade deals with the rest of us for the Fell Winter. That was a long while back, though.”

“Why don’t you have a seat, Bilbo?” Dwalin suggested, leading him to one of the chairs.

“You said they were from the West?” Bilbo wanted to know.

“Aye, The Shire. I’ve no clue where it is, but it’s fertile lands over there. We never really sorted out much with them, you understand, and your kind aren't too keen on talking to our kind, so nothing ever came from it after she died.”

“You go too far West though,” Dwalin added, “you hit mountains, and they’re no good for farming, so we don’t think it’s past the Blue Mountains.”

Dain murmured an agreement.

“The Shire.” Bilbo repeated, testing the word. It sounded… right, despite him not having any knowledge about his parents home. “They lived with you in the Iron Hills, though?”

“For a few months, aye. Your mother had travelled to Rivendell to speak with the Elves, I believe she hadn’t known she was pregnant at the time- she sent us word about it soon after, and said she would stop when she reached Laketown to rest, and a few months after we received another letter, saying she was certain she could make it to the Iron Hills before giving birth. Then we received nothing more.”

“She died,” Bilbo said now. “Here, in the mountain.”

“And you, as I’ve been told, were adopted by a dragon.” Dain looked him up and down curiously. “I didn’t know they were the paternal types.”

Bilbo wanted to say something witty in reply, but he couldn’t find it in himself to. “My father?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Dain hesitated before replying. “Bungo. He died a few years after she disappeared,” he answered eventually.

So they were both dead, then. He wasn’t surprised, of course, but he did feel a little flicker of hope that was deep inside him extinguish. He was just as alone as he had ever been.

Only… he wasn’t. He looked up now. He had Bofur and the other members of the Company, and they hadn’t told him to leave like he feared they would.

“Thank you, Mister Dain.” Bilbo told him now. “I’m glad to know at least.”

“As am I,” Dain ran a hand through his beard, “it was a bit of a curiosity and a mystery, the whole thing. But we both have answers now.”

Bilbo nodded.

He’d always thought that knowing would make it better. That an answer would put things into place. But really, he just felt more lost than he had before. He supposed that just went to show that knowledge didn’t always fix things.

Dain had gotten to his feet now, and was taking his leave. “Mister Dain,” Bilbo called after him, turning in the chair so he could see him at the door.

“Yes?” Dain paused, one hand on the doorknob.

“What did he die of?”

“Heartbreak, I suppose.” And then he was gone.

“Can people die from heartbreak?” Bilbo wondered with a frown after a few moments silence.

 Dwalin shrugged.  “Don’t look at me,” he said now. “I wouldn’t know.”

Thorin snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dwalin,” he retorted now, “you break hearts left right and centre.”

Dwalin threw him a stern glare.

 “I think I ought to go sit down somewhere for a while,” Bilbo broke off the argument before it started. “You know, settle in for the night.”

Both Dwarves sobered.

“Alright,” Thorin told him, opening the door. “You remember where to-”

“Of course I do,” Bilbo replied teasingly, rolling his eyes.

“Ignore him, lad!” Dwalin called after Bilbo. “He’s just lookin’ for an excuse ter walk you ter your room!” He heard one of them throw something at the other as he walked down the hall.

His room wasn’t far away. Just a few hallways down from the study. He’d been allowed to choose whichever one he wanted, Thorin told him it was as repayment for saving them from Smaug by not telling him of their presence straight away.

Bilbo didn’t think he’d actually did anything, but the others insisted otherwise.

“If you weren’t there Smaug would have probably just burnt us to a crisp and had us for dinner!” Bofur had announced, slapping him on the back.

It was a nice room, decently sized, with a large bed that had been untouched by the damage Smaug had caused. When he’d first found these rooms, he’d been excited, back when he was younger. A comfortable bed to sleep in and a fire to keep him war. But it felt… strange. Like there were ghosts, watching him. He didn’t want to touch or move anything. So he’d let the rooms be, leaving them to their silence.

Now that the walls of Erebor were bustling with life again, it didn’t feel so wrong to sleep in a proper room with a proper bed and a fireplace. He could warm his feet and read a book, lazing about for hours. The prospect was exciting.

He didn’t feel so excited now, doing just that: sitting in front of the fire, frowning at his hands while he mulled over things.

His mother had gone but he’d had Smaug then. And then Smaug left, and even though he as alone, he had the thought to cherish, the idea that there was someone missing him, wondering where he was.

 Now that was gone as well. What was he told hold onto now?

“Are you alright?”

Bilbo jumped in his chair, looking over his shoulder to find Thorin watching him from the other side of the room. “Yes,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “Of course.”

Thorin hesitated, ambling in the doorway still. “Do you mind if I come in?”

He just nodded, watching Thorin come closer and stand beside him in front of the fire, leaning slightly on the armrest of the chair.

“I suppose,” Bilbo began, staring into the flames, “I just… I don’t know, I was hoping that maybe there was someone, you know.”

For a while Thorin was quiet, and they stayed like that, listening to the crackle of the fire and the murmur of others down the hall.

“My father disappeared, too,” Thorin announced suddenly. “In the midst of battle.” Bilbo looked up at him now, surprised. “We were fighting to regain Moria, another homeland lost. They never found him. They still haven’t. Sometimes I wonder, I imagine- I pray that he’s alright, that he’s still alive somewhere, that he’ll come back one day.”

He didn’t need to say anymore. Bilbo got the point.

Thorin understood.

Bilbo leant slightly against him. “Thank you,” he said.

He was still unsure of what the strange feeling in his stomach was when Thorin was around, but he found he didn’t really mind.

Chapter Text

“Bofur,” Bilbo wondered early one evening a few months later, while they were walking around the edge of the mountain, “what does love feel like?”

Bofur looked surprised. “Well, I, uh… I don’t quite know how to explain it. Why?”

Bilbo felt his brow furrow. “I read about it, and I understand it, but I don’t think I quite understand.”

“Well, it’s a hard thing to grasp,” Bofur replied with a rueful grin. “There are different kinds of love. Paternal love, platonic love, lustful love, love of companionship, love for a partner…. and there are different situations. I suppose it feels different to everyone.” He gave Bilbo a considering look now. “Why?” he asked. “You got your eye on someone?”

Bilbo felt a blush rush over his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I have not.”

Bofur guffawed at him. “Well, you certainly thought of someone, or else you wouldn’t have gone red as a beetroot.”

Bilbo pursed his lips. “It’s silly.” He said eventually. “I don’t even know what it is… but I feel different than I do usually.” He frowned at Bofur now, unable to explain. “You understand?” he asked, a little desperately.

“Aye, I certainly do.”

“What do I do?” he wondered helplessly.

“Not a clue,” Bofur replied. “I don’t know what your kind is like when it comes to this thin’.”

“What is your kind like when it comes to this thing?” Bilbo wanted to know. Many of the books he’d read had been about battles and treasure, not about love.

“It’s different for Dwarrows.”

“How so?” he wanted to know.

“We all have a One.” Bofur answered simply.

“A One?” Bilbo repeated.

“A soul mate, I suppose you could say,” Bofur ran a hand over his chin. “The Maker made us all from the Earth, and broke us apart so we could spend our time lookin’ for each other, lookin’ for completion.”

Bilbo thought that sounded lovely. “How does it work?”

“Well,” Bofur said now, shrugging, “you often know straight away. Not with certainty, but the urge is there. For most it takes a little longer, though. Time passes and the urge gets stronger, and eventually you just realise.”

That sounded like what he’d been feeling: the tug, the string that pulled at him. But he was not a Dwarrow.

“And there is one for everyone?” he asked.

“Some of the time. There’s a period of Longin’, when a Dwarrow becomes an adult. Not everyone has it, though, and those that don’t aren’t likely to find their One, or even have one.”

That sounded a little sad to Bilbo. “Did you have a Longing?”

Bofur laughed. “That’s an awful personal question to ask, Bilbo.”

“Oh,” he felt himself redden. How embarrassing. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s nothin’,” Bofur waved it off. “I did, actually, but, uh,” he leaned in, “you’ll be kind enough to keep it under your hat, right?” He tapped his nose.

“Of course.”

Bofur looked pleased. “Good.”

“What about the others?”

“Bombur never did have one,” Bofur replied, “but he married just fine. Bifur didn’t either- in fact, I was quite lucky, having mine the way I did. Ori hasn’t had his yet, but Dori says he’s just a late bloomer.” Bofur rolled his eyes. “Gloin had his and married early- he’s got a kid in the Blue Mountains on the way ‘ere.”

“Mister Dwain?” Bilbo wondered, thinking about the large Dwarrow.

“He’s gone through his, from what I know. He doesn’t talk about it often. Same as Thorin. You’d best not ask them about it if you want to keep your front teeth, lad.”

“You think they’d hurt me?” he asked, frowning in confusion.

“Some find it a very touchy subject, you understand.” Bofur explained. “You’d be best to not be too curious about this one.”

Bilbo supposed the advice was useful. “Thank you, Bofur. That’s very interesting.”

“There’ll be books about it comin’ when the new set of caravans arrive, if you fancy readin’ about it,” Bofur suggested now. “It’s better than askin’ all sort of questions.”

“They’re bringing books?”

Bofur laughed at Bilbo’s eager reaction. “O’ course they are! All sorts of books. Big ones and small ones and old ones and new ones.”

“That sounds lovely,” he mused now. “I think I will do that, thank you, Bofur.”

Caravans arrived at an alarming speed and there was now a constant flurry of noise around Erebor, preparations for the rebuilding of the town of Dale beginning.

Men and Dwarf alike wandered through Erebor and down to the camps at the foot of the mountain, where the builders and workers stayed. Stalls were set up, and though they had no food, the Men and Women of Laketown were more than generous with their rations. Soon enough the fields would be sown where Dale once stood, and they would soon have their own food and crops.

Things would get better.

Soon, the dead place Bilbo had known for so long would become something more, something filled with life, brimming with voices and laughter and shouts. It was a happy thought, but the sudden change felt rather alarming. It was quite a shock- a culture shock. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before he became used to such a thing. To the noise, to the constant presence of someone or something.

He now saw colours he’d never seen before, heard words and voices he never imagined he’d hear. He was in the company of those he never imagined to ever know. He had thought he’d be alone forever. This was a starkly different future to the one he had perceived he would have.

He felt an odd combination of grief and guilt and anxiety and excitement at the idea.

Grief and guilt because he felt this was not a time for celebrating- not after Smaug. He felt anxiety at the idea of being thrust into a world with others, others who could hurt him and judge him and perhaps even make him feel more isolated than he had been at the start. The excitement he felt was for obvious reasons.

It was a new start. But for a fresh beginning to come, an end must draw closed somewhere else.

He tried to think of it like that- a new start, but the thought of Smaug, the attachment he’d held, and having that ripped away so suddenly. At times it seemed hardly worth it. How could the death of one be something to celebrate for many others? No death should be celebrated.

The cognitive dissonance was driving him mad. So many things clashed inside his mind, and he had no idea how to think. Sometimes he felt so overwhelmed he’d have to run somewhere and hide so he could let the tears spill free and cry openly.

And sometimes, despite so much around him, he would curl up n bed at night and feel so isolated, so alone. But he’d wake up, and Bofur would find him, or Ori, or one of the others- and they’d smile at him and he didn’t feel so alone anymore.

He tried not to think about the bad bits: like the feeling in his gut that although he had lived here all his life, that he didn’t belong. That this was not his home in the way it was the others. He thought that perhaps, when they looked at Erebor, they saw something completely different to what Bilbo saw.

Thorin, for instance.

When he looked up at the splendour of the roof and at the walls and the long stretching halls, it was like he was seeing shadows, ghosts pass by, memories that only he could recall, or everyone else was gone. He looked so wistful and reminiscent. But when Bilbo looked, all he saw was rock and stone an towering pillars. They were beautiful, yes, and practical, but they held no fond memories of family and friends the way they did for Thorin. He remembered looking through the rubble, finding little trinkets and things that intrigued him. He could recall running through the halls, frightened by things he knew weren’t there. He could remember the first time he climbed to the upper levels, where the royal wing was, where he found letters and priceless jewellery, and swords and family heirlooms. There were things left on beds, on the floor, remaining scattered from the day of the attack. Bilbo never touched them. It seemed like some kind of sombre reminder, one of who Smaug was, what had happened here. A reminder of something that was painful to think happening, but so important. If the attack had not happened, there might have been no one to help his mother. Or, even, perhaps, if the Dwarrows remained here, his mother might have been saved by their medicine. It is possible, even, that she might have been turned away at the gates, forced to go to Dale. Oh, how things would have been different. But they weren’t.

What had happened had happened.

It was like what Thorin had said.  

You couldn’t appreciate good things without bad things. You couldn’t appreciate the day without night, or warmth without the bite of the cold. You couldn’t appreciate rain without drought and you couldn’t appreciate life without death. It was as simple as that.

So when Bilbo cried, he closed his eyes, fighting the tightening of his throat, and thought about how Smaug dying would make him appreciate life. Appreciate what he had with Smaug before he died. Appreciate the new friendships he’d made and the new opportunities he’d found because of Smaug’s death.

It made him feel slightly better.

He’d also made some new friends. Dain was surprisingly nice, despite how scary he looked. He’d also met some very nice workers, who seemed quite curious about Bilbo and his story. He supposed it was a bit odd. Well- okay, more than a bit odd, but that wasn’t the point.

Some of them said flattering things, called him names he wasn’t certain he deserved. He tried to be as nice to all of them as he could- although sometimes he got more than a little flustered at all the attention. Going from complete isolation to being the centre of attention in a massive population was a bit startling, he had to admit. He also had to admit he felt rather relieved when Thorin called him Burglar still. Dwalin hadn’t said it as much as of late, but he still did it too, and Bilbo was thankful for a nickname that wasn’t glorifying in any way. Although, sometimes, when Thorin said it, he got a look in his eye, and it left Bilbo wondering if the name was less of an insult that stuck and more of a… well, something different anyway. Different how, he couldn’t say, but it was… warmer, now. Sweeter.

He couldn’t explain it. Then again, he couldn’t explain a lot when it came to Thorin.

Needless to say, regardless of that it was nice to have someone treat him normally, rather than some sort of awe inspiring figure.

Like now, for instance. Late at night, while sitting on the edge of the balcony, he could hear down below, the guards talking in Khuzdul. There were some words he didn’t recognise, but he could easily pick up most of the conversation that the wind caught and blew upwards to his ears.

They were speaking of the bravery of The Company, coming to fight a dragon. They spoke of Bilbo’s bravery, too, although he’d done nothing to deserve the praise. His courage, at living with a dragon so long and surviving. They said he was raised by Dragons, that he was born of Dragonfire, that the strength of Smaug now ran through his veins. That he was the protector of The Company, of the King.

Bilbo had never heard such praise before. Although, to be fair, until a few months ago the only words he heard had come from a dragon. But the praise seemed rash nonetheless. He hadn’t done anything. He didn’t know what all the hoo-hah was about.

And then, through the darkness, he heard them as they began to sing, to chant a song of The Company and a list of qualities that brought them to the Mountain:

                        Lagabur, hyakhundur, fillûr, sûkhur.

                        Barkur, turgur, shandur.

                        Bashagur, torvûr, barufur, mazrur.

                        Amradur, mohilur , kukur!

The song went on, and on, though Bilbo did not hear it all. The wind grew fiercer, and their voices were carried off on it, down towards Dale.

There had been many ballad’s about The Company as of late, more so as Thorin’s coronation drew closer. Bilbo liked to hear the tales of their travels- the escape from Mirkwood, the wargs that had attacked them, the Goblin King they had killed. They were tales full of adventure and bravery, and that was what Bilbo thought should be spoken of, regaled and revered by the people. And it was, of course, often and with eagerness and avidness. He just wished they’d leave the part about him out, is all.

He smiled now, humming the words of the song to himself, and made move to return to his room and get the chill from his bones, thinking about brave deeds and noble Dwarrows.

Chapter Text

Bilbo wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting with Fili and Kili’s mother. He supposed she’d be stubborn and strong, like the rest of the Durin family, but slightly mischievous like her sons. He was right, on both counts, but other than that he had had no idea what to expect of her.

She held the same likeness that Thorin did, tall and stout and sturdy, with strong features. Her eyes were the same icy blue that Thorin’s were, and her hair was the same jet black. Bilbo supposed Fili had gotten his hair from his father.

He watched as they greeted her, hidden behind a pillar a few dozen feet away. Kili had insisted he come and introduce himself, but Bilbo didn’t want to intrude on a family moment. So he lurked instead, watched from afar like he liked to.

Balin had been right. You could tell the difference between the men in the women. The hair on their faces was slighter, and the dresses were certainly a dead giveaway. Although he had noticed some of the other woman wearing trousers, so he knew he ought not to rely on clothes too much to define gender. Dis was certainly fairer and more shapely than Thorin was, although she was just as muscular and her hands just as callused. Bilbo found it fascinating. 

And he most certainly did not find watching Thorin fascinating either. He didn’t. Honestly.

Okay, maybe a little. But it wasn’t his fault. Up until recently his life had been spent in isolation. Save for a dragon and himself in the mirror, he’d never seen any other creature. Thorin had been one of the first things he’d seen, so it was natural for him to feel an attachment… right?

But it felt like more than an attachment. It felt important. Not that the others weren’t important. They were. But it was a different kind of feeling with them. To Bilbo, Thorin felt… well, like the forges that had been fixed in the lower levels of the mountain. He was hot and stifling, choking Bilbo with the intensity of it, like thick smoke. It was like a river of lava running through his chest and stomach. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t want to say anything either, in fear of it being something that wasn’t the same for him.

Maybe that was what love felt like.

Because Bilbo had never gone through a Longing. At least, to his knowledge anyway. The description he’d read about it made him even more certain. He’d never felt anything like that. The realisation that something had been torn from you.

Maybe it was different for Hobbits… surely someone would know. He just had to find the right person to ask.

He had heard some of the Dwarrows speaking of a Wizard, one who had been everywhere in Middle Earth. If he’d been everywhere, then surely he’d been to The Shire as well. He’d just find this Wizard and ask him.

But where to find a Wizard?

He mulled over that for the rest of the day, and further into the night.

Which was why he’d been so preoccupied at dinner that he hadn’t heard when Kili asked him a question at one of the tables. When he didn’t reply, not had he been listening to the conversation at all, Kili shared a look with his brother, before gesturing at Bofur to grab his attention.

“Come now, Bilbo,” Bofur slapped him on the back, pulling him out of his reverie, “you’ve got eyes everywhere. What are the people saying about Thorin?”

Bilbo looked from Bofur, to the other members of the Company, to Thorin. “Well… good things,” he shrugged, and they waited for him to continue, so he inhaled deeply and told them what he’d heard. “You’re their saviour for taking back Erebor,” he explained. “I mean, you did kill a dragon, and that’s pretty impressive.”

Balin chuckled.

“I believe that was Bard the Bowman,” Thorin commented, raising an eyebrow.

“I suppose you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Fili informed him. “Someone had to scare the dragon out before it could be killed, and we did that, so I guess it’s kind of the same.”

Thorin didn’t appear to be convinced.

“They are glad to have a home,” Bilbo continued. “I suppose many were alive when Erebor was taken, so they are glad that the dragon is gone and they can return. They are happy you were the one to give it to them. I think many of them are loyal to the Durin family.” He fiddled with his fork.

“But you have heard bad things as well,” Balin pointed out.

Bilbo nodded. “Not by many. There are a few who think that you are lying about the Arkenstone, that you have hidden it. That greed will consume you and that soon enough you’ll fall prey to what your grandfather fell to.”

“Certainly dangerous,” Dwalin mused.

“Hardly dangerous at all,” Kili scoffed. “A few Dwarrows? Out of thousands?” he rolled his eyes.

“Do not cast away your enemies so quickly, Kili,” Balin scolded him. “There are many who do not trust the Durin line as they once did. And though Thorin has been a good leader for them, many will try to take advantage of his vulnerable position. The mountain is weak, barely protected. Food is scarce. It will be like this for a very long while, until we can finally restore some balance. We have to be careful. Smart.”

Kili had the grace to look embarrassed.

“If our Burglar here hears anything, I’m sure we’ll be the first to know,”

Bilbo still didn’t like the nickname. But he supposed it was going to stick whether he liked it or not. He simply sighed into his tankard and went back to pushing the food around his plate.

“Are you not feeling well, Master Hobbit?” Thorin wondered some time later. “Your food has gone untouched.”

Bilbo looked up, blinking out of a daze, and shrugged. “I am just… lost in thought. I apologise.” He got to his feet. “I think I need to go to my room.”

“If you feel ill in the morning, please call for me,” Oin told him, catching his arm before he left the table. “You seem awfully pale, little one.”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo assured them, though it appeared to do nothing to appease the others. “But if I feel even the slightest bit poorly when I wake up, Master Oin, you have my promise that you will be the first one I find.”

Oin relaxed a little, releasing his arm and taking his seat once more.

“I will see you all in the morning, I suppose.”

He felt slightly better once he reached his room, and he decided while he got changed and climbed into bed that he’d ask about and find this Wizard. After all, it was important he knew about himself and other Hobbits like him.

He asked Thorin about the Wizard the next day.

“Tharkûn?” the Dwarrow wondered, frowning. “Well, he shows up from time to time, but no one’s ever really been able to pin him down. He just comes and goes as he pleases.”

Not good news for Bilbo then. “If you do get word of him, please tell me,” he’d replied with a sigh.

Thorin gave a nod. “Certainly. If you wish we can send a Raven in search of him. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to join me in overseeing the start of the restoration of the mines?”

Bilbo wasn’t sure why Thorin suggested it, but he was glad to be of use. And it was nice to see the Mountain coming back to life. After so long in such darkness and silence Bilbo was revelling in the change.

He’d never been in the mines before, the tunnels that led deep into the heart of the mountain. He’d peered in one or two times when he was younger, and only beginning to explore the mountain around him, but the ground could not be seen and the bridges were rickety and unstable and there was an infinite blackness that seemed to stretch on forever. Bilbo found none of those things appealing and had stayed far away.

Now, however, with Thorin at his side and other Dwarrows working down there, it wasn’t as bad. Certainly, his stomach still twisted at the plunging depths, but Thorin had put a hand on his shoulder and he had felt calm instantly.

They had lunch together in Thorin’s private quarters afterwards, and Bilbo delighted in hearing many stories of Thorin’s time in the Blue Mountains, wandering and travelling and working, the only thing getting him through being the unshakeable desire to one day reclaim his homeland.

He spoke of his father, who had died in an attempt to reclaim Moria, another great Dwarven kingdom, overrun by monstrous creatures. Bilbo had never seen a Goblin or an Orc before, for which he was ever glad about. He had no desire to see what such things looked like in person.

He also spoke of his sister’s late husband, who had been taken by disease just after Kili had been born, and of Dis great heartache at losing her One.

“Bofur told me about Ones,” Bilbo had said with a frown when the subject had arisen, “I’m not quite sure I understand. He said I ought to look at the books in the library.”

“We do have many books on the subject,” Thorin agreed. “We are all created together, from the same stone, and then we are separated. Some of us find our other, who was cast from the same block of stone, and some do not. For some, it is all that occupies their minds.”

“And for you?” Bilbo wondered if he was being too brash, but the words were already out of his mouth, so there was no taking them back.

Thorin let out a chuckle, but it sounded a little like a derisive snort. “It is not something that has preoccupied my mind for a very long time, you understand. Perhaps when I was younger… but after Erebor was taken, I pushed such trivial things from my mind.”

“Bofur said some of you have a Longing.”

Thorin gave a nod. “It happens when a Dwarrow comes of age. It is a realisation of something that had not been noticed before. An emptiness, perhaps. Not all realise it.”

“But how do you know?” Bilbo asked with a frown, the last of his lunch forgotten. “That you’ve found your One?”

“Initially it is… a tug. In the direction you are meant to be taken. The closer you are, the stronger the pull. Afterwards, it is a sense of fullness. Completion. You know you have found your One because you are whole when they are around. For some it takes a long time, even if they are near their own One. Time passes and eventually... the realisation evolves naturally.”

“Do you have a One?” Bilbo wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask.

“My Longing was… unusual,” Thorin answered slowly. “The experts had no explanation for it." He grinned now, ruefully. "It was quite the scandal.”

“What about others?”

Thorin frowned. “Others?”

“Elves, Orc, Men. Do they…?”

“If they do, they do not share it with us. Just as we do not share it with them.”

“Should I have not asked?” Bilbo wondered now, guilt attacking him.

“No, no,” Thorin waved it off, “you are a friend of the Khuzd, and you have lived here all your life. You know much about us that is not known to anyone else, so there is no harm in you knowing this.”  

Bilbo relaxed back into his chair. “Tell me again about Fili being born,” he asked.

Thorin rolled his eyes, but didn’t hesitate in starting the story once again.

Chapter Text

“You watch him a lot.” Bilbo mused one night, watching Ori watch Dwalin from across the table.

Ori immediately reddened and averted his gaze, suddenly finding his hands very interesting. “Uh…”

“Is that a bad thing?” Bilbo wondered, brow furrowing. “I don’t understand.”

Ori looked up, as if something suddenly occurred to him. “Oh!”

“What is it?” he asked.

“You don’t understand.”

Bilbo's frown deepened. “Well… no,” he replied. “Could you explain it?”

“Ah…” Ori hesitated, glancing from Bilbo to the table to where Dwalin and Thorin were. “Later. After dinner. When we have some privacy, okay?”

Bilbo nodded, smiling at him. But he was still a little confused. “Okay.” He could wait.

He didn’t have to wait long, though. As soon as the eating was over with, Ori grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and dragged him away from the rest of them, outside where they could have some privacy. They went to the library, which was dead to the world, especially at this hour.

Ori led them to the back, to the furthest row, and stopped suddenly, turning on his heel to face Bilbo.

“You have to promise not to tell a soul about this,” Ori began, pointing a finger at him. Bilbo nodded obediently.  “Good,” Ori sighed. “If anyone found out, I think I’d perish of embarrassment.”

He’d read great myriads where people had died of unrequited love, or the breaking of their heart, but he’d certainly never heard of anyone dying of embarrassment before. But Ori continued on, unperturbed, so Bilbo just assumed it was a figure of speech.

“I maybe have a slight little…” Ori scrunched his face up. “Well, that is to say, I rather fancy Dwalin.”

“Rather fancy?” Bilbo asked, confused. He hadn’t heard that term before.

“Oh, right, yes- the whole,” Ori vaguely waved about the side of his head, as if that explained everything, but it only served to make Bilbo more confused. “I mean, that I like Dwalin.” He looked at Bilbo carefully as he spoke. “Do you understand?”

“Well, I like you.” Bilbo said now. “And Dwalin. Is that wrong?”

Ori giggled. “No, not like that. There are different kinds of like. This is more a…” he searched for the right kind of explanation for a moment, “love-like.”

“Love?” Bilbo asked, suddenly understanding. “Oh.”

His face must have explained everything, because Ori looked relieved. “Yes, exactly.”

“But what about Ones?”

“Well,” Ori reddened a little, “I haven’t had my Longing yet. But I’m certain when I do, it’ll be Dwalin.”

“But Thorin said Ones don’t know-”

“Not for certain, no,” Ori replied. “But sometimes you feel such a strong bond to a person that you just know.”

Bilbo cocked his head to the side. “Do you think Dwalin knows?” he wondered.

Ori looked glum. “Maybe. If he does, then he’s made no voice of it to me.”

“Perhaps he’s waiting for you,” Bilbo suggested.

The thought seemed to brighten Ori marginally.

“So… when you find your One, what does it feel like?”

“Well,” Ori thought about it, “I’m told it’s… splendorous. Like feeling warmth spread through your body and settle into your bones. But I suppose it’s different for everyone.”

“Do you think Hobbits have a One?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never even heard of a Hobbit until I met you.”

“Do you think a Dwarrow could have a One that wasn’t a Dwarrow as well?”

“Well, it isn’t unheard of. I have a cousin whose One was a Human.” he gave Bilbo a shrewd look. “Why?” Ori wondered. “Are you feeling… amorous?”

It was Bilbo’s turn to redden. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, before rushing to add: “But you can’t say anything.”

Ori put his hands up. “I won’t breathe a word. But tell me,” he leant in now, even though no one was around to hear them, “is it Bofur?”

“Bofur?” Bilbo asked, confused.

“Well, you two seem chummy, and I know he’s had a Longing, so he does have a One.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t me,” he announced.

“Then who is it?”

Bilbo hesitated. “It’s embarrassing,” he said eventually. “Like yours.”

“But I still told you mine!” Ori insisted. “Come on,” he nudged Bilbo now, “I won’t say anything.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said it so quickly and so quietly, that he was certain Ori almost missed it.

His eye widened in surprise. “Oh, of course!”

“What do you mean ‘oh, of course!’?”

Ori shrugged. “You two seem very close, is all.”

Bilbo liked the sound of that. “We do?” he asked, pleased.

Ori nodded. “And Thorin’s barely close to anyone, so he must like you.”

“But not the right kind of like,” Bilbo countered, sighing heavily.

“King Thorin’s not one to openly declare his feelings,” Ori said gently, patting his shoulder. “I mean, he’s lost most of his family, and he’s royal, so it adds even more pressure. There’s so much that’s expected of him, there was so much expected of him even before Smaug. To be honest, I don’t think he’s ever had the time to even consider it.”

“He said his Longing was unusual,” Bilbo said now. “Do you know what he means?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone knows about it. King Thror, Thorin’s grandfather, called for the medics as soon as it began. He had dreams, about flowers and thick trees and strange songs that were suspiciously Elvish in nature,” Ori chuckled in amusement. “Thror refused to accept that Thorin’s one might have been an Elf though.”

“Is that not normal?”

“The dreams?” Ori asked. “Oh, my, no. Not at all. A usual Longing has an aching to it, and maybe a flicker of something to do with your beloved, but full-on dreams are unheard of. And flowers?” Ori snorted. “Dwarves prefer hard stones and gems, things of similar colour, perhaps, but not as…” Ori paused. “Well, I was going to say poncy, but that’s not very nice, is it? Let’s just go with Elvish.”

“But I thought the Men used Flowers for courting as well?” He’d read as much in the library before the others had come.

Ori just shrugged. “Were mountain-dwellers, we like things that come from within the mountain. Trees and grass and flowers are… trivial things to us.”

“So not only the dreams, but the thigs in the dreams were odd.”

“Oh, yes. And sometimes he’d sing the strangest songs. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“But you sing all the time.”

“Dwarvish songs. These ones, though… not so much.”

“What were they about?”

“I’m not really sure,” Ori admitted. “I only heard whispers. But that was why it was unusual. One of the old guards had said that he’d caught him sleepwalking down the halls, muttering about holes in the ground.”

“That is rather odd,” Bilbo mused, agreeing.

They returned back to the food halls some time later, where the others were still drinking and talking.

“Where did you two go off to?!” Nori called as they sat back down.

“Nowhere,” Ori muttered, reddening.

Dori cast a curious look from his youngest brother, then to Bilbo. He raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that!” Ori hissed, smacking Dori’s arm.

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo said now. “What was ‘like that’?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dori insisted quickly, at the same moment Nori muttered: “You don’t want to know.”

“Well… alright, then.” He reached for his tankard and put it to his lips.

But just then, the doors burst open and a Human walked in.

Although Bilbo had seen many humans in Dale, he still wasn’t over the novelty of it just yet. He’d just never seen anyone so big before. Save for Smaug, of course, but dragons tended to be massive in size.

“King Thorin,” the Man came to a stop in front of Thorin and bowed.

“Bard,” Thorin replied, bowing his head slightly. He set his tankard down.

Bilbo took the man in now. So this was the Dragonslayer, then. Bard the Bowman. King Bard, according to the people of Dale.

Bard looked breathless, like he’d rushed from Dale to Erebor, and slightly panicked. “I am sorry,” he began now, “for bursting in, but I’ve just received an envoy from Mirkwood.”

“Mirkwood?” Dwalin snorted, frowning. Bilbo heard Nori mutter ‘poncy elves’.

“What was it?” Balin wanted to know.

“They got a message from Rivendell saying they’d seen a Dragon heading towards the Misty Mountains.”

The room erupted with noise.

Chapter Text

The doors of Erebor were pulled closed soon after, and the Lonely Mountain went into lockdown. The city was already weak enough, the rebuilding only up to half of the standards Erebor used to be. They couldn’t defend themselves from a dragon. Not again.

Besides, Bilbo mused, watching the guards run rampant, trying to strengthen the outer walls; all that strength had done nothing to help them when Erebor fell to begin with. Then again, they didn’t have warning before. Perhaps it could be stopped this time. But Bilbo wasn’t an entirely optimistic sort of fellow, and if Smaug had taught him anything, it was to always have a contingency plan.

There was a passage, down past the cellars and the dungeons that led right out of the mountain. It hadn’t been used in a great many years, of course, so the exit outside was covered with overgrown vines and rocks and all sorts, but there was certainly enough room for a Hobbit to fit through.

He didn’t think he’d be able to reason with the dragon.  He’d known Smaug well enough to know for certain that an angry dragon or a dragon on a mission did not stop to listen. If things turned for the worst, he’d just leave. He’d felt a little guilty after deciding that: guilty about abandoning the others, but although they’d been kind to him, they had killed the only family he’d known. But they sort of felt like family in their own way. It was all so confusing.

He’d been sitting there, in front of the fire in the food halls, mulling about it over a highly ignored dinner when he overheard Ori, who’d gained far too much confidence with a little too much mead, stand up and announce he’d ‘shove some Dwarvish iron’ up ‘the dragon’s jacksie’. Bilbo didn’t understand most of that, but he’d been upset enough as it was over Smaug, and now- the idea of another dragon, the kin of Smaug, getting slaughtered… it didn’t evoke pleasant emotions. He dropped his fork with a clatter, about to get to his feet and stalk from the room, but before he got the chance the fire in front of him leapt up, almost exploding, and roared up into the ever-stretching roof, like it was trying to slam into the high stone pillars that stretched up with it. Everyone within a twenty meter radius jumped up, and stared at it and Bilbo clambered back, yelping at feeling a hot lick of fire over his skin. But he didn’t smell burnt flesh, nor did he feel any pain. It had sort of felt like warm water, cascading over skin when what was expected was something cold. Surprising, but not jarring.

He fell backwards onto the ground, and the flame tampered out, lowering back down into the pit where it was supposed to be.

“Bilbo!” Ori came to his side immediately, looking for wounds. “Someone get Oin!”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo insisted, trying to get to his feet, “I’m fine.”

Dwalin grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him up, giving him a once-over. “Calm down, little one,” he grabbed Ori’s shoulder. “He’s unharmed.”

“But the fire was all over him! You saw that!”

Bilbo could hear voices murmuring now, and felt a number of curious eyes on him.

He looked down at his feet. “I think I should go,” he muttered to the ground, before turning on his heel and running out.

Thorin found him first, hiding where he usually did: in the library.

 “I heard about what happened,” was all he said, taking a seat beside Bilbo.

Bilbo, feeling quite like a tankard with water brimming over the sides, just let the words gush out. “I didn’t mean to!” he wailed, miserable. “I just got mad and-” he mimicked the fire exploding with his hands.

Thorin frowned at him. “Has it ever happened before?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Not like that.” He glanced up at Thorin from underneath his eyelashes. “Smaug taught me how to make the fire dance,” he explained now, and it sounded somewhat like an apology. “It was fun. I’ve never…” he broke off, sighing.

“Is this what you want to talk to me about?” Thorin wanted to know.

Bilbo just nodded, not bothering to tell the full truth. “Among other things.”

Thorin just nodded. “Can you do anything else?”

Bilbo hesitated. “Not really,” he replied. “Smaug always told me that not a lot of people could do it. Said that no one else really knew any dragons who could teach them.” He picked at the material of his trousers. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No,” he saw Thorin shake his head from the corner of his eye, “in fact they’re all quite excited.”

“Excited?” Bilbo asked, confused. “Why would they be excited?”

“They think you can stop the dragon.”

“I won’t hurt a dragon,” Bilbo insisted immediately, shaking his head. “Even if I could, which I don’t think I can, I’d never-”

“Hush now.” Thorin silenced him with a wave of his hand. “No one’s asking you to hurt or kill anything. But a lot of people will get hurt if you don’t help. And a lot of them were already hurt by a dragon.”

Bilbo worried at his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

“It’s alright. I have some good news, actually.”

“You do?”

Thorin pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, but it seems that now is the best time. Our Raven found Tharkûn, and he is nearby enough that he would be here before the dragon, if he makes haste.”

“And will he?” Bilbo asked. “Make haste, I mean.”

“It says he is on his way,” Thorin looked down at the heavy, Dwarvish letters, scratched into the parchment. “Perhaps he can help.”

Bilbo certainly hoped so. “I feel so lost in the dark,” he muttered, not really intending for Thorin to hear it, but me must have, because he just raised an eyebrow, waiting for Bilbo to continue. So continue he did. “I want to help you, I do. And I know that Dragons are… well, not inherently evil, I don’t think. But they are gold hungry creatures. But there’s another part of me (an equally loud part) that says that you Dwarves are the same. Not evil, I mean,” he corrected when Thorin’s mouth twisted unhappily, “I just mean, you’re like the Dragons. You hoard treasures and you value gold above almost all else.”

“True enough, but there are some stark differences,” Thorin countered. “We don’t invade kingdoms for our gold, for one. We also don’t breathe fire and roast people for fun.”

“Smaug never roasted people for fun,” Bilbo found himself uttering, kicking at the ground. But he was smiling now. “He roasted deer sometimes. I don’t think Dragons like other creatures," he added.

Thorin hummed an agreement. “I think that conclusion is pretty obvious.”

“So you don’t…” Bilbo paused.

“Don’t what?”

“You don’t think I’m weird now, do you?” It sounded so silly, but Bilbo was so desperately anxious to fit in, especially with Thorin.

Thorin did something he didn’t usually do, then. He smiled. Not even a small one either. It was wide and pleasant and it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “We’re all a little weird here,” he informed Bilbo. “Now, come on. Stop hiding. The others are desperate for you to show them more tricks.”

Bilbo grinned and got to his feet, following Thorin out of the library and down the great halls.

Chapter Text

Thorin had been the first to suggest they meet the dragon out of Dale. Repairs had already started and the idea of just letting the dragon waltz up to the city seemed stupid. Bilbo readily agreed, as had the other Dwarrows. None of them were keen to watch the Mountain burn once more.

So they rode down South, a number of Dwarves and Men together, far past the clearing where Smaug had fallen.

After a day’s journey they stopped and set up camp, their numbers more than enough to attract the attention of a Dragon. At least, Bilbo hoped so.

“What if it doesn’t come to us?” Bilbo asked Thorin on the first night as they ate in his tent. “What if it does come and we can’t stop it?”

Thorin just looked at him for a long while. “You’re scared.” He said eventually, as if it surprised him.

“Of course I am. Anyone with half a brain would know to be scared of a dragon.”

“You lived with one all your life,” Thorin told him, brow furrowed. “You were raised by one.”

“So if I’m scared,” Bilbo countered, “then you definitely should be.”

Thorin’s lips quirked up slightly into a half-smile. “I’ll keep that in mind?”

Bilbo just stared at him. “Aren’t you scared at all?”

The smile quickly faded. “Anyone who says they don’t feel fear is a liar. We all feel fear. But letting it become a paralytic isn’t the right thing to do. It isn’t the honourable thing to do. You do your duty, even in the face of death.” It sounded like something that had been constantly drilled into him, again and again.

“Did your father teach you that?”

His face became bracketed, closed off, but Bilbo could see something dark in his eyes. “During the winter months we have a lot of storms. When I was younger, just a Dwarfling, they used to frighten me. They were so loud and so large that you could hear them even in the deepest part of the mountains. The thunder echoed through the great halls like Gods yelling. It even seemed like the Gales swept through the stone, through the fires, and down into your very bones. When I got frightened, and I’d hide under my blankets in my bed, he’d come in and tell me that. He’d tell me that even if I was scared, I had to be strong because my people would look to me. That one day I’d be their pillar, like King Thror was, like Thrain would be when he passed on. Soon I’d be the one who held the torch, and there was no use hiding under my blankets then.” He snorted. “I suppose after he died, I took it to heart stronger than I ever had before.”

Bilbo was quiet for a few minutes before replying. “Smaug used to say that the thunder were the Dragon Lords roaring,” he told Thorin. “That they were battling in the Heavens above.” He pushed at his stew with his spoon for a while. “But I never really had nightmares when the storms came. Sometimes I’d have dreams about waking up and Smaug would be gone and I’d be all alone and swallowed by silence. I think all the battles in the world pale in comparison to loneliness.” Bilbo had always thought that was why Smaug had taken him in. The loneliness. That he’d been on his own for so long and then all of a sudden something had come into his life and things weren’t boring and cold anymore. Everyone needs someone to talk to, even dragons. “I suppose when you’re facing down a fire-breathing dragon out to kill you, though, that’s pretty harrowing at the time.”

Thorin laughed at him. “At the time?” he repeated. “You certainly say some odd things, Bilbo.”

Bilbo shrugged. “Comes with being raised by a dragon, I suppose. They tend to say whatever they’re thinking. Probably because no right-thinking person would argue with a dragon.”

“Then we are certainly not right-thinking people,” Thorin replied, reaching for his tankard. “We are the fools of fools. But we do what we must.”

Bilbo nodded, grabbing his own mead, and they drank to that.

The shouts were what wake Bilbo up in the early hours of the third day. Something in the distance, they yelled, something coming down fast.

The first thing he heard was the whip of the wind, gaining strength and speed, ferociously roaring about like some sort of hurricane. When he managed to get out of the tent, it almost knocked Bilbo off his feet. Then he could hear the wings: great big things, clacking like thunder and growing louder as they came nearer.

Bilbo really, really hoped he wasn’t roasted alive.

Dwarves were yelling at each other, getting their weapons, preparing to fight the creature. Clearly it wasn’t here for tea and biscuits, or else it would have come when the sun had risen.

“Bloody typical,” Bilbo heard Dwalin growl in the darkness nearby, seemingly more to himself than to anyone else. He heard the clank of metal. Probably grabbing their own weapons. “Damn dragon chooses the worst time to come for greetin’s.”

“I don’t think he’ll be greeting us, Dwalin,” Nori countered. “Not unless dragon’s usually greet by setting people on fire.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.”

The roar that came next was deafening, and the sheer force of it made Bilbo stagger and fall to his knees. It reverberated through his skull, piercing it and shattering his ear drums. It echoed through his head, doubling back to hit him again. And then he saw light, but not sunlight. It was light from fire.

It lit up one of the tents like a great torch, like a bonfire. All Bilbo could do was stare. He could feel the heat of it, radiating. It was oddly entrancing.

He struggled to his feet, trying to figure out where the whipping sound of wings was originating from, and he staggered along the ground, ears ringing, head throbbing, following the dragon. There was shouting all around him, but it was muffled, like he had his head underwater, or under a pillow. It was murky. But he could see it now, the dragon. He could see its shape moving in the darkness. A long, narrow body and sharp, flicking tail and great wings that stretched out, ridges and crevices and golden-red scales. If he’d had any hope that perhaps Smaug had somehow lived, this was enough to crush that hope. Smaug was golden yellow, not golden red. His body was rounder, his tail shorter. This dragon was like a snake, long and thin and winding.

And it was moving in Bilbo’s direction, swooping in like a great bird, roaring again. The fire lit up the path, setting fire to tents and trees. Bilbo could feel it on his skin. The dragon neared, opening its mouth and inhaling for one last blast of fire, and all of a sudden Bilbo’s vision narrowed. Everything else was blocked out, all sound, all sight. He lifted his arms, putting his palms out towards the creature. “Pare.” His voice was calm, but loud. Louder than he’d ever heard it before. Louder than the wind and the roar and the shouts. It sounded like him, but… wrong somehow. Distorted.  “Pare!” It was much like a dragon’s roar itself, echoing through the air. The fires around him twisted, like they were suffocating, and a great wind whipped through the air, almost knocking him off his feet. Then everything went dark.

But he was still awake, his eyes open, and he was still breathing. The world slowly bled back into focus.

“Ignis aurum probat,” came the hiss. But the words sounded more pleased and impressed than angry. In the distance, he could see a faint ray of light where the sun was beginning to rise over the horizon. He could see the outline of the dragon now.

“Your name?” Bilbo asked the creature. “What is your name?”

“I go by many names.  But in your tongue I am Sophos.”

“Sophos.” Bilbo repeated.

“And you, firebreather?” Sophos wanted to know.

“I am Bilbo Baggins. Why are you here?”

“My kin has died. I felt it from across the seas. And the closer I came, the more treasure I smelt.”

“So you are here to steal his hoard?”

Sophos gave no answer.

“You cannot have it.” Bilbo told him. “His hoard is mine now, and it belongs to these people. You cannot have it. You are wise,” he went on now. “Surely you know two firebreathers should not fight. If he was your kin, then I am your kin as well.”

“And what shall I do, then?” Sophos asked him. “The world grows ever so small, and treasure dwindles. Such hoards like this no longer exist in many places.”

“That is up to you. But these people have done you no harm, and there is no treasure here that has not already been claimed. And if you try to pass me I will destroy you.”

Sophos appeared amused. “You certainly are a Son of Smaug,” he commented. “And I have no wish to war with kin.”

“That’s it?” Bilbo wondered after a moment’s silence. “You’re just going to… leave now?” He was still suspicious, it all seemed too easy.

“Dragons do not encroach on each other’s hoards unless the other is gone. There are too little of us left to battle each other.”

But happily slaughtering a bunch of Dwarves? Oh, just fine. Bilbo managed to keep his mouth shut though, and instead just nodded. “Then you can leave in peace.” He gestured towards the sky. “So long as you harm no others.”

Sophos inclined his head slightly before backing up and getting ready to fly. “I see what is in your heart, little one,” he told Bilbo as he spread his wings. “Your grief will fade.” And then he flew off, blowing the wind about viciously.

And now that the danger had passed, Bilbo let himself fall prey to the sickness plaguing him and collapsed.

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke up with an aching body and a head that was pounding worse than a Smith hammering an anvil.

“What happened?” he asked, pressing a hand to his face. Bofur was sitting beside him in one of the medical tents.

“You passed out!” Bofur waved his hands about animatedly. “We all though’ you’d gone for a trip to the Halls of Waitin’.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “The what?”

“Ah, nothing,” Bofur told him. “I’ll explain later.”

“But the dragon is gone?”

“The dragon is gone!”

Bilbo nodded slowly. “Good.”

“But we’ve still go’ a bit of a problem.”

Bilbo frowned up at him, struggling to get into a sitting position. “We do?” he asked.

“Aye. Well, not a problem, really. Just an inconveniently timed thing.”

“Which is?” he wondered.

“Ori’s gone into his Longin’!”

“He has?”

“Aye. And apparently it’s a doozie of a Longin’, too.”

“What do you mean?” Bilbo asked, confused.

“He’s been taken ill. Nothing major,” he was quick to amend when Bilbo began to panic, “just that the fevers going strong and he’s got the shakes. It’s completely normal.”

“That’s normal?”

“Aye. He’s a late bloomer, so it’s just hit him hard, is all.”

Bilbo tried to relax. “Can I see him?”

“If you’d like. He has been askin’ for you. That is- if you can get to your feet.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bilbo insisted, swinging his legs over the bed and pulling himself up. “I think I just need to move slow.”

Bofur took him by the elbow once he was on his feet and helped him shuffle out of the tent and down the camp to where Ori was. He received more than a few stares on the way there.

“Did they…?” he paused. “How did they react?” he wanted to know.

“Well…” Bofur gave a shrug. “To be honest, they’re a little scared. But they’ll never admit it, you know how Dwarrow are.” He gave Bilbo a grin. “But there’s more good than bad,” he assured. “They’re singing songs about you while they drink.”

“Well, that’s always a good sign.” At least, he thought so.

Ori’s tent was already crowded. Nori and Dori were by his side, with water and towels and Oin was on the other side of the tent, putting together some sort of odd smelling herbal tea.

Ori was sitting up, leaning heavily against the pillows, looking a mess. His hair was sticking to his face from the sweat, his eyes were glazed over, and he had an unhealthy sheen over his skin. He saw Bilbo and managed a weak smile. “Looks like it finally kicked in.” His voice was raspy and quiet. He coughed a little.

Bilbo turned to Bofur, eyes wide. “Is this what it’s always like?”

“Aye,” Bofur gave a nod. “This one’s worse than others, but it’s usually described as a delirium.”

He turned back to Ori. “Can I do anything?” he asked.

“You could keep me company,” Ori patted the side of his bed. “I do love my brothers, but I have to say, they are awfully dreadful company.”

Nori just rolled his eyes, letting it slide, but Dori smacked his youngest brother’s arm. “Just because you’re in your Longing, doesn’t mean I’m letting you get away with the smart talk.”

Ori rolled his eyes, but started coughing again. “You two need to get some sleep anyway,” he went on, once he’d managed to calm himself down. “You haven’t had any yet, don’t bother lying to me. Besides, you needn’t worry. Bilbo will look after me. Won’t you?”

Bilbo nodded emphatically. “Of course. If anything happens you’ll be the first to know.”

Nori seemed placated, and got to his feet. “Come on, Dori. If you don’t get any beauty sleep soon, you’ll look like an Orc.”

Dori, grudgingly, got to his feet and glowered at his brother. Bilbo took his seat and Bofur left,

“How are you feeling?” he wanted to know.

“Eh,” Ori gave a shrug. “I’ve been waiting for it for long enough, so I suppose I can’t complain now, can I?” He winced. “But my head is throbbing. It’s like it’s screaming at me.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you? When I fall asleep?” he looked far more worried now than he had when his brother’s had been in the tent. Bilbo supposed he was putting on a brave face for them. He wondered how much pain Ori was in right now.

“Of course I will,” he promised. “I won’t leave you side until you wake up again.”

“Here’s hoping I pick a good one,” Ori joked, laughing half-heartedly. “I certainly hope he doesn’t look like Bombur, I don’t care how facetious and shallow that sounds.”

Bilbo laughed at him. “A completely understandable worry,” he assured, smiling. “And if it is someone like Bombur, you will have my utter condolences.”

Ori broke into a choking fit of giggles.

Ori had long since fallen asleep a few hours later and Bilbo was slowly dozing off in the chair beside him when Bofur popped his head inside and cleared his throat.

“Good news,” he announced, gesturing outside the tent. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Bilbo rubbed his eyes sleepily. “A visitor?”

Bofur pulled the tent flap back, revealing the torso of a man too big to be completely visible through the small opening. “Uh…”

“You’ll have to duck under,” Bofur told the man, and Bilbo watched as he squeezed his way inside.

He certainly was tall, with a long beard and a pointy hat and robes that reached his feet. His eyes were kind and his face was open and friendly.  “You must be Bilbo Baggins,” he said with a smile.

“This is Tharkûn,” Bofur peeked out from around the man’ side, “he finally got our Raven.” Bilbo perked up. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” Bofur went on, stepping backwards. “Dwalin’s on guard outside, though, so if you need anything- just yell.”

Bilbo waited until Bofur was gone before speaking. “You’re the wizard they told me about?” he wondered.

Tharkûn nodded. “I am.”

Bilbo frowned a little. “If I’m completely honest,” he said now. “You’re not quite what I was expecting.”

Tharkûn laughed, clearly amused. “You certainly are a Hobbit.”

Bilbo didn’t quite understand that, nor the wizard’s amusement, but he remained silent anyway.

“I believe you wanted to see me,” Tharkûn went on, taking a seat on the other side of the bed where Ori was. “I think I know why.”

“I wanted to know more about… my people. Hobbits. I’ve never even seen one before, and if anyone would know anything, it would certainly be a Wizard.”

“Yes, well,” Tharkûn looked pleased, “I do know a thing or two about Hobbits. But, I imagine, the best way to learn about your people is to be with them.”

“You mean… go to the West?” Bilbo asked. “Now?”

“I would be going back that way soon. I could take you with me, help you start again. You could be with your kin.”

“I…”

Tharkûn could obviously sense his hesitation, because he went on. “You have family there, Bilbo,” he told him now. “Hobbits like you who miss and love your parents. You can be happy there, with your family.”

Bilbo looked down at the bed where Ori’s hand was in his. It was warm and clammy, and he was twitching fitfully in his sleep. “But this is my family,” he said, frowning. “And I can’t leave Ori like this. Not for all the Hobbits in the world. He needs me here, at least until his Longing has passed.” And even then, he wasn’t sure if he could bear leaving Erebor, his home, and the Dwarves, who had very much become his own kin. “I… I can’t.”

Tharkûn inclined his head politely. “I understand,” he replied quietly. “And I will stay for some time, in case you change your mind. In fact,” he went on, “I do have some questions for you.”

Bilbo blinked at him. “You do?”

“I am told,” Tharkûn told him, “that you faced down a Dragon and are the saviour of Erebor.”

“Sophos,” Bilbo told him. “He came to avenge Smaug. But even though he was dead, I was still here, so he left.”

Tharkûn raised an eyebrow. “I have to admit, what I heard had a little more than that.”

“Well, before I talked to him he was very… well... Dragon-like.”

“Dragon-like?” Tharkûn repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Bilbo told him. “Angry, roaring, setting fire to things. A Dragon.”

The Wizard just looked at him curiously. “I see,” he murmured. “And this Dragon Sophos, he just let you keep Smaug’s hoard?”

“Dragon’s don’t fight their kin for their hoards,” Bilbo explained. “There are too few of them to bicker over things like that.”

“And this Sohpos saw you as kin?”

“I was raised by Smaug. He could tell.”

“Yes,” Tharkûn said now, “I would like to hear more about that.”

“First, I do have some questions for you, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” he waved a hand at Bilbo to continue, “go right ahead.”

“Dwarves,” he looked down at Ori, “they have a Longing. And a One. It’s very much a large part of their lives. Do Hobbits…?” He glanced up at the Wizard from under his lashes. “Do they…?”

“They do not,” Tharkûn replied. “It is a quality on Dwarrows have.”

Bilbo tried not to be disappointed. “What do they do, then?”

“Well,” Tharkûn’s brow furrowed, “the obvious thing, of course.”

Bilbo just cocked his head to the side.

“Ah,” his gaze cleared, as if understanding, “you’ve only been told about Dwarven courting.”

Bilbo gave a shrug. “No one really knew enough about Hobbits to tell me anything. Most of them hadn’t even heard of a Hobbit before.”

“Just because your kind do not have Ones, Bilbo, does not mean Hobbits don’t love. In fact, Hobbits are very passionate when it comes to that sort of thing. There are many poems and stories about love- it is just as much a part of your culture as the Longing is part of the Dwarves.”

“How does it work?”

“Love?” Tharkûn appeared to be floored, unable to explain. “Well… ah… It is much the same as having a One, I imagine. You meet someone and…” he waved vaguely, “warm feeling blossom, and as time passes they grow stronger. Sometimes, however love does fade. But not always. That is what makes it different to having a One.”

“So it is like… liking a person?”

“Exactly,” Tharkûn looked relieved. “You may like someone, but as time passes you find you like them less. Or the complete opposite. You can never really tell.”

Bilbo made a face. “It all sounds dreadfully confusing. How do you… know?”

“Well,” Tharkûn paused for a moment, “you just do.”

Well, that wasn’t very much help.

Chapter Text

Ori couldn’t be moved until he’d finished his Longing, not because it wasn’t safe, but out of courtesy for his discomfort. So while many tents were cleared and a number of soldiers returned to their homes. One or two still stayed, however, the Royal guards, and all of the original Company. Even Tharkûn the Wizard stayed. He came to see Bilbo again during breakfast the next day.

“You may not have wishes to leave,” he’d said to Bilbo over a bowl of warm oats, “but I do think it would be useful for you to learn more about your powers.”

“You can help?”

“The chief of my order is very wise and very knowledgeable. He is bound to have information on this sort of thing. I have sent word to him and he will send advice on how to proceed. We can begin your training upon your return to Erebor, if you’d like.”

“I thought you were to return to the West soon.”

“It’s nothing that can’t wait a little longer,” Tharkûn assured him. “You’ve been alone most of your life, so the added stress of being thrust into the population like this- well, it’s best you learn now, so we don’t have any little accidents.” Bilbo was certain he was referring to the incident with the fire the other day.

“It doesn’t happen often,” Bilbo told him. “Just when I’m angry.”

“Then we’ll just have to learn and control it,” the Wizard told him simply.

Ori woke in the later afternoon on the second day, jolting Bilbo out of a nap. He sat up in bed, eyes wide, and breathed out: “Oh.”

Bilbo set the book that had been in his lap down on the ground. “Ori?”

Ori turned to look at him. Some of the glaze had left his eye and he looked significantly less feverish. “Oh, of course.”

“Of course what?” Bilbo asked.

Ori struggled to get out of the bed. “I have to…”

“Have to what? Ori!” Bilbo grabbed his arm and pushed him back down. “You can barely sit up let alone walk.”

His fuss must have caught the ears of those outside, because the tent flat swung open and Dwalin burst in. “He’s awake?”

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but it must have been important.

Ori just stared up at Dwalin and smiled. “Mister Dwalin!” he breathed.

Dwalin let out a huff, looking amused. “Abou’ time.”

Bilbo looked from one to the other, before clearing his throat. “I suppose I’ll just…” he got to his feet. “Yeah.”

Nori and Dori were rushing to the tent when Bilbo slipped outside.

“Is he-?!”

“I’m not sure you ought to go in there,” Bilbo told them both, putting a hand up. “I think they’re having a moment.” He nodded towards the tent. “Dwalin looked very anxious.”

“Dwalin?” Dori didn’t sound too pleased.

Bilbo just shrugged.

Nori let out a scoffing sort of groan, entire body slumping. “Him? Of course Ori’s One is the bastard who makes it his personal mission to arrest me every chance he gets.”

“You did steal his brother’s coin purse,” Dori reminded him.

“Well, uh,” Bilbo glanced back at the tent. “I think I’ll get something to eat. It’d be nice to stretch my legs. Bombur?”

“He’s making food in the tent at the end for the guards that are still here,” Nori informed him. “Just follow your nose.”

Bilbo didn’t need to go far; the sounds of chatter and eating led him to the right tent.

He received a few stares upon entering. Although, more surprisingly, one or two Dwarves lifted their cups in his direction.

“Bilbo! Nice to see you out and about,” Bombur waved a spoon at him from across the room, gesturing for him to come over. “I’ll get you something to eat.” He started spooning stew into a bowl for him.

“Thanks,” Bilbo took a seat across from him.

“I suppose Ori’s awake, if you’re finally out here with the rest of us.”

“He certainly is,” Bilbo replied, nodding slowly.

“He chose well, then?”

“By the irritation on Nori’s face, I’d say yes.”

Bombur looked amused and curious. “So?” he prodded, offering the bowl.

“Dwalin,” Bilbo told him, taking the food. Which was good, because Bombur looked like he might actually have dropped t in his surprise. “No!” he guffawed. “Oh, that is rich. No wonder Dwalin was always grumpy around him.” He pulled a face. “Pity, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m out three gold coins.”

Bilbo just frowned at him.

“Bofur and I had a bet,” he explained upon realising Bilbo’s confusion. “I bet Ori would be mated to one of those scribes from the Iron Hills that showed up last week.”

“And Bofur?”

“He was certain it’d be someone we know.” Bombur sighed. “Bloody bastard’ll be smug when I tell him.”

Bilbo grinned at him.

They returned to Erebor on the eve of feasts. A celebration of the great defeat of the Dragon Sophos. Bilbo wasn’t sure it could be considered a defeat, when Sohpos left of his own accord. It was an… amicable agreement more than anything else.

But regardless, the feast went on.

Bilbo mostly kept himself to himself, staying at his table and watching the others throw food and drink and shout and sing. When it got too loud, he slipped away for some fresh air.

“Feeling shy?” the voice to his side all of a sudden made him jump.

“Bofur,” Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest. “You scared me.”

Bofur grinned. “Not enjoying the feast then?”

“I’m still not all that used to having so many people around,” Bilbo divulged. “It’s… loud.”

“Ah, that’s just Dwarrows in general,” he told Bilbo. “We’re not exactly a timid bunch.”

They turned and looked back inside form the balcony now, to where the celebrations were.

“They’re acting odd around each other,” Bilbo commented no, gesturing with his tankard to where Ori was standing, smiling shyly at Dwalin who was a few feet away.

“Aye,” Bofur agreed, “it’d be easier for everyone if they just got on with it.”

“Why don’t they?”

Bofur just shrugged. “Not a clue.”

Bilbo thought about it for a while, watching them, before turning his gaze to where Thorin sat. “Maybe we can fix that.”

He found Thorin the next morning in his study, Dwalin guarding the door.

“He’s very busy.” Dwalin was doing that thing he always did: stalling slightly even though it was obvious he was going to let Bilbo inside anyway.

“I know, but it’s slightly important. Besides, has he even had a break this morning?”

Dwalin considered it. “I’ll have someone send him up something to eat.” He agreed at last. “Go on,” he nodded at the door.

“Thank you,” Bilbo smiled at him before going inside.

“Dwalin, for the last time, I don’t want to hear any more about me not- Bilbo.”

Bilbo sheepishly grinned. “Morning.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I need to talk to you. If that’s alright.” He stepped closer. “And Dwalin’s sending up food, so he thought you might as well take a break now while you’re waiting for it.”

Thorin set down his papers, looking concerned. “Is something wrong?” he wondered.

“Not at all. It’s just…” he hesitated.

Thorin gestured to the chair beside him at the table. “Take a seat.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He got comfortably before continuing. “It’s about Ori and Dwalin.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed. “What about them?” he wondered.

“Well, I’m under the impression that… It’s just- well, shouldn’t they be…?”

“Ah,” understanding lit Thorin’s face. “Yes, they do seem to be… dancing around the subject a bit.”

“But why?” Bilbo wanted to know. “They both know their each other’s Ones-”

“Sometimes it’s hard taking a step forward,” he replied simply.

“Then maybe we should help them along a little.”

“Help them along a little?” Thorin repeated, amused.

Bilbo nodded. “Sure. I mean, that’s alright, isn’t it? Giving them a nudge?”

Thorin appeared to consider it for a short amount of time. “I suppose so,” he answered eventually. “After all, we are concerned friends; we have a right to indulge in a little nosiness.”

“Yes.” Bilbo agreed. “So… what do we do?”

“We ought to brainstorm.” Thorin decided. “Think of ideas to push them along and flesh them out.”

“Should we ask the others to help, too?”

“Perhaps not Dori and Nori,” Thorin replied. “They don’t seem too eager about the whole thing.”

“That’s because Dwalin looks like… well… a murderer.”

Thorin laughed. “He does a bit, yes.”

“How does Balin feel about it all?”

“Balin’s pleased. It’s been a long while since Dwalin went through his Longing. I think he’s just glad he’s finally found his One more than anything.” He paused for a moment. “And speaking of realisations- how was your conversation with Tharkûn?”

“Ah,” Bilbo leant back into the chair now, “informative. But… a little depressing.”

“Depressing how?”

Bilbo shrugged. “All this talk about Ones and Longings made me curious, so I asked the Wizard about it.”

“And?” Thorin prodded.

“And we don’t have any.”

For a moment Thorin didn’t reply. “You don’t have any sort of…?” he wondered, looking unhappy.

“Apparently not, is what Tharkûn tells me. Hobbits just… love. There are no two chosen for each other- destined to be together. No great romantic pull, predisposed in birth. It’s free will. I suppose that’s nice in its own way, but… it’s sort of sad in a way, too.”

Thorin, apparently floored for words, opened his mouth to speak before snapping it shut with a click again. “Right.”

“I suppose it’s odd for a Dwarf to think about a species that don’t have Ones at all.” Bilbo said now. “Even if some of you don’t have Longings… it’s a culture thing.”

“Yes, well, actually-”

“But Tharkûn says it doesn’t diminish love or partnerships in any way at all- or Gandalf, I suppose. He says I should call him Gandalf.”

“You needn’t worry anyway,” Thorin cut in smoothly. “Dwarves have been known to have Ones who are other species, even if their kind don’t have Longings or Ones in their culture.” He was looking at Bilbo now, earnestly and intently.

“Oh yes, Bofur said something similar when I asked him a few weeks back,” Bilbo replied. “Do you suppose your One isn’t a Dwarf, because your Longing was odd?”

“I do, yes.” Thorin told him, still intently staring.

Bilbo nodded. “I guess everyone’s waiting for you, aren’t they? King of Erebor. It’s important for you to marry and carry on the line.”

“My sister-sons are my heirs,” Thorin replied, waving it off, “I have no worries of that kind. If I marry, it will be my One. Regardless of gender.” A pause. “Or species.”

Bilbo nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find your One.” He told Thorin. “It’d only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

Thorin sighed, running a hand over his face. But he chuckled slightly. “Yes, indeed.”

Chapter Text

Tharkûn- well, Gandalf, had suggested that Bilbo try a quiet mediation each morning after waking and each night before bed. So for a short amount of time before breakfast and after dinner Bilbo would sit in his room, close his eyes, and breathe deeply, trying to think about things that calmed him. Like the warmth of the fire he sat in front of, or the smell of food cooking. The sound of thunder during the storms and the smell of rain.

It appeared to be helping. At least, he certainly felt more relaxed and more in control of the burning inside of him.

In fact, for the past week he had been far calmer and more in control of himself than he’d ever felt before. Not that it had ever been a real problem, of course.

When he walked about the kingdom, though, he still stayed to the background, curiously watching from a distance. It felt better that way. He still wasn’t quite ready to be fully integrated into the community. The stares still made him uncomfortable, and he could hear them whispering.

At least this way he didn’t have to make awkward eye contact. But there was still talking. There always was.

A rough vocalisations of Khuzdul caught his attention while he was watching the Dwarrows out from the pillars one afternoon.

“Did you hear the news about the King?” Came the first voice.

“It is about time,” he heard the second one agree.

“One hell of a choice,” the first one replied.

“What did you expect though, being the mate of the King?”

The second Dwarf laughed, and said something else, but Bilbo didn’t hear it through the rushing of blood in his ears. Mate of the King? Thorin had found his mate?

Something painful shattered in Bilbo’s chest, subtle and small but more painful than any injury he’d ever had before. He sunk down onto the ground, leaning heavily against the stone pillar.

He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly didn’t feel good.

He found Ori in the library, which was no real surprise. “I need someone to talk to.” Bilbo told him, sitting down on the other side of the table.

Ori glanced up from the parchment he was scribbling on, surprised. “What did you need?” he asked.

“Advice.”

“On what?”

“I’m... in love. Or, at least- I think I am. I don’t know how you can be sure about that sort of thing.” Gandalf hadn’t been much help with all his ‘you just know’ nonsense. He wasn’t even sure if anyone ever did know.

Ori lit up like a candle. “You are?!” He threw his quill down, splattering ink over the both of them. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Well… yes, I suppose.” It didn’t seem all that wonderful to him, though. “But…”

“But?”

“But it’s not…” How to explain it? “It’s just… lately I’ve been thinking that maybe I should go.”

Ori tensed up immediately. “What do you mean ‘go’?” he asked.

“To The Shire. To the West, to meet my people. Sometimes I… I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you should be here!” Ori told him, looking panicked. “You should! You’re a member of the Company now!”

Bilbo sighed. “And you’ve all been very welcoming and kind to me. But you’re Dwarves. And I’m… well, I’m a Hobbit. I may not know anything about Hobbits, but that doesn’t change what I am. Gandalf tells me that Hobbits shouldn’t be so far underground. He says it’s not good for them. He said I belong with them.”

“You don’t even know them! You can’t go. We all want you to stay; Thorin would want you to stay.”

Bilbo was going to ask how Ori knew that Thorin was who he was talking about, but then he remembered his conversation with Bofur and the fact that Bofur was fond of making bets about things. So in the end he wasn’t all that surprised.

“Thorin is probably preoccupied with something else,” Bilbo snapped, irritated. “I very much doubt he cares. Look,” he put a hand up when Ori went to speak again, “I didn’t come here to argue about that. I came of advice.”

Ori sighed, looking tired. “About?”

“Well, what do I do? I don’t think I can go anywhere until Gandalf thinks I’m in control enough to travel so far. But I don’t want to leave forever. I want to know, but I’m… I’m scared of leaving.”

“Scared?” Ori repeated.

“I’ve never been that far before. I’d never even been past Dale until Sophos came along. And even then I was with an army.  What do I do when I’m on my own?”

“You’ll never be alone, Bilbo.” Ori promised him. “If you go, one of us can go with you. We’d all volunteer without a moment’s hesitation.”

“You would?” Bilbo wondered.

Ori nodded eagerly. “Of course! You don’t have to do this on your own. But you can’t leave now. Not just yet. There are things… things that need to be done. You’re needed here. And when you do go,” he went on, “you’ll have to swear you’ll come back- no matter how nice the other Hobbits may be. And no matter how annoying we Dwarves seem in comparison.”

“What if I go and they don’t like me?” he bemoaned now.

“I don’t think anyone could not like you, Bilbo,” Ori replied with a smile. “Why don’t we go and get something to eat? I’m sure Bombur can scrounge up some tea as well.”

“What about your…?” Bilbo gestured aimlessly to Ori’s papers.

“Oh, they can wait.” Ori got to his feet and took Bilbo by the arm. “Right now I think you need some cheering up, and that is far more important.”

Bilbo let Ori lead him out of the library and towards the nearest feast hall.

It was quite later that night, long after the sun had set, when Bilbo was sitting by the fire and trying to concentrate on his breathing, when there was a quick rap on the door.

“One moment,” he called, groaning as he got to his feet and padded over, opening the door to find Thorin standing there, looking ruffled.

“You’re thinking about leaving?” he asked in lieu of a greeting. He looked rather furious.

“How did you hear about it?” Bilbo wanted to know.

“I heard from Dwalin,” he answered, pushing past him into the room.

Bilbo sighed, closing the door. “Of course you did.” He should have seen it coming. Everyone here seemed to love to gossip. He briefly panicked, wondering if Ori had over shared information, but Ori wasn’t stupid, nor was he cruel, and he was sure Ori wouldn’t just announce Bilbo’s secrets to the world.

Thorin was stalking now, back and forth, still looking apoplectic.

“It wouldn’t be forever. I don’t want to leave forever. I like it here. But sometimes I just feel like I’m in the way here,” Bilbo told him.  “That I don’t have a place.”

“They’re singing ballads about you in the feast halls and you think you don’t have a place here?”

Bilbo huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

He couldn’t really tell the truth, could he? That he didn’t want to be here when the thought of being around Thorin’s One made him feel so… Well, he couldn’t really describe it, but it certainly hurt a lot. “I just feel alone here sometimes,” he managed eventually. “Like I don’t belong.”

“But you do belong here,” Thorin insisted, coming closer. “You do. Because-” he cut off, making a choking sound, gesturing aimlessly at Bilbo.

“Because?” Bilbo prodded.

“Because-” Thorin stuttered for a moment before heaving a sigh. “Because I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you left.”

Bilbo looked up at him, confused. “You wouldn’t?”

“No,” the word came out on a whoosh of breath, and he took a seat beside Bilbo. “I wouldn’t. You are important. And you do have a place here. I haven’t-” he went on now. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about everything. I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want to confuse you or pressure you, and then when you said Hobbit’s don’t have Ones… I didn’t think-”

“What weren’t you honest about?”

“You.”

Bilbo just frowned at him. “What about me?” he wondered.

“I’d thought about it after I first met you, but I wasn’t sure for a long while. Not until you faced down Sophos. And you collapsed and I- the thought of something happening to you paralysed me. Completely. And then I knew.”

“Knew what?”

Thorin huffed a laugh, pressing a hand to his face. “It’s hard to think that things have to be stated so clearly to you even though they’re obvious. Everyone else knows it.”

Bilbo, slightly exasperated, turned to face Thorin completely. “Everyone else knows what?”

“You, Bilbo. You’re it. You’re… my One.”

For a moment Bilbo was floored, unable to formulate words. “What?” he choked out eventually.

“You’re my One. You’re who I’m supposed to be with for the rest of my life, even if I am a miserable bastard like Dwalin says. You’re stuck with me. So there’s no way you can leave because I won’t let you and even if you do I’ll follow you, and you’ll never be rid of me. And I have to say, it would be rather problematic if the King of Erebor ran off to some faraway place with lots of small people with big feet and never came back.”

Bilbo blinked. “I’m not that smaller than you.”

“That’s what you got out of that?” Thorin asked, looking at Bilbo with one raised brow.

“So, I’m…” he gestured at himself.

“Yes,” Thorin nodded.

“And you’re…” he waved at him.

“Yes,” Thorin repeated.

Bilbo worried at his bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

Thorin snorted. “I’m fairly certain about it, yes. I wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t at least eighty percent sure.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “Are you making fun of me?” he asked.

Thorin chuckled at him, low and rumbling, sending warmth through Bilbo’s body. He wondered if that’s what Gandalf meant. The warmth. Maybe that was how he knew what love was.

“Do you love me?” he asked now.

“What?”

“Gandalf said that having a One and being in love are two different things. Just because I’m your One, doesn’t mean-”

“Bilbo, I can’t bear it when you’re not within my sight. I can’t concentrate on anything else. Before I sleep you’re all I think about. Of course I love you.” He was so fervent and earnest that Bilbo wasn’t quite sure how to reply. “Bilbo?” Thorin asked after a moment. “Are you…?”

Bilbo punched him in the arm as hard as he could.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You can’t just jump something like that on someone! You can’t just run in one day and tell me I’m your One- you don’t just drop that on someone suddenly!”

Thorin had the grace to look sheepish. “I didn’t know how.” He admitted, rubbing his arm. “And then I didn’t think you’d react well. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to comprehend it, and I wanted to wait until I was sure you understood fully.”

Bilbo hit him again. “Do you know how… how u-upset I’ve been about this whole thing? I heard you’d found your One and I was- don’t laugh at me!” he punch his arm once more, but Thorin caught it.

“I don’t think people would be too happy to hear you’ve been assaulting the King, One or no.”

Bilbo pulled his arm out of his grip. “What do we do, then?” he wondered.

Thorin shrugged. “Take things slow. If I tried to do anything any other way, I’d get slapped up the back of the head by a number of people.”

“Who else knew?”

“Dwalin. Balin.” He paused. “Bofur. Bombur. Bifur. Ori… and Dori and… Nori as well. And Oin and Gloin as well. And obviously Fili and Kili.”

“What, you mean everyone? And no one thought to mention it to me?”

Thorin didn’t even look guilty. “I asked them not to. I didn’t think anyone should meddle.”

Bilbo stuttered for a moment. “I don’t even what I should say,” he managed.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Thorin assured him, voice soft. “This is… a strange situation under any circumstances. But taking into account your… isolation for most of your life, this isn’t going to be a normal relationship. We’ll work something out.”

Chapter Text

Two years later.

The rolling hills of The Shire weren’t as pronounced and moving as the great mountain of Erebor or the Misty Mountains were, but they were still a sight to behold. Everything was so… green. And bright and colourful. There were flowers here in colours that Bilbo had never seen before, and the sky was blue and ever stretching. And everyone looked like him. They had big feet and curly hair and round bellies. Their faces were rosy and cheery.

“Are they nice?” Bilbo wanted to know, leaning over the side of his pony to whisper to Gandalf.

“I’ve explained the situation to them,” his companion replied simply. “They’ll be more than welcoming to the son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins. They’re very curious.”

“Besides,” Ori announced. “If they get too rude, I can always set Dwalin on them.”

Bilbo, despite himself, liked the idea of that.

“Do they all have curly hair?” Dwalin asked, frowning at the little children running over the hills and completely ignoring Ori’s previous statement.

“They do, yes.” Gandalf replied.

“I still think we should have more guards,” Dwalin grumbled as a few curious Hobbits peered at them from over their fences.

“I told you,” Bilbo sighed now. “I don’t want too many guards here. It’ll be seen as antagonistic.”

“You’re the Consort to the King. You need protection.”

“And that’s why I have you,” Bilbo told him. “And you’re perfectly capable of looking after me. Right, Ori?”

“Of course,” Ori chirped, smiling up at Dwalin.

Dwalin made a face. “That’s an unfair tactic.”

“But it works,” Bilbo replied with a grin.

Dwalin harrumphed.

The Thain met them in the local Inn. “Bilbo Baggins!” He offered his hand. “How good to finally see you, we’ve heard so much about you!” Bilbo’s hand was crushed in a friendly shake. “Come, you’d better have something to eat!”

Gerontius was a cheerful man, which was to be suspected, who seemed to think Bilbo was too small and needed to eat more. “Try the scones. They’re the best in East Farthing!”

By the end of their ‘elvensies’, as the Thain called it, Bilbo was far fuller than he had ever been in his life, and they were insisting on him having more.

“It’s very clear they don’t feed you enough,” one Hobbit said, patting him on the back. “Any time you need any food, you just come right over. I’m right near your parent’s Hobbit Hole, Bag End, mine’s the one with the yellow door. You just knock if you ever need anything.”

“Right. Yes, thank you.”

Ori harrumphed. “What a rude man,” he muttered now. “Suggesting we don’t feed you like you’re some kind of mistreated pet.”

“Don’t take it to heart, Ori,” Bilbo told him gently. “It’s just what Hobbit’s are like.”

Bag End was the biggest Hobbit Hole in all of Hobbiton. Or so Bilbo had been told multiple times since he’d arrived. Currently it was in the ownership of Primula Brandybuck, her husband Drogo Baggins and their young son Frodo.

Bilbo spent a lot of time in the study, looking at portraits of his parents, going through his father’s notebook with drawings and designs. He’d built Bag End for Belladonna after winning her over. For hours Bilbo leafed through the pages, looking at smudged ink and charcoal, and little notes in his father’s hand. It felt odd, seeing something so personal of someone he should have known very well but never did.

It made him feel rather depressed.

There was a knock on the door late that afternoon. “Did you want to come out? Drogo says he made an extra big dinner for everyone.”

Bilbo set the book down carefully and opened the door. “I think these people are trying to make me explode.” He sighed at Ori, who snickered in response.

Frodo had a multitude of questions for Bilbo about the Dwarves and Erebor and his adventures, and he listened avidly and swung his feet under the table, clutching a fork in his hand.

“Did you really see a dragon, Mister Bilbo?”

“I did, yes.”

“And are they really as big as the stories say?” Frodo asked, eyes wide.

“Even bigger. Just one of their teeth would be the size of you!”

Dwalin laughed around his fork at Frodo’s eyes widening.

Bilbo wrote to Thorin before bed that night about their safe arrival in The Shire and the meetings with the Thain and his cousins.

It seems so odd, he’d written, that they all know me and my parents and their stories when I don’t know a thing about them. They seem so odd; obsessed with their gardens and crops, and the clothes they wear! You would be incredibly amused at the impractical way they dress. Their shirts and trousers could hardly stand even a month of travel. But the Thain says that Hobbits don’t travel very far at all. Most haven’t even been to Bree. Even I’d been further than that when I was living in the mountain!

Frodo seems rather eager when it comes to Dwarves and he says his friend Samwise is very curious about the Elves (much to Dwalin’s distaste). He even asked if he could come back with us when we return in a few weeks.

I do hope you’re eating enough now that Dwalin isn’t there to enforce your mealtimes. And you have to remember to sleep. I don’t want to hear about any more situations like last month when I caught you sleeping on the throne between meetings.

And I do hope you’re taking care of yourself, duties or no, and before you know it I’ll be back to harass you about your overworking.

He set his quill down and sighed. It was late and he’d better get to bed. He had a lot to do before he was due to return back to Erebor, and not that much time to do it in. Things had been a lot like that these past few months. Busy and full.

His life now held no semblance at all to the life he’d lived before Smaug’s death and the reclaiming of Erebor. He’d been so alone and so lost, even though he hadn’t actually realised he was. And now… well, now he was so surrounded by people and life an excitement, sometimes it was easy to forget that at one point in his life he’d been so isolated. Sometimes he woke up at night, frightened and afraid, scared that he was all alone once more- that it was just some sort of dream and nothing had changed.

But each time he woke up Thorin had been there to calm him and bring him back to reality. And he liked reality- very, very much. He liked everything in his life right now. Because he wasn’t alone anymore, and he didn’t have to be alone ever again.

And that knowledge made him feel happier than any other knowledge he’d ever had before.