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Chapter Text

Chapter One

Thrain, or so he had introduced himself, had been an old dwarf (distinguished, Belladonna liked to call it, he had been distinguished). He had a beard and was very dwarf-ish in his doings, even if he was as batty as a rock. He would talk of mining and gems before jumping to orcs and how, if the sun stood slightly-so, the grass was wont to grow oddly.

So Thrain was fun, very fun.

He wasn't even that wrinkly, so when she saw him shed his armour (a dwarfish masterpiece, she was told) to bathe in a creek she didn't waste a moment to pounce.

Oh-so fun, that Thrain. Oh-so fun.

And then they split ways and sometime later she began to show. She was home, by that time, because she loved her husband dearly (and he her enough to forgive her promiscuity when on adventures outside the Shire). She told Bungo, because she owed him that much, and he had shrugged and said "okay".

"Okay?" Belladonna had repeated incredulously.

And her husband had merely shrugged again, "I can't do much about it now, can I? And you're here now, with me. So it's okay, I suppose."

The love she felt for Bungo could not be described with words, for they would sell it short, but if she were to try it would be that he was her air. He was the home she could return to, the arms that would hold and cherish her and a presence that would never waver no matter what she did. He was every breath she took and he was as unwavering in his devotion of her as if he were the sun, he was always there when she needed him most. He accepted her quirks and her bad habits, and she loved him for it.

 And then Bilbo was born and Belladonna found that, perhaps, her love for her child eclipsed that what she felt for her husband.

Belladonna had expected the midwife to crow: "it's not her husband's child, look at its deformities! It is a dwarf-hobbit child! Woe is the unfaithful wretch who bore this monstrosity!". But the midwife didn't, merely handled her the wrapped bundle with a raspy "it's a boy!" before dragging Bungo into the room and leaving them to their peace for a moment.

And Bilbo was as normal as any other fauntling, down to the brown curls on his head and the wisps of hair on his feet. A proper hobbit babe, if you didn't know better.

And when Bungo held him, proud as new fathers were wont to be, all was right in her world.

Bilbo had been a quiet babe, a bit fussy but otherwise a content little fauntling. He was the envy of her cousins, who had children of their own who wined and kept them up late at night. But Bilbo slept through the nights and could stare at shiny baubles and mathoms for what seemed like hours on end (unless he could get his pudgy little hands on them, then he would chew on them for a few minutes and cry horribly when she or Bungo tried to take them away).

And he didn't suddenly sprout a beard or a moustache or even some sideburns. He had been a big babe though, bigger than any other, the midwife had said. He seemed to grow a bit slower than his peers, but Belladonna simply told the other mothers that was so that the others could catch up in size. He was, after all, quite a bit bigger than his cousins.

Bilbo had been a solemn child, which was odd compared to his quite rambunctious toddler years where he seemed to turn from a pudgy, calm fauntling to a goblin-changeling. He spoke a bit oddly sometimes, his words not always coming out right in old-fashioned Hobbitish and some of the words he said in Westron even her grandfather hadn't heard of.

He was diligent and kind but he was as sharp as her sister Mirabella's kitchen knife and, when angered, seemed to carry on his grudges for ages. Where other fauntlings forgive-and-forget he seemed to nurture his grudge to the point where it should be given its own smial so it could have the room it desired.

But he still didn't sprout that beard his true father had had (and what a beard it was!) or suddenly decide that he was best off mining for gems instead of playing conkers in the fields.

But he knew things even she and Bungo didn't know. He told stories of Khazad-dûm and its grandness. He introduced 'war' to the fauntlings ever-growing list of games and would divide them into two teams before the brawl started. And Bilbo would be the general whose loud voice carried down to Bagshot Row shouting instructions to his army as they fought and grappled and, occasionally, bit.

Bilbo would hum songs she hadn't ever heard before and could recount poetry she though made no sense. He would weave tales of dwarves and elves and gods. There were countless more things Belladonna could not explain, like how his words would sometimes have a certain weight about them as if he were king addressing his people. Or like how sometimes she'd catch him blinking owlishly as he was reading a book before clambering over to her asking "this isn't right, is it?".

But he was a solemn child in all else, he would treat an 'injured' playmate like a delicate doily. Would bow low and ask for forgiveness and swear vengeance on those who hurt them and offering whatever help he could to rectify the situation. And when he come, face as solemn as an elf's she'd ask him what was wrong.

"Bess fell," he would declare, meeting her eyes dejectedly and saying the words slowly.

The he would go on about how she had skinned her knees and how he understood if Bess's mother wished to exact vengeance or wanted him to undergo some sort of punishment for harming her daughter.

Belladonna laughed about her wonderful, odd son for a long time that day. 

Then the Fell Winter came and Belladonna refused to cry for what was lost in those horribly-cold months. She refused to mourn the loss of Bilbo's innocence (sometimes, she'd sit in her rocking chair and wonder if he ever had been truly innocent in the first place).

Because when she saw her boy, barely a tween, rush towards the wolves with a torch in one hand and old Roper's axe in the other she swore she'd kill whoever dared hurt her little boy. And when she saw him cut a clear path through fur and filthy hide she'd later swear up and down that no, she hadn't taught him that.

And then Bilbo would bellow that war cry of his, roar words neither she nor any other Hobbit understood as he cut down all those who dared stand in his way.

And when he returned home, hours after the ‘battle’ had already been won and all other Hobbits who had dared make a stand gone home as well he came back bearing the skins of the wolves he'd slain. He would later spent hours in a far corner of the sitting room, cursing with those odd words of his as he tried to fashion a cloak out of the hides. His eyes squinting as he refused to get close enough to the fire so that he'd not hurt his eyes as much.

Bilbo was twenty-three when he first went to the market in Bree to purchase shaving cream and the best razor blades Man could make. He would shave his face daily but sometimes Belladonna would catch him looking in the mirror longingly.

When asked he would always respond with a shrug, "I suppose I am a Hobbit, am I not? And Hobbits don't like beards very much."

Looking back, she should have known that that answer meant more than she thought it did.

Bungo died and Belladonna knew that she would not last long either, not when the very air in her lungs had been taken from her. So she told him, and he held her when the sobs wrecked through her body. He patted her back and sang softly to her as she hiccupped her story and cried about how Bungo had lovedlovedloved him like his own. How she loved him, how he was perfect and beautiful and so wonderfully odd and right in every way that counted-

And he held her when the tears had passed and she would catch her breath in between tales of Bungo and how she met his true father and he held her when she dissolved in sobs again.

Later he would look her in the eye and smile kindly before leaning forward to whisper "I already knew" to her.

Belladonna died knowing she had raised a wonderful son but she also mourned that she would have to leave him so soon. But her Bungo was waiting for her, and she so wished for her lungs to fill with fresh air once again and to be held by her husband's arms that she almost didn't mind that much.

Almost.

And then, one sunny morning, Gandalf returned to the Shire.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

"Good morning," Bilbo said with a polite nod of his head, "the weather is particularly fine today, isn't it?"

"Bilbo Baggins, you don't look a day over twenty," Gandalf responded in lieu of a proper greeting, "and yes, fine weather for adventuring, if one were to ask me."

Bilbo merely snorted in response, smoke rising up from his nose in short puffs as he brought his pipe back up to his lips. "Off to drag more of my poor, unsuspecting kin off on hare-brained schemes, Gandalf? If so, last I heard my cousin Falco had a bit of wanderlust, the Chubb blood, you see-"

"Oh no," the wizard said with a shake of his head, his hat tipping dangerously low on his brow before he straightened himself again. "You see, dear Bilbo, I have a bit of a proposition to make. I can't possibly let old Belladonna Took's son live his life without ever once going on the adventures his mother was famous for?"

But the Hobbit merely laid down his pipe (after making sure it wouldn't light the grass on fire, mind you) and glanced up at the sky for a moment. For a few seconds it was quiet, Gandalf peering down at the Hobbit sitting on the bench in front of his home and the Hobbit rapidly losing himself to his ever-wandering thoughts as he regarded the clouds above.

"Well, Bilbo?"

Bilbo's body seemed to age centuries as he let out a slow sigh, dragging his eyes away from the sky and forcing himself to look Gandalf in the eye as he mulled over his response.

 "Let me go on my walk and I'll meet you tonight for supper with my answer, if that suits you. You seem to forget that Bungo Baggins was my father, I do not mindlessly jump into adventures," the small lie slipped from his lips with practiced ease. Bungo had been his father, just not in blood. And he knew that well, had known that from the moment he had opened his eyes to regard the blurry world around him.

But it got hard sometimes, to keep Mahal-creator and Bungo-father and the others he had had before Bungo apart. Sometimes the lines would blur and Bilbo couldn't remember if he was himself or any of the other names he had been called before.

But Gandalf had nodded with that peculiar smile of his and tipped his hat in a most improper goodbye before walking away. Bilbo could hear the tune the wizard was whistling until the tip of his hat had vanished beyond the hills. And only then did he raise from his bench to stow his pipe away and start his walk.

"Mister Baggins!" the horde of fauntlings called as they tumbled down the hill in their urge to catch up to him, "mister Baggins!"

"Togo, Tolman, Primrose, Lily-" Bilbo crouched down a bit as he carefully started addressing every fauntling in front of as if they were the children of nobles, though he did lift little Ferdibrand when the boy tried to climb him. "What is it that has you in such high spirits?"

 The cacophony of replies that followed was almost to indiscernible to follow, but every sentence seemed to hold the same words: dwarves.

"There are dwarves in the Shire?" Bilbo frowned, for no dwarf had crossed into these lands before. They were in Ered Luin though, of that he was certain. But none of his kin (his non-kin, he reminded himself. He was a Hobbit also) had ever set foot in the Shire during his lifetime.

"No! No, mister Baggins, they are in Bree!" Primrose's sister Petunia berated him with a cross look on her chubby little face as she kicked at some daisies. "My da said so, he saw them!"

Bilbo carefully put little Ferdibrand down on his own feet and dusted of his pants from where the boy's muddy feet had left stains with an indulging face. "Well then, perhaps they're crossing through or are looking for employment. The smiths of Man produce rather shoddy work, if you ask me."

"Theys here for 'n 'venture, methinks," Tolman Took mumbled, "but we's not bothering you 'nmore, miss'r Baggins. Me ma says she's some of them cakes you likes, miss'r Baggins."

"Then I better not let her wait any longer, will you little ones not go around causing trouble for your parents? I don't think Lobelia Bracegirdle will be happy if you pick on her son again," Bilbo said sternly as he caught their guilty faces, "Otho is a boy. A fauntling like you are, he deserves to be treated with the same respect as you treat each other. He is my cousin's son and I don't approve of you bullying him."

"But Pimple is stuffy and boring and-"

"And he is my kin. He is a Baggins also, as was my father, as am I. And us Bagginses value respect and kindness and we like things to be simple and easy, but I promise you Lotho won't refuse a good game of conkers or war. He is as different from you as you are from him, remember that."

He let them go after that, their faces unsure as they mumbled their apologies and ran off on some new adventure or some such. So he was left to his peace as he trekked through the Shire and its surroundings, waving polite hello's to any he passed and stopping at Tolman's mother's smial around luncheon to eat those lovely cakes of her before he was off again.

And as his feet carried him over rolling green hills and through lush, fertile grasslands Bilbo couldn't help but lose himself in his memories again. Good ones, this time. Memories of when life was simple, mere moments after his awakening at Mount Gundabad. Memories of feasts and parties and glorious battles and the beauty his kin was capable of making. Sorrow was an emotion the Shire's fertile ground could not nourish, sadness was an emotion that refused to take root in its lush greenery.

Even fear and despair, which had seemingly fluttered down from the sky all those years ago during that winter had withered away with the spring thaw. The Shire was a haven of peace and life, and its inhabitants knew not that what they had was so special.

So Bilbo walked, his bare feet with their odd leathery soles (his mother's legacy, this time around) trekking through the daisies and the peonies and wealth of other flowers the Shire seemed to grow. The Shire had flowers like Khazad-dûm had held veins of gems and mithril. So different and so the same in their brilliant colours and various shapes.

And if, after walking past where any other Hobbit would ever think of going, his whole stance would shift and his walk would turn into that of a King of old. His gait would smoothen and his head would rise as he lost himself to memories of ages past.

Well, that was his business.

When the first dwarf, Dwalin, had barged into his smial Bilbo had been (pleasantly) surprised. It had been long, (far, far too long) since he last saw any of his kin and Dwalin had the look of a warrior about him. So when the dwarf bowed, not low enough, his mind immediately supplied, he was too content to be very insulted.

So he merely bowed back, though it was more of a nod with his head as he clasped his hand over his heart and returned the greeting.

And then there were others and Bilbo found himself losing his composure (his carefully crafted persona, the face he allowed himself to don and the measures he took to never seem more than an ordinary Hobbit) as he cooked and served and shook with laughter in between walking to-and-from the door to let the others in.

Ale flowed freely, as did most of his other alcoholic beverages as he filled tumbler after tumbler as if he were a common serving lass (a proper host, a voice in his mind whispered urgently, merely polite). It wasn't until Gandalf entered with four other dwarves that Bilbo found his good cheer dwindling down.

But it was mostly Thorin, he had to overhear the dwarrow's name as he didn't bother introducing himself or thanking him for his hospitality. If he didn't feel like a thankless serving lass before he sure did now as the dwarf helped himself to the food laid out before him without as much as a thank-you.

His good mood was slowly being drained from his bones, leaving only the slow burn of anger in its wake. He had not been treated like this in all his lifetimes. He had always been treated with the respect he deserved and now, now-

Bilbo held back the string of curses that threatened to escape the sanctuary of his mind, choosing instead to forcefully throw down the plate of cheese ("he eats it by the wheel" be damned) on the table harshly.

And even the Hobbits, in general, treated their own with only respect. Some, fauntlings mostly, could be capable of causing grief but very few were anything but humble and kind when grown. And even the most arrogant of Hobbits would not deign to lower themselves to this kind of behaviour.

And when the plates started flying Bilbo felt his temper snap.

"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice rising over the sounds the dwarrows were making as he banged his arms on the table loudly, "I should cut your beards for this behaviour, you- you ungrateful goblin-spawn!"

The dwarves were all silent, one even dropped the plate he was holding and it met the floor with a harsh sound as it broke. Gandalf, however, took that moment to break out in a bunch of heaving coughs that soon turned into a roar of laughter as he shook with mirth.

"Your mother's son you are," Gandalf wheezed, "I even fear you are more like your mother than you might think, Bilbo. Goblin-spawn indeed! I would apologize if I were you, Oin and Gloin and Balin and- well, the whole lot of you. Terribly stuffy creatures, those Hobbits, but a real treat to see one so ticked off. Cut your beards, so very-"

And Gandalf dissolved into laughter once again while the rest of the dwarves simply sat on their chairs, their faces frozen in a mixture of anger, surprise and befuddlement.

Bilbo however was keeping himself from barking the words that would demand retribution for the slight that had been done against him. He would not, should and could not. He was not that. He was just and calm and rational, he would not lose himself to his temper and he would regain his composure and act like the King he once was.

(Still are, the voice in his mind rumbled deeply and flashes of faces and crowns blinked past his mind, a crown does not make a king. A throne does not equal a kingdom.)

Then the creature that had ended his last life flashed in front of his eyes, too-bright flames and burnburnburn painpainpain and Bilbo sagged.

Perhaps, but he had neither now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Bilbo left the stunned dwarrows and the wizard to their own then, closing the door to his smial behind him as soon as he had grabbed his pipe from its shelf. He then sat himself down on the bench (below the kitchen window, letting him know that the dwarves still had not spoken up yet) and simply sat there for a moment or two.

It was a particularly fine evening, which was to be expected since the morning and afternoon had been pleasant also, and there were no clouds to shield the countless stars from Bilbo's gaze. He lit his pipe then, savouring the taste of the pipeweed as it burned pleasantly on his tongue as he blew coin-sized smoke rings in the air. He watched them as they slowly melted away against the dark of the night sky, drifting off to join the stars in their vigil of the world below.

The dwarves had started speaking now, his ears told him, but he didn't pay them that much attention. Choosing instead to focus on the feel of wood against his back and the tickle of grass against his ankles and the smell of smoke in the air.

A fine, fine evening indeed.

He let him pipe die down then, blowing out his last smoke ring and letting his shoulders slump as he glanced up to gaze at his constellation. But tonight he could take no comfort from it, not with the foul beast to fresh on his mind and the screams of his kin still ringing in his ears. Not with when marrow-deep anger that festered inside his mind was only now turning to tranquillity. Not with the insult (unintentional as it might be, perhaps, and his pride was more than a bit at fault) still a festering wound he felt no need to bandage
Not when-

The dwarves were singing now, voices low and mournful and their words in Westron as they sung. And Bilbo felt himself get drawn back into the present, back to the tickling grass and sharp-bright stars and the taste of tobacco still on his tongue as he swallowed.

And they kept singing, the words unfamiliar but haunting and Bilbo found himself enraptured. Their loss was clear in their words and Bilbo wondered.

He had read about Erebor and its fall. He had read about all the settlements he could find books on, anything to inform him of his kin (his subjects, his legacy, his children) but Erebor he remembered best.

It was not every day that another kingdom fell to a beast wrought in fire and stone.

He walked back into his dining room when the last note of the song died out slowly, words fading amidst the smoke that hung about the room like a widow's veil. He regarded the shadows on their faces with sadness, saw their longing and felt their hurt.

"Mister Baggins-" Thorin said, turning to him from where he leant against the shelf as he prepared to speak but Bilbo cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"No, master Thorin. I overreacted and I offer my sincerest apologies, I had no right to act that way and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me," Bilbo ignored the dull sting that accompanied those words as he bowed his head to (what he assumed, as the dwarrow had still not properly introduced himself) was the leader of the group.

For a moment the dwarf stood there, silent as could be, and Bilbo regarded him cautiously as Thorin seemed to mull over his words.

"You are forgiven," he said after a second or two, "my company and I were at fault as well, we should have paid you the respect your hospitality deserved. So thank you, for feeding us all as well as you did when I was told you only expected one."

Bilbo sighed after that and the tension bled out of his shoulders swiftly, "a proper Hobbit's pantry has to be able to feed a dozen relatives at any time of the day. Dwarves I have never fed before, but it seems I managed just fine and even have food to spare for breakfast and second breakfast tomorrow."

The rotund dwarf and the one whose beard had yet to properly grow seemed eager to ask questions, after he had mentioned second breakfast, but Thorin silenced them by starting to talk himself.

"But we were brought here for another reason," and at that the dwarf shared a glance with Gandalf, who sat merrily puffing on his pipe on the only man-shaped chair his mother had kept especially for him. "For on a journey we will soon depart, a most perilous, important journey. Ours is a solemn purpose, a noble purpose. Our home was taken from us by a most despicably vile beast, the dragon Smaug, and now we wish to reclaim it. To Erebor we will travel early on the morrow and I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thror who King Under The Mountain last, ask you to join us as our burglar."

Perhaps Thorin had said more after that, perhaps he might even have danced a jig or procured a bouquet of flowers from his nose, but Bilbo wouldn't have known. Not when this dwarf had just proclaimed himself to be Bilbo's kin. Son to the father he had not known, heir to a mountain Bilbo knew only from books. King to a kingdom lost to fire too.

Brother in blood. Brother in plight. Son of his sons, child of his children, now his brother. His descendant, now his elder.

King to a hall in which a beast of flame and blood and darkness now resided. King to a people who had fled his Hall only for their new home to be lost also. On their shoulders laid the same burden, rested the same plight. His beard cut short, perhaps, to convey his shame. A promise, maybe, to reclaim what had been lost in the fire.

(Bilbo would have continued shaving his beard even if Hobbits were wont to wear them long. He deserved none of it, not after he last fell asleep, cushioned by blackened stone and rocked to sleep to the haunting cries of his people.)

They were asking him something, he noticed just now, their faces curious and slightly concerned as Bilbo shook himself from his stunned stupor.

"Ah, yes, yes. I will go with you," he stated hastily, "of course I will."

For how could he not? Even if he had been just Bilbo, son of Bungo, Hobbit of the Shire, he doubted he would have refused this dwarf and his plight. His parents had raised him right, odd as he might have been, and even had there been no kinship, no shared burden, he would have accepted.

(Sometimes, when his memories faded to a dull, lulling presence in the back of his mind and the warm presence of a place so blessed by Yavanna enveloped him, he would be just Bilbo. Proper and dull, daring and righteous, unburned by shame and sadness and longing and concerned only with trivial matters. Those moments he most missed his parents, for their loss was the only grief he felt then.)

But now the solemn one, Balin, he recalled, had a mile-long contract laid out in front of him and there were voices cheering and Gandalf was nodding and there was clapping on his back and smiles sent in his direction and the roar of ages past was silenced in his mind.

King he might not be anymore, but a burglar he could become.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

The contract was the perhaps more than a bit unfair, bordering on the point where he could have justified ripping it apart and demanding a new one, but he signed it anyway. The dwarves had spoken of gold, one fourteenth of Erebor's wealth, and it had called to him.

Perhaps not in the way it once did, a song of metal, bright and clear, but it sang to him nevertheless. He could, perhaps, no- No he could not. He banished the thought, how dare he think of that?

(But somewhere in the back of his mind it hid in the darkness, clinging to him and refusing to let go. Using his share to buy an army and have them face the beast that haunted his home was madness, he would not let others face that horror, no matter how much he longed to lay eyes on his home, whole and filled with his people, once more.)

But it irked him nevertheless, the call of gold that was not even his yet. Should he die he did not want to fall for the promise of gold he had never seen. No, he joined them for their purpose. For his kin. For Thorin Oakenshield who had watched his people burn, his mountain-hall invaded, who dared rely on thirteen others to reclaim his home from so foul a beast.

It was the tale bards would sing of for ages to come, the story mothers would whisper to their sons and daughters as a warning or a beacon of hope. Perhaps they would sing of how thirteen dwarves and a Hobbit had fallen to the fire, or perhaps how fourteen of the bravest idiots had snuck up on the beast and felled it in its sleep.

He knew what his neighbours would say though, no matter the outcome. Knew that Lobelia  would no doubt lay claim to Bag End (her sticky fingers would not touch a single thing, he swore solemnly, this smial his father had built for his mother. This smial was his, no matter that Lobelia was family and mattered, but it would never belong to anyone but his and those he would welcome inside) and that Hamfast would without a doubt continue tending to his garden as if nothing had happened and that aunt Mirabella would need to find another to tell her gossip to.

But a small part of his was gleeful about the fact that he would be remembered, people would talk about him for years to come. Not just as the son of a Took and a Baggins who had gone on an adventure and either returned victoriously or died on the road, but as the foolish tween who had charged headlong into battle against a pack of wolves. As the mad Hobbit that had gone back to the battlefield the morning after to skin every single wolf he'd slain and (as the gossip believed) had fashioned socks out of the hides.

(he hadn't, he did have a carpet, his cloak, some blankets  and a hat made out of them after refreshing his skills with a medium not borne of the earth)

The dwarrows who had invaded his smial kept on talking and it was with some surprise that he found out that they had been asking him the same question for a while now.

"I'm very sorry," He hurriedly apologized before making a show of yawning widely, "I fear I might have dozed off a bit, the excitement of the evening catching up to me."

" 's fine," the gruff one grunted (Dwalin, if he remembered correctly) before repeating his question, "what weapons can you handle?"

Oh. Bilbo thought distastefully, it seemed the dwarrow had not found his earlier outburst (rude and improper as it had been) very impressive. Handle a weapon indeed! He has had centuries, millennia even, more experience with weapons of all sorts. Perhaps his body was out of shape, softened by Yavanna's gentle touch where it had once been hewn from stone itself by Mahal. Perhaps he had not wished to take up arms for over half of his life now, not since that last stand on the frozen ground and amidst the ice and snow. But he remembered the song of steel clashing with steel and the weight of a warhammer in his hand.

He had done glorious battle, and most of all he remembered the thrill of victory in the air. The hour-long feasts and joy that would follow, the music that filled high, cavernous ceilings and the beat of feet drumming wildly on the floor in mad dancing.

But he could hardly tell them that, he did not want to tell them that. He was now Bilbo Baggins, burglar of the Shire. King-No-More.

"I can pick up anything that is not too heavy," he responded instead, his voice just a bit sharp, "if that is what you are implying. I'm pretty nifty with a frying pan but old Roper's axe I can 'handle' also. My mother was a Took, you see."

He finished it at that, the words that would make any proper Hobbit nod sagely and say "ah, I see." It was explanation enough for anything in the Shire. Little Daisy juggling with spoons? Well, she has a Took for a father, doesn't she? Old Isengrim getting thrown out of the pub because of another brawl? Well, he's a Took alright. That Bilbo going off on an adventure with dwarves? Why, his mother was a Took, so that would explain that.

Wild bunch, those Tooks.

But Dwalin had merely laughed loudly, the sound deep and rumbling and Bilbo could almost imagine the walls of his smial shaking along with the Dwarf's guffaws.

"A frying pan," the dark-haired one without the proper beard grinned, "uncle-"

"No."

Bilbo found himself smiling as Thorin Oakenshield's nephew turned to his brother with a pout at being cut off so easily and soon the dwarrows all turned to one another and the room was filled with sound again. It was amidst this cacophony that Bilbo snuck off, padding towards Gandalf who was gazing solemnly at one of his mother's images on the wall.

"A burglar, am I?" he said as he slid up beside the wizard, "I can safely say I haven't burglarised anything in my life."

Not intentionally, anyway. He had, perhaps, taken some of his aunts cakes when they were left unattended and once ran off with Hildigram's prize conker. But the boy was asking for it, gloating about his victory for days.

Gandalf merely sent him a long, meaningful look in that peculiar way of his. "I am sure you'll manage splendidly. Your mother was a Took, you see?" Gandalf winked at that and Bilbo's small smile turned into a wide grin.

"The most Tookish of all," he conceded with a nod of his head as he glanced past Gandalf to watch the painting of his mother for a second, "but my father was a Baggins, as you well know. He didn't mind my mother teaching me how to behead goblins with a spoon, but he did mind all things improper. If you had wanted a burglar you should have gone to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins née Bracegirdle instead. She has a talent for making off with your cutlery unseen."

But she had married Otho, and thus was family. And, annoying as it might be, he had to give credit where credit's due. Her fingers were some of the fastest he had ever seen on a Hobbit.

"And she'd have skewered the dragon on the pointy end of her umbrella the moment she smelled its doubtlessly foul breath," Bilbo continued animatedly, "and she'd send any trouble on the road running for the hills in fear because she'd lecture them on their bad manners."

"Aye," Gandalf nodded wisely, "but she would have skewered the dwarves before she ever set foot outside the Shire and that is if they do not run off themselves first. And I fear that she'd think Smaug's idea very smart and conquer a mountain of her own to rule."

Bilbo found himself laughing at that, tears brought to his eyes at the very image of Lobelia sitting primly in what had once been his throne in Khazad-Dûm. There was and never would be a great love shared between them, they were too different yet too alike for that to happen. But she was family, he had said it before and would say it 'till the day Mahal took him from this life. And family mattered more than all the riches the earth could give.

"She'd be a marvellous queen," Bilbo allowed merrily as he stretched to his toes to right a slightly-off mathom on one of the shelves, "she would introduce the wonders of seven meals a day to those odd dwarves, I have read about them, you know?"

"That I noticed, cut their beards, you said. Quite the insult to a dwarf."

"Enjoying my hospitality and then repaying me with blatant disrespect is a grave insult to a Hobbit," Bilbo retorted sharply, though there was no true malice in his voice. "I could have chased them out of my smial with a ladle and the neighbours would not have thought it oddly of me. My mother was a Took, you see-"

"-and your father was a Baggins, if my memory serves me well," Gandalf chuckled as he leant down to peer at Bilbo with merrily twinkling eyes, "so your neighbours would be properly horrified if you'd ever do that."

Bilbo cracked another grin and soon his laughter was mingling with that of the dwarrows in the other room (they had apparently helped themselves to his remaining ale and were enjoying it thoroughly) and Bilbo found that he had not enjoyed himself this much since his cousin's wedding.

Bilbo had herded the happily tipsy dwarrows off to the rooms he had prepared for them ("Nonsense, you are my guests and it is only proper for me to give you a warm bed to sleep in for the night! Never mind letting the lot of you off to gallivant across the Shire, why you'd give the neighbours a scare!") and even managed to accommodate Gandalf with a few hastily procured pillows and blankets on the floor.

But while the dwarves around him were sleeping contently (and snoring quite loudly) Bilbo found himself in his (his father's) study. He had lit the candles that lined the desk and was resolutely writing away in the dim light. The wide room, filled from floor to ceiling with bookcases Bilbo had installed after his father's death and with the ornate writing desk tucked cosily in a corner, was filled with the sound of a pen scratching on paper.

 Should I not return within the timespan of four years I wish for my cousin Drogo Baggins to take ownership of Bag End and most of its belongings … To Lobelia Sackville-Baggins I would leave all my silver cutlery, her favourite armchair and eight paintings of her choosing … A part of the money should be used to continue paying the Gamgees for their troubles in tending to the garden, and this should continue as it has … Until the span of four years is over and no notice of my continued survival (either written down or a message relayed in words) has been received I wish for my aunt, Mirabella, to look after Bag End and ensure that no furniture, books, mathoms or any other ‘thing’ kept inside the smial is taken-

Should word of my death reach you as well as word of a dwarven settlement being retaken by a ‘Thorin Oakenshield’ or ‘King Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror’ (if word of my death reaches you, please do ask around in Bree or find one of the rangers to confirm the reclamation of the mountain and whether ‘Thorin Oakenshield’ is still alive) please do sent him the letter I have put …

Bilbo rubbed his eyes and tiredly crossed out one passage before starting to write it anew, he had to pack (as the company had found time to give him well-meant instructions and remind him that they would indeed leave early tomorrow) as well as finish the last of his instruction letters and get up in time to prepare breakfast. He had been quite pleased when they had politely given their breakfast preferences with the proper if it won't be too much of a trouble's and thank you's.

Bilbo almost crowed at the thought that he could get these stubborn dwarves to respect him without resorting to violence, angry bellowing or telling them of his legacy or parentage.

I will be the best bloody-burglar they have ever seen, Bilbo resolved solemnly as his fingers curled into a fist around the pen and his grip turned rock-solid.

He would see Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, succeed on this quest. He would.

(he would be damned if he let his kin, his brother, fail. He did not know how many of his line had survived to this day, perhaps Thorin and his sister-sons were last, perhaps they were not. It mattered not to him, they were family and family mattered)

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Bilbo woke up at what surely felt like an ungodly hour so that he could prepare a proper first breakfast. The kitchen was already filled with the pleasant aroma of freshly baked bread, eggs and the hearty smell of bacon.

So naturally it didn't take that long for the first sleepy-eyed dwarrow to wander inside and seat himself at the dinner table with a grunt.

"A good morning to you-" Bilbo twisted around for a quick second to peer at the individual's face and see just who it was before turning back, "Master Dori! I hope the accommodations were up to standards-"

"Lad," the dwarrow began tiredly, though his voice wasn't unkind, "after sleeping on a bedroll for weeks this has been a treat. And I also wish to apologize for my brothers and I's behaviour last night-"

"Nonsense," Bilbo said hurriedly, "let bygones be bygones, my father would have said, and I wholeheartedly agree. I should not have lost my temper and that's that."

"Your father," Dori began carefully while another dwarf shuffled into the room and almost fell onto the chair besides the white-haired dwarf, "is he-"

"He died some years ago," Bilbo replied with forced blasé as he set one of the plates he had prepared in front of the dwarf and then hurried back to his stove. "I am already past middle-aged for my kind, but I take after my mother's father. He was one-hundred and thirty when he died, which is the oldest any Hobbit has lived to."

"One-hundred and-" the other dwarf (Balin, Bilbo thought), "that is-"

"Very old for a Hobbit," Bilbo cut the dwarf off while handing him a plate as well, "we considered ourselves blessed if we live to a hundred. My mother had a run in with some dwarves on one of her adventures and was very insulted when they thought her a fauntling, you see. I can assure you that I am well past my majority for a Hobbit, even though a dwarf of fifty would be nothing but a tween in your eyes."

He didn't mention how his mother had only ever met one dwarf, and how that had eventually resulted into his birth. Nor did he mention how he suspected he took after his father's (his sons', the line that he himself had sired) side of the family more when it came to aging. He did look as if he were but a wee tween, face still smooth and body not at all weighed down by the (however small) burden of age. His neighbours didn't care overly much, his grandfather had also looked quite young even at sixty-four, but Bilbo was well aware that he would likely outlive his peers.

(He had done that once already, burying his sons and his sons' sons and all thereafter. He had laid his brothers, those Mahal had created mere moments after him, to sleep and yet he lived on. They had called him 'the Deathless' after he buried his first grandchild, whispering it in awe and fear when his back was turned. Never did he tire, never did bones ache. He was a mountain, but not even time could make him bend. Then one night he went to bed, tired and aching, and awoke a new-born babe. But not even in his lives after would he tire or ache save for that last day after which he would (sometimes not immediately) be reborn.)

"Fifty?" Balin chewed on his eggs with a contemplative expression on his wrinkled face, "and what, if you don't mind me asking, is the ages Hobbits are considered mature?"

"Oh, I don't mind. Us Hobbits don't have great secrets," just people who don't bother asking, Bilbo thought distastefully. "we are considered adults at thirty-three years old."

Whatever Balin was about to say was drowned out by a youthful voice bellowing, "uncle Thorin, look at this!"

Bilbo hissed an apology, glanced at his stove (nothing was in danger of burning) and then hurried to the origin of the sound. What he saw was the youngest dwarf (the beardless one, err, Kili) standing in the doorway to his bedroom staring with wide eyes at his cloak that hung mounted on the wall.

"Excuse me," Bilbo's smile was wide, too wide, and his voice cold as ice as he tapped the lad on his shoulder, "that would be my room, the door of which I had closed before preparing breakfast."

"Oh, Mister Boggins-"

"Kili," Thorin's voice was deep and it cut off whatever response Bilbo was about to give, "our burglar's name is Baggins, as I told you thrice before. I also remember telling you not to insult our host by snooping through his belongings."

The dwarrow did not apologize though, which Bilbo noted with a sour pang of fondness. His brood always had been a prideful bunch; it seemed his brother was the same.

"But Uncle," Kili insisted stubbornly, pointing to the cloak with wide eyes, "look. Mister Bo-Baggins, is that a warg's pelt?"

"No." his voice was hollow and his face solemn as he stared past Kili's questioning face to gaze at the cloak.

It was a thing of sharp, subtle beauty, kept more for the memories it held than for it to be gazed upon as a work of art. A cloak fit more for a king than a burglar, never mind a Hobbit. He had made it with shaking hands, his mind whirling with memories and sounds, flashes of bloodbatllesdeathvictoryfear flashing through his thoughts and his mouth a grim line of determination. He had made in the shadows of the living room, as far away from the fireplace (the smell of burning flesh sharp in his nose, the smoke making it hard to breathe. Roars and screams and cries as it grew hothothot-) as he could be.

"They were wolves, the river froze. They attacked-" his voice never wavered, his eyes never strayed from the grey-white fur (so like the snow he had tainted with blood that night, so like the cold that had seeped into his bones and had hollowed his stomach), "-we fought back."

"Ùhùrudazl," Thorin whispered softly to his nephew, but Bilbo heard it nevertheless and the young dwarf's expression immediately morphed into a more respectful one.

"I'm very sorry for snooping, Mister Baggins," Kili apologized and Bilbo's eyes flickered to the dwarf's face for a second before returning to his cloak.

"It's nothing," he said as he closed the door with a soft thump, dragging himself back from beyond the beckoning endlessness of his memories and back to the present. "Now, I have breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen."

Once Bilbo returned to the kitchen he immediately forced Bombur to sit down ("No! You are my guests and I will not have you cooking your own food while I sit around doing nothing. Now sit down, please."). Gandalf entered last, scratching at his nose as he sat down.

"My, Bilbo, are those your mother's infamous rolls I smell?" the wizard asked, sniffing the air dramatically.

"That they are," Bilbo responded merrily with a glance at the steaming rolls, poking them quickly to test their temperature.

Gandalf hummed quietly before he turned towards Thorin. "Last night," he began gravely, "l had forgotten that I had something for you. It is a map of Erebor, given to me by your father-"

"It's of no use," Thorin cut in as he put his fork down a bit more harshly than necessary, "I remember the mountain and its surrounding lands well-"

But Gandalf paid no heed to the interruption and kept on talking as he cleared the center of the table and laid down a map. "Here, on the west side, do you see that rune? It marks the entrance to a hidden passageway that leads to the Lower Halls of Erebor. A passageway Smaug could not possibly know of, as he is too big to use it."

"How is it hidden?" Bilbo found himself asking as he placed the last dish (his mother's famous rolls) on the table. He knew little of Erebor and its secrets, knew only the gate to Khazad-Dûm he himself had helped craft. There had been no secret ways in or out, for there had been no reason for secrecy. For ages the gate to his kingdom had been open and all had been welcome.

"In lots of ways," Gandalf huffed, regarding Bilbo closely, "some perhaps more than others. One is surely the most important, but perhaps-"

"You don't know how it's hidden," it was Glóin's gruff voice that rose above the others as he cut Gandalf off mid-sentence.

"Of course I don't, it wouldn't be very secret if I had seen it myself now, would it? I assume that it is at the very least hidden in the common dwarvish fashion. So it should look exactly like the outside of the mountain, am I right?"

There were nods from all around the table, and it was Dwalin who pounded his fists on the table loud enough to make Bilbo wince. But they all quieted some when Gandalf handed Thorin a key and bade him to keep it safe.

"I will," Thorin promised as he tucked the key on a chain that hung around his neck and under his tunic. The dwarrow grew silent and contemplative as he glanced at Gandalf.

"Wizard," he said slowly, "just when did my father give you this?"

"Before your grandfather was killed in the Mines of Moria," Gandalf began as he glanced at Thorin with an unreadable expression, "he gave this to your father for safekeeping. You told me yourself, Thorin Oakenshield, that you have last seen your father on the twenty-first of April, a hundred years ago."

Thorin didn't speak, he merely nodded and Gandalf took that as his cue to continue.

"It was in the dungeons of the Necromancer that I found your father, some forty odd years ago. He had lost all ties to sanity then. He did not remember his name or his family, knew not what day it was or how he got there. All he could remember were the map and the key."

"The dungeons of the Necromancer-" Thorin started, but the wizard talked right over him.

"It was too late for me to save him at that point, he was lost beyond all help. It was with great effort I myself managed to escape from there, but Thrain had entrusted the map and key to me. And now I give them to you."

"After we reclaim Erebor," Thorin grumbled darkly, glowering at the plate in front of him as he gripped his knife which such a strength Bilbo feared he would bend the poor metal. "We should march to the Necromancer and extract our vengeance for the death of my father."

My father also, Bilbo wished to say. Oh how he longed for those words to pass from his lips, but he swallowed them. He fought them back with the ease that came with decades of practice. But the Necromancer…

Bilbo didn't dare glance at Gandalf's face, the wizard was not to know that Bilbo knew who he meant. He knew the many names existed for that foul darkness, the Necromancer was just one of many. He also knew no dwarf should ever seek out that presence, no matter how right his cause.

(Perhaps this was the reason he woke from his slumber yet again. He knew his people would muster behind him should he call, knew they would name him King once more and march to war for him. If he could call forth the king of Eryn Lasgalen and the lord and lady of Lothlórien and perhaps-)

Bilbo bit his cheek, he'd best not dwell on such issues. Not now. Not when there were more pressing matters on his mind.

"Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf leant forward, elbows resting on the table and his brows knit together in a most impressive frown, "the Necromancer is an enemy beyond the might of you and your kin. Your father wished for you to have the map, which you now have, not to march towards your death!"

No one spoke after that. Not Thorin, who instead was silently glaring at an impervious Gandalf. Nor the other dwarves, who whose mouths were thin lines as they glanced at one another.

"Mister Baggins," it was Ori who first broke the silence, giving him a hopeful look as he seemed to search for something to say. "Err, do you have much experience .. burgling?"

Bilbo laughed at that, the tension slowly draining from the room but after a moment he shook his head. "Why no, master Ori, I can safely say that I have never properly burgled a single thing in my life."

"What?"

"What is this supposed to mean?"

"Never burgled-"

"Wizard, explain yourself!"

Gandalf's loud laugh came from his stomach and he doubled over in apparent glee. It took him a moment to compose himself and to right his slightly off-kilter hat, "if I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar than a burglar he is, master Thorin. You have not doubted me before and you have no reason to doubt me now. I know Bilbo and I knew his mother, he will be the finest burglar you could ask for."

And then, with a conspiring wink directed at Bilbo, Gandalf went on, "his mother was a Took, you see?"

It wasn’t long after that that they left Bilbo's smial. There had been a few raised eyebrows from the dwarves when Bilbo apprehended one of his neighbours and handed her the small package of bound letters.

"Please deliver this to the Thain," he asked kindly as he smiled at her.

"Of course," Rosamond said immediately, but her face showed her surprise. "But why can't you deliver them yourself, Bilbo?"

"Why, I'm going on an adventure!" Bilbo exclaimed as he swung his arms around to gesture at the impatiently waiting dwarves. "And time is of the utmost importance here, no time for lollygagging now. Thank you Rosamond, and a good day!"

They continued onwards then, leaving poor Rosamond Took (a second cousin of his) standing on the road with her mouth agape and a bundle of letters in her hands.

"The Thain," it was Balin who spoke and the dwarrow turned to glance at him, "he is your lord?"

Bilbo shook his head with a fond grin. He too had made the mistake at first, especially when his mother had told him that her father had been Thain until his death. He almost feared that the peace he had known up till then would vanish, that perhaps he was a royal (or the family of one) once more and would be burdened with duty again.

"Traditionally the Thain leads our military," Bilbo explained. "But-" he gestured at the gently rolling hills and always-present flowers, "we rarely need any sort of military. Most often the Thain settles minor disputes as a mediator. He is also responsible for most agreements and such."

(Bilbo didn't mention that the last time Hobbits had held up arms against an enemy it was him who lead the charge. Him who bellowed orders over the sound of improvised weapons slashing through the air. Him who cut down any who dared invade his home, harm his people and hurt their children!)

"Was it Isengrim who took over after your grandfather died, Bilbo?" Gandalf asked after Bilbo finished speaking.

"Hmm-" Bilbo shook from his musings with a start. "Ah, yes. Yes, Isengrim is now the Thain. He is my uncle," he said to Balin, "which is why I trust him to follow the instructions I left in my letters."

"Why would you need any instructions?" It was Glóin who spoke this time, "should you fall, you fall. If you don't then you return a very wealthy Hobbit. Why bother-"

"Why bother?"

Thorin sent Glóin a rather disappointed look from where he was leading the company through the Shire all by himself (never mind that Bilbo knew the place like the back of his hand), though Gandalf would occasionally lean close and whisper something to the dwarf after which their path would change.

"Why bother indeed!" Bilbo rumbled indignantly, "I'll have you know I am a bachelor, I have no children to call my own. If I die then I have-" Bilbo paused for a moment and started counting in his head furiously, "over two dozen relations who would be very cross indeed if I don't leave them anything. I have cousins, first, second and third degree and aunts, uncles and great-aunts and uncles and more. So if I 'fall' then I can't simply leave a note saying 'leave everything to my child and let it be his mess from now on'. There are mathoms and heirlooms that need to be divided and of course my smial. And should I be grievously maimed on this quest and not able to speak or write then I best have this all documented beforehand lest I face this trouble when I am old and dying and not able to leave a proper will behind."

Bilbo didn't say how he had added Thorin and his nephews to that long list of relatives who would stand to inherit. Or how he had no intention of dying, not unless it meant his kin would live on, and how he would perhaps never return. He could hear even now, the ever-present song of the mountains. He longed for it perhaps more than he sometimes longed to see his mother's smile again, to smell his father's pipeweed. He missed the feel of rock beneath his touch, the sound of a hammer meeting steel. He missed the comfort it offered, the protection it embodied (his mind bristled at that, at how even his glorious hall had offered no protection from that foul beast) and the beauty it possessed.

But after a few seconds Bilbo hastened to quip, "And I would have thought that you dwarves with that contract you had me sign would have understood the importance of proper documentation. You have to cover all of your bases lest someone find a loophole."

He could see some of his more pushy relatives (Lobelia included) even now, stomping their feet and growing displeased with their share. Lobelia especially was as sharp as a tack, always had been, and sometimes was too smart for her own good. When she'd needle him about not being a 'proper Baggins' Bilbo worried that she had found out his secret. That she had put the pieces together, had recognised the signs (his feet, ears, physique and even his temperament) and would one day confront him.

But he dreaded that day for what it would mean for his parents' memory. He feared how they would think of his mother for what she had done (a wretch, a whore. A no-good hussy who ran off with a dwarf and wasn't even smart enough to prevent pregnancy). Or what they would call his father (a fool, an idiot. A big-headed lump who was too weak to even chastise his wife for going off with another). Him they would probably still accept, he was a bit odd but they could then blame that on his 'unique heritage' (or on how his mother was a Took). But even if they dared ostracize him he would endure. He cared for them, of course, because they were his people too. But he had lived long enough for him to survive without another's approval, or even their kindness. And should push ever come to shove he could always pack and wander.

(Perhaps Mahal would see fit to grant him another chance, to let him wonder once more at the crown reflected in the unmoving depths at the foot of a mountain and built a kingdom anew. Perhaps he would wander for years and years, gaze upon the far corners of the world and marvel at its wonders. Or, he dared not think of it, he would live to once more set foot in the now-burnt hall he himself had built.)

They reached Bywater swiftly, after Bilbo had enough of Thorin's less-than-precise sense of direction and with a huff led the company on the fastest road to Bywater himself.

It was there that Bilbo saw the ponies the dwarves had brought with them, looked after in the small stable that belonged to the Green Dragon Inn. They were loaded with supplies and paraphernalia and Bilbo grimaced when he saw the mare (a quick peek told him her gender) that was obviously reserved for him.

He was no prodigious horseman, nor did he possess a great love for the animals. But for him, Hobbit-raised as he was, horses were simply not necessary. His ancestors had walked from the valley of the Anduin river to what was now Bree-land, had walked on feet that grew stronger each day as they crossed mountains. Horses were for pulling carts and ploughing field. Sometimes even for messages that required great haste, but those were few and far between.

But he knew that a horse would always travel faster than a Hobbit could walk, so it was with minimal fussing that he hoisted himself in the saddle and gripped the reins with a white-knuckled grip.

But it was well within the first hour of their journey, not even having left the Shire, that they ran into Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She was red-faced and breathing heavily, leaning on her mint-green umbrella as if it were a walking stick.

"Bilbo," she heaved, "-Baggins!"

It was only because of the fact that all the other dwarves (and even Gandalf) all stopped their horses and turned them around to gaze at Lobelia in surprise that Bilbo had to stop as well. If he had his way he would have continued onwards as if he never heard her (oh he loved here, of course he did. She was just someone he did not wish to see now).

"Lobelia," he answered with a forced smile that hurt his cheeks as he took in her dishevelled appearance. Her hair was a mess of windswept curls and her dress with all its ruffles and lace looked as if she had run in it.

"You-" she growled, waving her umbrella at him threateningly. His pony took a step back and threw her head up in surprise, making Bilbo grab the reins tighter.

"Me?" he asked, sending her a look he hoped conveyed 'please don't do this now, Lobelia. I am not in the mood for your rants.'

Her answering look clearly said I don't give a damn, should Lobelia ever decide to curse.

But instead she said, her voice sweet as sugar, "imagine my surprise when I had to hear from Linda Proudfoot -Linda Proudfoot, Bilbo!- that you were going on an adventure."

"Ah," Bilbo said as he frowned at her, "then Rosamond must have talked. Well, she was certainly right! I am going on an adventure, I mighty fine one I might add. So a good day to you, Lobelia!"

But Lobelia was having none of it, her free hand was poised on her hip and her chin was raised defiantly.

"Well-" she hissed, "I won't let you. We have a standing engagement for elevensies on Sunday, as you are well aware because I have been coming over for that for years. You can't simply cancel those without at least a two-weeks' notice! It is terribly impolite, as you are well aware."

Bilbo sighed heavily and he could hear one of the dwarves mirroring his action as well.

"I am terribly sorry, Lobelia. But it was all rather sudden and I signed a contract and everything. As a Baggins I can't possibly go back on my word, never mind on a signed agreement. You of all people should know-"

Lobelia huffed again, but the sound was raw even when her face was as severe as before. "Well, I'll have you know that I'll expect your nicest spoons for your next birthday. The silver ones, with the flowers on the side."

"And you-" with another haphazard wave of her umbrella she turned towards the dwarves and glared at them all and even shot a nasty look at Gandalf for good measure, "I don't care what sort of 'adventures' you have in mind but if Bilbo comes back with those nasty customs of yours I'll skin your hides. It would look bad on the family if he came back waving axes and mining tunnels and the like!"

And then, without even saying a proper goodbye, she grabbed her skirts and marched away as suddenly as he came.

"Mahal," it was Bofur who muttered this and Bilbo couldn't help but share his sentiment. Lobelia was a handful on a good day, unpredictable as the weather and indecipherable as a babe's first prattles.

Though his heart swelled just a bit, because she did not come to verbally whiplash him. Oh no, she came because she wanted him to return. She had, in her own unique way, told him to get his furry feet back alive or face her wrath.

And so, after they urged their ponies onwards once more and the dwarves started muttering amongst themselves about the oddities of Hobbits, Bilbo smiled.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

The clouds had been heavy and pregnant with rain for a while since they first set foot on the road, the winds picking up with a foreboding hiss. Trees had swayed and the critters had ducked for cover long before the first fat drops of water fell down on Bilbo and the company.

It mattered very little to him though, not when his muscles ached uncomfortably from his perch on the pony's back. It had been far too long since had travelled on horseback, far too long since he last marched out for battle. And it showed. So he embraced the cold-kisses of the sky, let it soothe his hurts and balm his unease.

But that had been before the weather had turned, before the winds grew harsh and cold and the rain morphed into icy needles that stung your skin and hollowed your mood. It fit the mood though, for the lands they travelled through were bleak and grey. Gently-rising hills with lonesome, forsaken buildings long-since forgotten by man. He could spend only little time gazing at the lost wonders of man's hand, to take in the spiralling staircase as it wound up an outer wall before it had bent down to time and decay.

What helped even less was that he had been missing a good half of his meals. Tea-time? Elevensies? Second breakfast? Oh no, Gandalf had laughed unhelpfully, snickering around that pipe of his, we don't have time for that now, Bilbo, nor the supplies.

So Bilbo's mood had sunk as if it were a stone thrown in a pond. It didn't help that he very much disliked the fire they lit every night, hating the way the flames danced in the blackness of the night as it bit at the wood they fed it.

(Sometimes he swore he could see the faces of his kin, his subjects, his friends, in the fire. Their mouths were moving, eyes locking onto his as they screamed. And then a dragon swept them up in the beat of his wings as it soared over a mountain and-)

He looked away, attention on where had seen Fili, Kili and Nori disappear into the darkness. They been silent, of course they had been, but his mind was sharp in a way his body was now soft. Age was but a whetstone to sharpen your wits on, to focus your mind and master your senses.

So he kept quiet, letting them go about their business while he edged further and further from the fire; drawing deeper and deeper into his musings. In the end he lapsed into darkness, eyes unseeingly staring at the fire that was trying to reach the stars; painting the sky with smoke and sparks of gold. He was cold and his clothes stuck to his skin and his breath hung in the air in tiny, white puffs.

But inside his mind he was warm and exultant. His memories a warm blanket he engulfed himself in, willingly drowning in an ocean of mixed emotions that dragged him down to their shady depths. There the stars could not reach to guide him; there he ceased being Bilbo.

(There he was a king once more, before his halls burned and crumbled and fell. He was a lord, a warrior, the thrill of battle and the taste of victory lingering in his mouth.)

 When the trio of dwarves returned, covered in blood and gore and guided by a darkly glowering Gandalf the company held their breath. They listened carefully as the cowed dwarves recounted their tale, starting in a cowed way; mindful of Gandalf's wrath but growing more exorbitant with every word passing their lips.

"And then Nori-" Kili gushed around as piece of bread hastily shoved in his hands, "did this thing and-"

Fili mimed throwing something and then crumpled to the ground with his hand grasping at his chest, a silly smile plastered on his face. "And the first troll fell, just like that."

Bilbo paid more attention to their faces than he did to their words, eyes scanning for injuries or any blood on them that isn't from the trolls. He found none and let out a sigh, good gracious- thank Yavanna they're safe.

And then Gandalf handed  Thorin a sword, the light of the fire dancing prettily up and down the smooth metal as the dwarf turns it around in his hands. He nodded when Gandalf told him of the hoard before his nephews dragged him away to show their own conquests, a few knives and a short sword respectively and Bilbo's head swims with thoughts of what if, or when, and then-

He slept well that night though, his weariness catching up with him in the moment he rests his head on his bedroll. He dreamt of his mother's rolls and his aunts' fruitcakes and sun and grass and gently rolling hills filled with flowers and laughter.

 The weather improved and with it did Bilbo's mood. He sand along with the company now, hollering slightly-improper lyrics as the sun beats down on the stretched-out road. But there is a tension that falls upon the company the moment the sky darkens and the howls started. They pierced through bone and marrow, echoed in their heads and made sleep uneasy.

Bilbo volunteered to take a watch, face set in a dark glower as he dared Thorin to refuse his request. It had been the first time since his outburst that Bilbo had gotten the whole company to hold their breath simultaneously, each and every one of them watching Thorin's face to gauge their leader's reaction.

The exiled king had nodded, though he did so with a grunted "you may take the first watch, burglar." And his face had been rather unpleasant, as if he had been forced to swallow down a lemon.

(But he would not let kin die by fur and jaws again, would not let another body behind in the whitewhitewhite of the snow-tainted-red. Gods be damned. Not as long as his arms had the strength to raise a hammer, an axe, a sword. Not for as long as he drew breath.)

So he sat, resting his back against a tree. His eyes were surveying the darkness beyond though he occasionally glanced at the fire, he'd best not let it die. His mind was silent, his stomach growling every now and then the only sound that breached the fragile peace that hung about the campsite.

He'd have liked a good, hot cup of tea by now. Tea with honey and sugar and some lovely, buttery cakes to go with it. And then he'd wrap his legs in nice, warm blankets and sit on his favourite armchair by the window as he lost himself to his favourite book. And he'd go to bed warm and content and wake up to birds singing and the sun shining down on his face; feeling completely and utterly wrong.

Bilbo shook his head wildly, almost hitting his head on the rough bark behind him in the process. He pushed the thoughts away and forced his thoughts to keep quiet once more.

"I am a Baggins of Bag End," Bilbo said under his breath, hoping words could miraculously make the hurt go away. Hoping they could ease the burden that weighed him down, relieve him of his shame and wrongdoings.  

I am a Baggins of Bag End! Bilbo wanted to shout, to roar the words to the heavens above until they tore the stars apart in their vigour. Oh how he wanted-

Another howl pierced the silence, making the hairs on the back of Bilbo's neck stand up. Nothing followed though, only the swaying of the leaves in the wind and the incessant snoring of his companions.

Bilbo eased back against the smooth, aged bark of the tree with a sigh. He ran a hand through his mussed, uncombed curls and once more glanced at the stars.

Tonight, he thought warily, he would keep watch. And tomorrow he would wake as Bilbo Baggins and the past would be the past. He would be the Hobbit his parents raised him to be, as proper as any old bachelor his age could be. Unburdened, unbent, whole. But tonight- tonight he was stone-cut and fire-forged and woe would befall those that that dared harm his people.

 "Come now, come quickly," Gandalf urged them on as he led them through a narrow path flanked on either side by trees and overgrown shrubs.

"Where are you leading us to? And when will we arrive?" Bilbo asked wearily from where he fumbled with his pony's reigns, worrying the leather in his hands with a frown. And then he waved one arm around to gesture at the wilds around them, "and what is this? It looks like a Stoor's garden in spring, all overgrown and decidedly unhealthy. You said we were going to Rivendell, but this looks like we're being led in through a shady backdoor alley rather than doing the respectable thing and knocking on the front door. They do expect us, don't they? I would hate to barge in unannounced-"

Bilbo sent a sharp look at Thorin, utterly unimpressed with the frown the dwarf sent back at him. It wouldn't do if his king had no sense of propriety whatsoever, and he wasn't about to forget the terrible lack of manners he had shown that night.

"-utterly unrespectable, that is. My mother had some grand tales of elves she met on her journeys, in fact, some of her wildest stories always involved an elf of some sort."

"Your ma went adventurin', Bilbo?" Bofur asked, urging his pony besides Bilbo's. "She ever met sum' of us out there?"

Bilbo could almost feel the dwarves' eyes on him. He swallowed thickly and then nodded. "She did, but most of it was in passing. She was quite cross of how they treated her when she told them her age and I think she once walloped one with the watering can she had with her. But she liked your drinking songs and your ale a lot, from what she told me."

That seemed to end the dwarves' curiosity as their attention faded to others things, divided by either good-natured ribbing or the singing of a new, equally horrible song. Bofur carried on to the front of the little caravan they made to talk with his brother in Khuzdul.

But it was Gandalf who took the dwarf's spot, smiling down at Bilbo with that peculiar little smile of his.

"The elves are expecting us, Bilbo, you needn't worry. But to answer your questions; we are in the Wilds now, the outermost edge. And like most things it grows worse before it grows better, though if you go through it backwards it will get better before it gets worse. Though I suppose that if you entered it from the side it would either be very bad or rather harmless. But we are going the right way, I have walked this path four times and only gotten lost two of those, so we should be fine. Though that third time I ended up with a most unlikely party of an elf, a goblin and a dwarf-"

Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose, grinding his teeth together with frustration while Gandalf went on.

"-and that is how that dwarf ended up becoming a most renown poet." Gandalf smiled widely as he winked at Bilbo from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, "and we should arrive around nightfall, I reckon."

 They stopped to eat a short luncheon, though it was more like an early tea-time by Bilbo's standards. Bombur had scrounged up what little dried meat they had left (Gandalf had promised Thorin that the Lord of Rivendell would send them off with plenty provision to spare and that they would indeed arrive that night so they could indulge themselves) and the company ate heartily.

And when the dwarves were resting with their hands on their bellies Bilbo rummaged through his belongings until he came up with his razor and the jar of shaving cream he had been saving for exactly a moment like this. His face had gotten increasingly scruffy to the touch, though he supposed they didn't stand out that much yet, and he would like to face Lord Elrond looking the best he could.

(He was a Baggins of Bag End and Hobbits don't grow beards.)

So he spread the cream around on his face (only sparingly though, he didn't want to run out of it so early in their journey) and grabbed the razor. And then, with smooth, practiced strokes, he started shaving.

And one could hear a needle drop in the silence that followed.

"M-master B-b-baggins! What are you doing!"

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

It was Ori who spoke, startling Bilbo enough that he almost cut himself when he jumped up from where he was seated. The young dwarf's face was a ghastly shade of white, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows almost meeting his hairline.

"Oh good gracious-" Bilbo hissed, glancing around at the ashen faces of the company around him with anger. He probably looked ridiculous, what with his face set in a disapproving frown Lobelia would find impressive -eyebrows scrunched together and mouth pressed thinly in a displeased line- and the whole lower half of his face covered with shaving cream.

"Burglar!" it was Thorin's deep rumble that shook Bilbo from his thoughts' angry rant. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Uchrach! Uznàl!"

"Are ye mad? No! Nononono!"

"Master Baggins, anything but that! There must be another way to about-"

"WHAT," Bilbo roared, drawing himself up on his toes in an extra effort to be heard above the whirlwind of shouts that were thrown about. "IS THIS NONSENSE ALL ABOUT?!"

"Well," Kili began, eyes darting to and fro as he tried to look anywhere but Bilbo's face, "Master Baggins, you see- whywouldyoushaveyourbearddidwedoanythingwrongpleasedontdothistoyourselfbecause-"

Bilbo blinked. And then he shook his head and blinked again, the cogs in his head trying to make sense of what Kili had just said and the frown on his face had made way for a look of utter bemusement.

"Oh Mahal save us," Dwalin grumbled. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face looked as if it could cow even a storm into submission, "your beard, burglar, why are you mutilating it?"

It was a perfectly decent question, properly phrased and all. But to Bilbo it sounded more like "I am going to mutilate you if you dare remove another hair from your face". So he swallowed, scrunched his eyebrows back together in a frown and shot Dwalin an equally venomous look.

But then he diverted his gaze to Gloin, whose eyes were barely visible beneath his eyebrows. "Master Gloin, I heard you mention you were married, yes?"

(The dwarf hadn't just mentioned it, oh no, he had all but given Bilbo a full recount of every single minute since he met she who would be his wife. It was the only thing the dwarf would share, skipping any other parts of his culture with well-practiced easy. He said a lot while saying nothing at all.)

"Yes," Gloin answered back, voice wavering slightly and rising at the end in uncertainty.

"Does she happen to be a Hobbit? Is that the reason you all have such insight in my culture that you are all horrified that I am shaving? Is it I, a Baggins of Bag End," Bilbo spat out the words furiously, "that is in the wrong? Did I misinterpret an important piece of Hobbit culture?"

"Well, no. I suppose not-"

"Thank you, Master Gloin."

Bilbo shot a look at the razor in his hands, admiring the glint of steel he himself had sharpened. It was no true masterpiece but the ache in his heart had settled when he worked on it. It had given his hands a purpose again, gifted him once more with the feeling of creating. Of shaping something raw into a something more, something better.

"Hobbits do not grow beards," he echoed vaguely, staring at the razor while he gripped it tight. "it is simply not done."

He turned on his heel then without as much as a word, stalking to the furthest edge of the place they had settled in for the meal and dropping to his knees with a sigh. He was not far away enough to not hear the whispered conversation in Khuzdul going on behind his back, them not knowing he understood every single word they said.

But the words passed through his mind unheard, going in one ear and exiting through the other. The only words he heard were those he himself had said so many years ago

I suppose I am a Hobbit, am I not? And Hobbits don't like beards very much.

I suppose I am a Hobbit, am I not?

I am a Hobbit, am I not?

am I not?

When he re-joined the company, smooth-faced and clean, it was to grim faces. Balin cleared his throat with a determined glint in his eyes and Bilbo looked around uncomfortably.

What followed was both an apology and an explanation as to why they had reacted the way they did. And Bilbo nodded and uh-ed and ah-ed at the right moments though his chest tightened and his breath hitched with every false sound that passed his lips.

He hated the lying, the charade. Hated the way he would break their trust once they found out. But he kept it up anyway, nodding and smiling and looking as if this was all new to him.

(Even when it broke his heart just a bit)

The elves that accompanied them on the final stretch to Rivendell were a merry bunch. Some were on fine-boned steeds with flowers woven in their mane and tail. Others walked around them, one even carrying a small harp as he accompanied the songs they sung.  Their lyrics were ridiculous; from mournful ballads about the last grape being eaten by a passing bird to upbeat songs about the bubbles in a bathtub. They belted out songs about them as well, shoulders shaking delicately with laughter as they sung about round-faced dwarves on fat ponies with a mad wizard and a tiny little Hobbit. They sung of trolls and swords and howls in the night while they twisted in and out of Bilbo's sight.

They wove in and out of the trees as if they were a group of swift-footed deer, carrying coloured lanterns in their hands and casting wicked shadows as they twisted and turned and danced around the ponies and the dwarves.

One elf-maiden even went as far as to wink at Dwalin and threw a crown of braided flowers on his head, laughing merrily as she darted away and disappeared up a tree. Bilbo's guffawed at Dwalin's flummoxed look, the dwarf scowling angrily as he threw the crown of flowers away with a grunt.

It seemed to open a floodgate as elves threw flowers and leaves and twigs down on them, their stems and leaves catching in their hair and in the dwarves' beard. One elf even rode up next to Gandalf and filled the wizard's pipe with flowers, nicking his hat and replacing it with a crown of woven leaves.

And then they halted and Rivendell shone up at them from where it laid in the valley, a beacon of beauty and warmth nestled in nature.

They were guided to a terrace of sorts to partake in a feast that was laid out for them. Bilbo steadfastly refused to look anywhere but at the table with its dainty plates and bowls filled with vegetables and fruit of all sorts. It looked rather appetizing, especially after such a long time of dried meat and variants thereof that Bilbo found himself licking his lips in anticipation.

The dwarves, of course, voiced their complaints loudly and ate as if the lettuce could jump at them at any given moment.

It was halfway during the meal that Bilbo sighed, swallowing the last of his pumpkin and steeling his nerves.

(He was no coward, had never run from a fight. Had stood strong even when all others fell, had never bent down to any hardship.)

His eyes met lord Elrond's and the elf inclined his head before rising from his seat and walking away from the table. Bilbo waited for a few minutes before leaving as well, muttering about finding a bathroom as he went.

Elrond said nothing when Bilbo joined him on the balcony, out of earshot of the others though they could still hear the dwarves (loud as they were). They gazed at the stars together, their breaths the only sound they made that tangled with the night sky as they reached up to the heavens.

"You walk yet again, old friend," Elrond said after a moment's peace, "I was almost afraid to ask, but-"

"I will reclaim Erebor for Thorin Oakenshield," the words were raw and feeble, but the mind that said them was set in determination, words carved in stone; never to fade. He will reclaim Erebor, no matter the consequences. He would see his kin crowned and joyful, unburdened by a too-familiar shame. "And then I will call forth my brothers, my kin. We will raise arms and march to fell the other great beast that plagues Middle Earth."

"You would," Elrond began carefully, "endanger the lives of your men for a purpose more folly than sound?"

"I would gather my people and call forth my allies to bring down a beast of unmatched evil," Bilbo's voice was low and he glanced at Elrond's face for a second before shifting his gaze back at the stars, "I would rob Sauron of another instrument to use in his rise to power. I would give my people their home back, yes, but it has a purpose that goes beyond the wellness of my people or my pride. Do not think so low of me, Elrond, when it is you who have been living here in peace for centuries while my people wandered and starved! Gandalf said he found Thrain in the Necromancer's dungeon, I know that name, Elrond, as do you."

The elf raised his hands in innocence, but his mouth was tight-set and his eyes flashed with thunder. "You would endanger not only the lives of your own but also the lives of me and mine? You would lead dwarves and elves-"

"I would. I remember the words we spoke ages ago, Elrond, I hope your memory serves you equally well. I never once thought of you as a man who forgot such things."

"I did not forget," Elrond's voice was soft, a mere whisper that was almost lost amongst the cacophony behind them. The raucous rounds from the dining room at their backs a stark contrast with their words.

Bilbo breathed out slowly, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he was more King than Hobbit, more himself than he has been in ages. "Then honour your promise. Stand beside me in battle, as we did so long ago. Send word to Galadriel and to Oropher's boy, Thranduil. Assemble the council, Elrond, and I will address you all."

"Would you tell them, before that?"

Bilbo nodded, though the movement is almost too slow to be discernable. But Elrond catches it and for a moment there is only silence between them, the world holding its breath in anticipation.

"I have to. I have never been a liar, Elrond, as you well know. They deserve so much more than my lies. But not now, not when the need for secrecy is greater. Send out your fastest riders, your bravest kin. Have them ride like the wind, Elrond, and get those messages out."

"I am not your servant," it is a statement, said not with anger nor with distaste. Elrond had one eyebrow raised, lips pursed and jaw set tightly.

Bilbo laughed, though the sound held no real humour. It was echoed by the boisterous laughter and terrible singing from the dining room where the company sat, oblivious to what went on behind their backs.

"I was forged by Mahal's hands," his voice low and his face wistful as he lost himself to memories of ages past. "I was crowned by stars, gifted with a curse to forever do my maker's bidding. I would not dare to think myself above you, Elrond Eärendillion, peredhil. I ask you, as always, as your friend; your equal. But I have walked these lands when it was by the light of the trees that we saw, before the sun ever rose. And I think that when I ask you to summon the council that it is well within my right as it is I who has lingered here the longest of all its members."

"I never said I would refuse your request," Elrond explained patiently, "but I would ask you to mind your tone, as always."

The grin on Bilbo's face was genuine, stretching the corners of his mouth upwards and crinkling his eyes. "And I would ignore you, as always."

"When do you want them to assemble?"

"Until word has reached the world of Smaug's fall," Bilbo's grin is bloodthirsty and within his eyes shines a mad light that yearns for blood. "I will cleanse another mountain of another foul beast first."

Elrond nodded and then turned to leave the balcony but stopped at the threshold and glanced at Bilbo, "Gandalf has left in my possession some swords he found in the Trolls' lair. They are of Gondolin make. There is one dagger I think would suit you well, because I doubt you have lost your touch with weaponry during your years in the gentle Shire. I will have it delivered to you, discretely, in the morning."

Bilbo remained frozen for some time, eyes locked on the horizon as he stared at mountains far beyond his ability to see. He could still feel their call, felt it drum inside the marrow of his bones. They sang to him, every single mountain he had ever visited, and their songs were bittersweet. Then he turned and left, re-joining the company with a muttered "their directions were as vague as their hallways, I came past five cupboards before finding the bathroom. Five! How terribly uncouth of them, I had expected better."

And his heart breaks and breaks until Bilbo was sure he would not have much left of it before they even made it to Erebor. He hated this, hated the way they gave him looks of sympathy and cursed the elves in his stead. Hated how they are slowly reaching out to him in friendship and trust when he is bound to hurt them with the truth in future. But nevertheless he sat there and smiled and looked shocked at their wild antics while his chest tightened and tightened until he was sure he could not draw another breath.

I am the stain on your father's honour, a slight to your family. I am the fool whose kingdom burned. I am the father that buried all his sons and daughters and theirs too. I am the friend that betrayed your trust, that lied and deceived.

(He was so many things he lost track of them all, sometimes. He was the King-Uncrowned, Star-Led, Fire-Slept. He was a Hobbit, a Burglar, a Baggins of Bag End. He was damn it Bilbo Baggins and Master Baggins and old friend. He was the father that had buried his children and the brother-unknown. He was the not-son of his father, the secret of his mother. A not-Hobbit, a not-Dwarf. He was Bilbo now, though he had been many others before him also. But the name he carried always was what he least wanted to be now.)

Chapter Text

Rivendell was nothing if not soothing, it's very atmosphere a balm to old wounds on his very soul that had been left to fester for too long. It was a house of healing, a house of subtle beauty, gentle people and gentler words. And it was nothing if not glorious to be there.

There was a sword hidden in the folds of a neat stack of linen deposited outside his door when he woke up the next morning. It was a glorious little weapon; its curves smooth and well-forged and its blade nearly sharp enough to split the winds themselves. 

Bilbo waved it about experimentally, muscles sliding in familiar stances he had practiced ages ago. He bent his knees, twisted his torso and just breathed. He was soft-footed as he moved through the spacious room Elrond had provided for him- soft-footed and silent as he cut down invisible enemies.

It felt most grand, fitting inside his hands as if it were made for him. It was nothing like the swords he had had before, like Steel-bite and Orcfoe and Helmcleaver. Nor was it in any way like his battle-axes had been. It was too small, too precious. But he knew good craftsmanship when he saw it, and this blade was of obvious Gondolin make. It would serve him well, as well as his other weapons had done before.

Because a weapon was only as strong as the arm that wielded it. He had cut down wolves that had towered over him with an old axe, inferior steel fastened onto weak wood, and it had served him well. He had seen battles fought and won by those picking up what they could from what lay at their feet.

A warrior’s greatest weapons was not the sharpness of his blade but rather the sharpness of his mind. 

Breakfast that morning was as unorthodox as dinner had been the night before; plates of green covered the stretch of hardwood tables with not a hint of meat to be seen. The elves that ate with them were as jolly and friendly as they had seemed when they guided them to Rivendell, though they laughed a bit too loudly at the grim faces the dwarves sported when they saw the food laid out before them.

Bilbo just laughed along with the elves, shovelling heaps of lettuce and kohlrabi, potatoes stuffed with parsley and cream and butter. He indulged in carrots with walnuts, green beans with blue cheese and licked his fingers at the kale casserole.

"Mahal," Kili breathed, "mister Baggins, where do you put it?" The young dwarf's eyes were wide, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline and his mouth slightly agape.

Bilbo just laughed and patted his stomach, "I'm a Hobbit, Master Kili, and us Hobbits can eat even the largest of Man out of his home. Why, what I prepared for you that one night in my home would be considered a very lacking meal at most, by our standards."

"Lacking?" Bombur spluttered, bits of tomato flying from his mouth and sticking most unpleasantly in his rather impressive sideburns. "Lad- even I was full from that."

But Bilbo shook his head, still laughing. "No side-courses? Not even a proper dessert or a nightcap. The mead was sub-par and the wheels of cheese needed a bit more ripening. No, any respectable Hobbit would've been a bit disgruntled by such a hasty job. Had it been Lobelia who was my guest I would've had a proper reaming for sure-"

"Are all Hobbits like this then?" it was Balin who asked this, stroking his beard with a thoughtful look.

"Most are," Bilbo admitted, "though some are considered somewhat of an odd duck, truth be told, me included. I'm not as properly stout as a chap my age should be, what with my confounding habit of taking long afternoon walks. But eating wise we are mostly the same, chief difference between the individual Hobbits being what meals they most prepare but that depends on family relations. You won't find another Baggins making my mother's famous Took rolls other than me, because my relation to her. Nor will you find anyone other than a Baggins making our secret chicken recipe."

"A secret recipe?" Kili leant forward on his elbows, his face the very picture of curiosity. "Can you make it for us, mister Baggins? Me and Fili could go find a chicken because those darned tree-shaggers should have one stashed away somewhere-"

Bilbo just laughed, long and loud, which drew more than one puzzled glance. Once he finished he sobered up enough to stare at Kili with an indecipherable gaze.

"Master Kili," he intoned seriously, never breaking eye-contact with the dwarf, "are you proposing to me?"

Kili immediately pushed himself away from the table with a startled yell, taking him and his low, cushioned stool down to the floor in a haphazard heap. "What? No!"

But Bilbo just started laughing again, not stopping until he was red-faced and out of breath. "Oh goodness, you silly dwarf! Secret recipes are shared only with children and spouses. How forward of you, master Kili, to go about and propose without even properly courting me. Without dancing or even some sidelong glances of mournful longing. Why, I hadn't even noticed you liked me that much!"

The black-haired dwarf just spluttered indignantly from where he laid on the floor, his face as red as an overripe tomato. He kept opening and closing his mouth in search of words but found none.

"I jest, master Kili, fear not." Bilbo said kindly after another moment had passed, smiling down at the dwarf. "You made an unintentional misstep and I couldn't help but take advantage. I hope I did not insult you with my joke."

The response was little more than grumbles and growls while Kili dusted off his clothes and put his chair back.

Fili, meanwhile, could not keep from hiding his snorts of ill-concealed laughter. One hand was clasped over his mouth and his eyes were narrowed with mirth, his whole frame shaking with the effort to keep his laughter in.

"Oh laugh," Kili muttered darkly with a glare at his brother, "mister Baggins would have said yes if this was an honest proposal and then uncle'd bugger you to find a wife while I'd get fed chicken and cheese and learn all the secret Hobbit secrets. And then you'll be miserable and alone while I'm getting feasts fit for a king every day. Right, mister Baggins?"

"Of course," Bilbo nodded solemnly, "though I doubt you'd enjoy such a lifestyle for a very long time. Chances are that I'd be a widower before the wedding would even be over, what with Lobelia and her dislike of, well, a lot of things."

"She would kill Kili?" Fili started laughing in earnest, "Mahal, imagine that! Poor, hapless Kili getting skewered by a tiny Hobbit lass with an umbrella and knitting needles! Uncle Thorin would die of shame!"

"Oh she wouldn't kill him, that would ruin her reputation. She would have him running for the hills before we even got to the gift-giving and then I'd have to fabricate a story of how he died to save my own reputation. I can't have the whole neighbourhood think that I am some wickedly mad chap that would drive even his fiancé crazy enough to flee."

He supped with Elrond that evening, the two of them seated in the elf's personal chambers around an intricately carved table. After the food was cleared away (fish and meat, it had all been a joke after all) Elrond got up and gathered a scroll from one of the shelves lining the wall. Elrond had rolled it open and smoothed its corners down before sliding it across the table to him.

He had opened his opened his mouth and closed it almost immediately after. He swallowed, blinking at the words that greeted him from the parchment.

"Mahal," he breathed after a long moment had passed, "you, this is- khajimel. Inùdoyme."

"We have few records of the events," Elrond paced the room with his hands folded behind his back, "but this we know for sure. He did not die with you that day."

"He lived," Bilbo breathed, not looking up from the paper. "I hadn't known, all this time-"

His face darkened again when his eyes flew over the remaining half of the scroll.

"The fool, the complete, utter, confounding idiot!" Bilbo roared as he slammed a fist down on the table, "Vengeance and gold and pride be damned! What possessed him to search it out? Why would he- why?"

Bilbo sagged back down in his seat, balled fists trembling. He did not look up from the parchment laid out in front of him, did not move but to breathe in heavily and exhale shakily. His face was ashen and his eyes red-rimmed.

"Your grandson took what remained of your people to Erebor. He was a good, kind king. He drew up treaties with the neighbouring kingdoms of Elves and Man. Many died, yes, but many lived. Do not forget that-"

"My son died, Elrond, and it gladdens me that he did not die with me and instead lived a year longer. But it pains me so that he sought out his death himself, however brave it had been to do so. To march onto that beast knowing what it could do is both foolish and commendable, but," Bilbo sighed, "I would rather have him live out his years as a coward than die because of that thing."

"It is not within our hands to choose the fate of our loved ones, no matter how much we desire to do so."

"Did you know that they thought my sons immortal at first?" his voice was low and Bilbo stared out of the window while he spoke. "When they outlived their wives? When my daughter lived past her husband? They thought we were like your kind, everlasting unless felled by grief or battle. The blood of the first, they said, mountains made flesh that would endure forever. And then my firstborn died and all too soon I was burying my grandchildren. But they lived long and happy lives and Náin was so young-"

They talked well past sunset, but it was not a king that spoke. Nor was it a burglar or a warrior. It wasn't a dwarf or a hobbit or even an unprecedented mix of both that spoke.

It was a father.

Bilbo didn't sleep that night, instead choosing to spend it seated on one of the many benches littered around Rivendell's gardens. He had only visited his rooms to grab his pipe and to snag some pipeweed before he rested his back against the intricately carved wooden bench. His talk with Elrond had lifted some of his spirits, eased a little of the burden that weighed down his heart. He had missed his friend, of course, but he missed more the opportunity to speak with someone who knew. Someone he could speak with honestly, to whom he didn't have to lie. He was glad the company had stopped in Rivendell, it eased his worries and to some degree calmed the chaos in his mind.

"May I join you on this fine night?" it was an elf that spoke, golden hair that glowed even in the scant moonlight framing a wise face.

Bilbo merely puffed out a smoke ring and made room for the elf, patting the space beside him with a nod. He feigned indifference when the elf procured a thick branch of wood and a carving knife and started working silently. They sat together underneath the starlight, neither saying a word nor feeling the need to do so. It was a comfortable silence, shared by two strangers.

They sat like that until dawn greeted them with rays of sunlight peeking over the treetops that lined the valley. It bathed the sky with orange, pink and red. Birds woke and resumed their songs, the stable's horses neighed and whinnied and the smell of freshly-baked bread hung around the air. Dawn had come and it was as glorious as ever.

The elf rose and inclined his head when the sun itself hovered over the trees and footsteps could be heard as more of Rivendell's inhabitants rose for the day.

"Nae saian luume," he said with a long look at Bilbo's face, "Tenna' ento lye omenta, yaaraer."

He left then, with an inclination of his head in Bilbo's direction. Bilbo merely sat and watched him go, pipe clenched between his teeth. Once the elf had been long gone Bilbo shook his head and rested his head against the back of the bench. His eyes then fell on the finished work the elf had left behind.

He breathed out once, heavily, then closed his eyes and smiled.

(he should have gone to Rivendell years earlier, shouldn't have let stubborn pride dictate his actions and keep him from seeking what he needed.  It had taken a company of dwarves and a meddlesome wizard to get him here and Bilbo was already finding himself reluctant to leave. But a mountain with a foul beast awaited, his kin needed him. And he had always marched to the drums of duty)

Chapter Text

Deathless Chapter Nine

They had noticed his absence, of course they had, and wasted little time in confronting him about it over breakfast. They did so loudly and without shame, as he had expected.

They did not expect him to roar in Dwalin's face when the dwarf had stepped in front of him and grabbed him by the collar of his coat.

"Burglar! Where were you last night? Off gallivanting with elves, were you? The enemy? This is-"

It took considerable strength not to lash out in justified but cruel anger, to smash his fist in his nose and feel the bone break. To berate him for even daring to question his superior- his king.

Instead he jammed his foot down on Dwalin's booted one, enjoying the startled wince that crossed his face.

"This is madness, you utter fool! Were you dropped on the head too often as a fauntling, did that make your skull so thick? My business is not yours, Master Dwalin," Bilbo added with a hiss, reversing the roles and dragging the dwarf closer by grabbing his collar. "And I intend to keep it that way. I did not know you were so closed-minded to consider these people your enemies, Master dwarf,  had I known I would have made sure to inform you of my close and personal friendship with more than one elf."

Bilbo could see a flicker of hurt (or was it anger? He did not know, did not truly care) in the dwarf's eyes when he let go of his collar with a disgusted sneer.

"I had thought you all above petty grudges."

"Would you abandon your allies to fire and death like they did?" Thorin's voice was low and dangerous, rumbling through the room like a building avalanche when he joined the discussion. "Would you stand and look away as people die below you?"

He met Thorin's steely gaze with a mournful one of his own, eventually breaking the connection by staring up at the sky. "Would I march my people to certain death? See my friends and family die before me in a battle that could not ever be won?"

Yes. I already have.

 He turned his eyes back to meet those of the dwarf before him, "would you?"

The blonde elf of the day before glided by and met his gaze with a serene smile and a nod of his fair head, disappearing off into the garden. Bilbo cast one last look at Dwalin and Thorin and the rest of the gobsmacked company before he collected what remained of his breakfast in the pockets of his coat and scurrying off after the elf.

The answer to his own question spun in his head for the duration of the walk through the labyrinthine garden. They passed high hedges lines with pastel-coloured flowers of all kinds, past fountains and ponds filled with lilies. They mostly walked in silence, his short legs struggling to keep up with the elf's long strides. 

But he managed, of course he did, it had hardly been the first time he walked alongside an elf. Nor would it be the last. 

"I see you slept long this time," Glorfindel cast him a  small smile, lowering himself on the stone bench nestled between the trees. "Longer than I personally expected."

"Too long-" Bilbo breathed, "Eight generations have passed since I last breathed air, my friend, and that is a long time to sleep. My sons' sons no longer live, nor do his sons. Nor my daughter or her children, those that are left of that time all dwell in woods and climb trees. A greater pity the world has never known, for me to be left only with elves as remnants of my past."

Glorfindel's laugh flowed through the garden, as melodious and terribly clear as any elf's had ever been. But Bilbo found himself chortling along merrily, clutching his belly with red cheeks.

"And all you and Elrond always forget the important things, I can't count on you to have asked my cook for the stuffed stomach recipe I favoured and now seems extinct. Nor would you have remembered to learn my favourite poems that have long since fled from my mind. Bah, you elves, I bet you won't even sing my songs with me."

"I would," the elf stared at him solemnly, though his eyes sparkled merrily, "were it not that they are written in a language I am forbidden to learn."

"So stuffy, all you do is sing and dance in such a terribly proper way. Now if Oropher were here, him I could rely on to throw a great feast and be merry. He could have been a Hobbit, although he would have been a Took for certain. Very rich and important, of course, but also a tad bit more whacky than appreciated. I have a handful of cousins much like him."

"I doubt his son would appreciate your words," Glorfindel said with great solemnity again, "to hear his beloved father described as such."

Bilbo snorted, "it is a great compliment, I have found Hobbits to be the best off all races, truly. We live long, prosperous lives much like Elves, yet with the promise of death never grow tired or weary. We create glorious things, only we choose food and plants as our medium, unlike dwarves. And unlike men we have yet to wage war on ourselves, as they seem to do terribly often."

"Nor do you smell, as orcs do." Glorfindel remarked casually, "though how did you happen to be born in the Shire? The lands are kind and fair, but never have I heard of dwarves settling there."

"My mother was a Hobbit, she met a son of my line on her travels and Mahal saw fit to grace me with life once more."

"Your seventh."

"My seventh."

My last.

Afterwards the talk went dreary and grim, memories of their shared experience with a Balrog did not make for a happy conversation.  Nor did the dark feeling in the back of Bilbo's mind, the displeasure he felt for the ghastly way his very kin treated the people that had allied with for ages. 

He had, of course, read about how Thranduil refused to aid the dwarves of Erebor in their greatest time of need. How the King of the Greenwood had turned his back and rode away, leaving fire and destruction in his wake. He had read and he had closed the book immediately after.

Alliances were binding.

But nothing justified letting your people fight a battle they had no chance of winning.

(a mistake he made, a burden he would carry for however long his heart beat in his chest. A mistake he paid for in the blood of his sons and daughters and the fall of his kingdom)

No leader could ask that of his people, not even bound by contracts ages old. Help he should have given, shelter and food, and for his refusal he would make Thranduil pay. But he would beat sense in the would-be king of Erebor first, for he would not be king for long with that attitude of his.

Perhaps he should write to Lobelia, for no Hobbit ever disagreed with her for long. Not with her tongue like a dagger and her unshakeable sense of righteousness. A queen if there ever was one, it was a miracle she had not staged a coup yet.

"Mister Baggins," it was Ori, his soft voice echoing through the cavernous halls. "There you are, Mister Baggins, err- I have a question for you, if you don't mind me asking ,you don't happen to know the way to the library, do you?"

"As a matter of fact I do, Master Ori, and I would be glad to show you." Bilbo answered graciously, "you did not dare ask your brothers the way? Or perhaps our hosts, I don't mind- mind you- I am merely curious."

The dwarf coloured a bit, shame tinting his cheeks red. "My brothers have a low opinion of elves and would not let me go alone, or at all. And I don't think the elves would appreciate me asking, they must have many secrets hidden away they would not want me finding."

Bilbo laughed again, wiping a hand over his face. "Oh that they do, Master Ori, though I doubt you or anyone could read their language. But they would not mind if you asked kindly, they do not truly dislike dwarves, they merely enjoy riling them up much as anyone does, I suppose. But their library is perhaps the grandest you will ever come across, you were right to ask! Now come along, I am of a mind to get some reading done also."

"You have been here before, have you not, Mister Baggins?"

"Many times, yes! My mother was good friends with Lord Elrond and I enjoyed his hospitality on many occasions, he has a cook I enjoy haggling with. He refuses to share his pie recipe, a true crime if you ask me. Their meat fillings are simply to die for."

"They do serve meat?" Ori sounded as if someone had told him that yes, elves could fly, "but-"

The look on his face was enough to make Bilbo double over in belly-shaking laughs once more. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

It was perhaps not the smartest thing to mention to any dwarf that their host had, in a way, pulled the wool over their eyes and made a fool out of them. It was, however, entertaining to watch. Ori had kept on spluttering indignantly in Khuzdul, oblivious to the fact that Bilbo could understand his muttered curses quite clearly. He had not thought the seemingly meek dwarf capable of such foul language but experience had shown him over the years that it were often the softest of faces that came with the sharpest of tongues.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins being the prime example, of course, Bilbo thought fondly.

"And this," Bilbo paused in front of the double doors leading to the library, "is Rivendell's magnificent library. Second to none, I dare say."

The fact that Ori did not even raise a token protest once he saw what the doors lead to was telling enough, for his brothers had certainly disputed any and all claims that something of an elf could ever trump their kind's equivalent. His own offhanded comment on the softness of the sheets had led to vehement protest how the sheets he'd find once they'd reach Erebor would be far softer. The same went for the food (of course), the baths and even the scenery. It irked him, almost like an itch he could not scratch away, to see how relations had soured so quickly in the years of his absence. Of course he had quarrelled with many a race, Oropher's son in particular had been a favourite for he could be counted on to retaliate with equally sharp words, but those insults had been served with a healthy dose of good-naturedness. This, however, went a step too far.

So Bilbo kept his tongue and did not point out how Ori had refrained from protesting elven superiority. Instead he smiled at the dwarf and closed the doors behind them. "Would you like me to give you a bit of a tour, Master Ori?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Mister Baggins," Ori responded, still a bit breathless and his eyes flickering from shelf to shelf in almost childlike wonder. "Do they have any maps?"

Bilbo smothered a laugh and directed the dwarf to the corner of the room that housed maps of all kinds. Within minutes he could see whatever reservations the young dwarf had had were gone. He was scurrying about with his arms filled with scrolls of all kinds. And not long after he was silent, diligently copying maps in that book of his he carried around. Once or twice Bilbo would peek at his work before settling himself in a chair a few feet away and picking a book from a different shelf to read for himself.

After a while though, his mind wandered. The argument with Dwalin felt like a thorn in side. He did quite care about the argument itself, he had long since learned to disregard those. Arguments had been a daily occurrence in dwarven court, after all, but he wanted the company to like him. Wanted Thorin to like him, to trust him like brothers should. But this distrust over friendship with elves made it seem like an almost impossible task. But these people were his kin, some more distant, and he wanted their friendship.

"Bilbo," the voice shook him from his musings and Bilbo's head shot up to look at whoever startled him.

"Gandalf," Bilbo sighed, placing a hand over his heart. "You startled me."

The wizard laughed, tilting his head back and shaking it mirthfully. "Daydreaming about the Shire, were you? I have been in here for quite some time and I have not seen you turn a page at all. The only things that can keep a Baggins from a book, I've learned, are grave things indeed."

"Yes," Bilbo acquiesced, "to date they only include an invasion of dwarves, a barn fire and my mother's threat of no dinner. But no, I am not daydreaming, merely enjoying the peace and quiet of civilised company and the memory of good food."

The lie slipped from his tongue far too easily, and it stung, but he could not have Gandalf knowing. Not now, not yet. He despised liars, always had, and the irony of turning into one himself weighed heavily on his shoulders. He looked away for a while, focusing on the shelves and occasionally glancing at Ori, who was still caught up in his work. He eventually looked back at Gandalf, who was stroking his beard while gazing out at the gardens below. They were silent for a while, with Bilbo going back to actually reading his book and Gandalf merely looking at the scenery.

"Ah yes!" the wizard's voice startled Bilbo a second time, "now I remember. Thorin told me that you will depart at dawn tomorrow, should you manage to drag Ori from his work."

The realisation came to him like the crack of a whip, "you will not come with us, Gandalf?"

"Fear not, good Mister Baggins, my journey does not end here. I will return after my business here is over."

"And we cannot wait for you to finish your business?" his voice was sharp, sharper than he had intended, but Gandalf made no sense.

"It is of the utmost importance that you leave tomorrow morning," Gandalf levelled him with a piercing stare, conveying a message that Bilbo did not understand. What was he trying to say?

He didn't find out because Gandalf left immediately after, robes twirling around him even though there was no wind.

Bilbo took his dinner alongside the company, after eating his lunch in the solitude of his room, but took to sitting at the far end of table with Bifur at his side. He kept quiet, chin held high and jaw set tightly. Let them see he was still angry, that he would not let them walk over him as if he was a doormat. But he wouldn't shout at them anymore, not now. The anger remained nevertheless, stewing below the surface of his calm façade. Their senseless hate and bias was almost unforgiveable. Almost.

(Blood is blood and these are his sons' sons, his people)

It made him sad instead, sad to see an age-long friendship turn to ashes in his absence. He would have to rectify that, though first he had a mountain to find and a dragon to slay and should that go well he would have a king to crown. The list of things he had to do seemed endless, never before had the future seemed so bleak. It held the promise of a burden and all he could do was ready his back to shoulder its weight.

He glanced at the setting sun and sighed, one day gone. Many more to come.

Ori's tale of the library and the information he'd gathered drew him back to the table and the people around it. Dori, who sat a small distance away with Ori tucked between him and Nori, faced him with a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Mister Baggins, for taking Ori along with you. He will be the greatest scribe ever known, one day." He ruffled his brother's hair which the other dwarf took with an indignant pout. Nori merely rolled his eyes at his brothers' antics.

But Dori's exclamation led to Kili shouting how he would be the greatest archer ever, which in turn led to the elf playing the harp to snort loudly in disbelief. Which drew angry more angry shouts and general profanity and it took all of Bilbo's self-control to stay in his seat and keep from smashing heads together in the vain hope that it would erase their ingrained prejudice and start seeing clearly. He shot the elf a frost glare though, for she did cause the ruckus, and then went back to his lettuce.

Tomorrow they'd be on the road again, away from elves, and perhaps that would lower the rising tension.

Dawn came, and they were on the road again. Elrond had seen them off with supplies and a heartfelt "good luck", which the dwarves took with ill grace. They did keep their tongue when Bilbo said goodbye to Glorfindel, who had joined Elrond to see them off.

His hand went to his pocket on its own, fingers brushing against the wooden crown Glorfindel had carved for him that first (not the first, not even the hundredth) meeting in the gardens. It was crude, he knew that the blonde elf could do better, had done better, but the likeness to his first crown was uncanny nevertheless. He drew his hand away again and instead glanced at the horizon.

They still had a long, long way to go.

They climbed out of the valley, leaving behind the green hills and dense woods. There were countless paths that wound through them, old and new. Worn and untouched. Some would circle back to where they began while others led to steep drops or sometimes faded into the grass after miles. They took some wrong turns, even with Elrond's advice and Gandalf's vague directions, but never strayed far from what would turn out to be the right path.

And the trek itself was easy despite the false paths that sprung up everywhere. The morning had been as fair as any with nary a cloud in the sky and only the sounds of nature to accompany them. It was, in short, a beautiful day unlike the rainy ones they had in the very beginning of their journey.

But Bilbo's heart still ached when the paths that so desperately tried to fool them faded away, their path now the only road they had to follow. The forest grew smaller and smaller as well, the higher up they came on their way to leave the valley and head for the mountains. And with the forest went the birds and the flowers until they were high enough to gaze down on the valleys below. He knew that the Shire lay far away, out of sight, in the West. His home was there, his armchair and his books and his prize winning tomatoes. He had family there, where the lands were kind and fertile and no dragons would ever dare invade.

He had family here too, he reminded himself. His eyes caught on the backs of Thorin, Fili and Kili. Sons of his line, a brother and nephews of his blood. Fili and Kili were laughing and he couldn't help the smile that curled on his own lips in response. One day he would gather the courage to tell them and then maybe …

Maybe-  

He shoved the thought away, it would do him no good to hope. Not now. Not when there were mountains to climb and forests to cross and when at the end of their journey a dragon laid in wait. 

Chapter Text

Bilbo could not contain the near childlike glee that overtook him once trees made way to stone surrounding the party from all sides. Soft, rounded slopes offset by the occasional peak not yet worn away by the wind’s cold, cruel edge. Snow covered all of the highest tops from what he could see, which was not very far at all. The Mountains’ namesake was ever present around them. The dense, cloying mist hung like a blanket between them, the tall wall of stone to their right and the abyss to their left. Their trek upwards was slow because of it. The ponies’ shaggy coats kept them from feeling the cold despite the length of time they’d been walking upwards, and the dwarves were similarly protected by their own furry beards, but the steep incline kept the pace low. Still, onwards and upwards they went as they followed Gandalf’s instructions. 

And so, Bilbo went as well, one hand trailing to touch the mountain from time to time. If the smile on his face felt out of place, no one kept note 

It was at one such moment, fingertips lingering on touch-cold stone, that he startled. Thunder clashed with lightning within his mind’s eye, echoed by a crash that he not only heard but felt throughout his bones. The mountain’s song grew hollow, dangerous and preying, and he knew the message well.

Beware, beware, it sung from the marrow of his bones, carried by his blood and heard with his heart of hearts. This road not be fair.

He opened his mouth, felt the words on the tip of his tongue. But they went unheard, the only sound he could make a cut off gasp that was carried away by the harsh winds that howled and howled and tried to drown out the pounding in his chest. He couldn’t. he couldn’t. He saw himself saying it, could hear the words spoken in his mind’s eye. But his father had raised him to be wise (to be loyal, brave, strong, to give) and his mother told him to be shrewd (how to stay calm, to sharpen your axe before you wield it, to listen to her song and mold it with his maker’s hands) and he planned to honor them. All of them.

So he remained quiet, walking behind Bombur’s wide girth and letting his heart wander where his mind dared not go.

They bedded down for the night at a scraggly plateau bordered by three sided of dark stone and covered from above by an outcropping of the mountain itself. The stone was smooth and cold and haunting when Bilbo ran his fingers across the wall, but he saw the others nod contentedly and put down their bedrolls with happy little sighs. He pulled his hand away and felt the melancholic melody fade away mournfully. It must’ve shown on his face, because Bofur turned to him.

“We’ll be mighty fine here, master Baggins! Don’t you worry your furry little feet,” he japed. “Here we’ll be dry and warm in no time, you’ll see!”

He hadn’t lied. They got a fire roaring in little time and soon the sounds of laughter drowned out even the harshest of winds and the loudest of bellows from the giants out and above. They ate heartily of what they’d been given at the Last Homely House, bellies full and near to bursting, before they bedded down for the night.

His dreams haunted him once he managed to chase down the thin veil of rest. They were filled with a high, eerie laughter that echoed between higher walls covered in bone-wrought torches. Thick, dark fingers that found purchase in the cracks that formed in the once-smooth floor, shadows that pointed and hissed and waved swords from the dark. A song that went Clap! Snap!

“-the black crack!”

Bilbo’s eyes opened only to see the white in the ponies’ eyes as they rolled frantically, mouths open and letting out shrill, ear-splitting sounds as they tumbled backwards and downwards and sideways into the chasm that split the cave in two. His companions were next grabbed from above and below, from the shadows and the thin slivers of moonlight as great, ugly goblins swarmed them from all sides.

He thought of that first watch what felt like ages ago. Of wanting to cast away the mantle that had once been him, to be Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. A Hobbit. A burglar by chance, a sampler of the choicest of cakes by choice. He’d made a promise to open his eyes the next morning as a Hobbit, to think no more of the past. Of what had been.

He’d broken that promise already. He’d break it again.

His sword cleaved clean through the hand that made to grasp at the edge of his overcoat, but he paid no mind to the screech of horror. He ducked and parried, saw his foes stumble over their fallen comrades, until they too swarmed him and dragged him down into the darkness below.

The town the goblins led them to smelled worse than a bog. Worse than milk left to sour, than moldy bread and soggy cheese. It carried the stench of thousands of unwashed bodies, cramped together in the dampest, darkest part of a sad mountain. It didn’t help that they themselves added to the smell, Bilbo lamented. Soaked through dwarves that smelled like horse, mud and unwashed feet. But he was grateful for the smell, for it meant that they were all there. All of them, relatively unharmed, even if they reeked.

But the goblins were unbothered as they jeered at them, snarling and spitting insults as they were led past them to a large wooden platform that looked as rickety as they walkways their captors so carelessly stamped upon. The timber creaked and croaked like unoiled hinges on a door, and Bilbo’s fingers itched at the shoddy craftsmanship. He wanted to take a hammer and nails and get it done right.

(He wanted to take that hammer to his captors’ heads too, lob them straight from their necks like the Bullroarer and he cared not as to how)

He spied his sword in the grimy hands of a hulking goblin that ambled slowly alongside them, one leg limping. He eyed it for a second, then cast his eyes back at the misshapen throne on the dais at the end of the platform.

His time would come and heads would roll.

Chapter Text

The goblin in charge towered over his fellows the way the party tree back in the Shire towered over the surrounding greenery, a giant among midgets. Thrice as tall and as wide as a fourscore of goblins. It did not make him less ugly than his smaller kin, for Bilbo could see the scars and pockmarks littering his face. Bits of his nose were missing and when the great goblin raised his upper lip in a sneer he recoiled, for many teeth were either yellow or missing. His chin was flabby and fat, covering parts of a hairy chest and flapping like blubber whenever he moved. The most awful part, Bilbo decided, was the wicked crown the misshapen creature donned on his hairless head. Bones and rope formed a circlet, with ribs sticking up like fingers clawing at the air.

He pitied the poor soul that had died to make it. To be defiled so, even in death.

His jaw snapped shut, trapping the vile words that otherwise threatened to spill out. It would not do to lose his temper, not now.

“Dwarves!” The great goblin roared, moving to stand up from his hulking, shoddily-crafted throne. Planks cracked, and rope groaned with every step the goblin took. His girth rattled the stage. “Miserable, smelly dwarves! What business have you in my kingdom, intruders?”

Thorin stepped forward as much as his bindings allowed. “Thorin, at your service!” He said loudly. “I am just a humble dwarf travelling with his kin travelling through your beautiful mountains when a storm beset us. We sought shelter here, when we were found by your people.”

From somewhere to his right, Bilbo couldn’t quite turn around enough to check, he thought he heard Dwalin’s low baritone hiss something that was probably unflattering.

“Thieves, that’s what you are. Thieves and spies and elf-friends here to spy on my people, to stick your big noses in our private business.” The great goblin stepped forward, bending down until his wart-covered nose was a hair’s breadth’s away from Thorin’s. “So tell me, why are you really here?” 

Even from where he stood, Bilbo could smell the goblin. His stench an unfortunate blend of rotting food and sweat whose acidity he could almost taste on his tongue. 

But Thorin did not seem to be affected, the ropes strained even further and Bilbo could see him raise his chin to look the great goblin in the eyes. When he spoke, his voice was well-forged steel dripping with restraint.

“We are on a journey, you have my word. An innocent trip to visit our relatives across the mountain range here. To see our brothers and sisters, our nieces and nephews and ever our second-cousins and all other descendants of our great-grandfathers. They live east of here and it has been too long since we last shared ale together. That is all this is, a journey to see family.”

The leader of Goblinkind merely snorted, wads of yellow mucus shooting out of his large nostrils. “I know more of your wretched folk than you of mine, Thorin Oakenshield. Tales of your exploits during the Battle of Moria reached even the lowest of caverns and the dimmest of darkness. You’ll find no branches here, not for you nor your ill-fated companions. Now tell me the truth of your business here or face our glorious hospitality!”

“Your greatness,” a nasal voice screeched from the shadows. A goblin shuffled forth awkwardly, back bent at the waist in a boy as it prostrated itself before its leader. In its hands it held Orcrist, Thorin’s sword, and its brilliant blue glow couldn’t be ignored, so bright did it shine.

“They carried this with them, oh great leader.” The goblin hissed, “and a smaller one like it!”

The great goblin’s bulbous eyes nearly bulged out of his skull when he saw the sword, and they narrowed to thin slits soon after. His face seemed to swell with rage and the roar he let out shook the caverns they were in and made Bilbo’s ears ring.

He might have slept for a great part of time during which the sword had last been wielded and knew even less of when it had been lost, but the goblins remembered. They retold stories of Biter, the Goblin Cleaver, the sword that had taken a thousand-fold more lives of Goblin kin than any other. They saw its gleam, its edge and curve. They knew. 

“Murderers! Elf-friends! How dare you! Kill them! Bite and break them!” His massive arms swung around madly, and he knocked one of his smaller attendants straight off the platform.

Bilbo strained his ears to hear the familiar low thud of a body meeting the floor from great heights - but he heard nothing. Whatever sound the unfortunate goblin would have made was drowned out by low rumbling groan from high above. Even in the sparse reddish torchlight the origin of the sound could not be missed: a massive barrel had tipped over and was rolling down a hanging walkway. He couldn’t tear his gaze away as it thundered down the gentle slope, the wooden planks curving downwards with the added weight straining the already tense rope, when it snapped.

Wooden planks and rope and all it carried on them came crashing downward, taking with them goblins and crates and piles of weapons and bones and even a set of shoddily forged copper pots. Nails tore and timber cracked as walkway after walkway fell down, the sounds of it all echoed in the anguished screams of the goblins as they tumbled through the air.

“We must run!” Thorin roared, straining to be heard over the cacophony. “Now!” 

Dwalin (or was it Balin? Bilbo wasn’t sure) thundered something in approval and as one they started straining against their bindings. It was Nori who managed to get them free, shuffling out of his boots to pick up a fallen knife with his toes and using that to cut through the ropes. They scrambled off towards their confiscated weapons with a bellowed war cry.

The goblin holding Orcrist was downed by a furious punch to its head, and it fell gracelessly to the floor.  It left Thorin facing down the great goblin himself, so he raised his sword when-

The barrel crashed through the spot that held the great goblin’s throne, falling through three slim bridges straight above. It continued downwards, bits of rope trailing behind it. The great goblins’s eyes widened, when with a crack the floor beneath his heavy feet disappeared and he too vanished into the black gap.

The dwarves hurried backwards madly, pushing and hacking goblins aside in their rush to get away. They dashed across narrow hanging overpasses and over crumbling wooden platforms. Goblin town was falling apart all around them, breaking into pieces that fell from the uppermost part of the cavern like hail in a nasty autumn storm. So, they ran and Bilbo ran after them, only to stop when a dull blue glow caught his eyes. His sword. 

It took little effort to divert and grab it, abandoned as it was by its guards in their own escape, but something heavy collided with his head when he turned and there was only darkness as he tumbled into the dark.

When Bilbo opened his eyes, he wondered if he even had. What surrounded him was even darker than what had surrounded him back in the gloom and doom of Goblin Town. There was nothing here now, only blackness. His fingers felt nothing but the rocky floor below, his nose smelled nothing, but the dampness of a low mountain tunnel and his eyes saw nothing but shadows. Not a sound nor a smell of his companions. Even his toes, bare as they were, were of no help here. But he was a sensible Hobbit above all else, and had been in stickier situations than this. His eyes only needed time to acclimatize, to see light even in darkness, and then he would be fine.

Just like getting used to a slightly too-hot bath, or letting a mighty fine pie cool off before digging in.

So he laid back down and stared up into the nothing above him, listening for any sounds that might help him find the others. His mind wandered back to the memory of that pie, minced lamb and potatoes with a crust of cheese on top, served alongside a salad of nothing but fresh greens and preceded by a starter of the finest cuts of dried meats and asparagus. What he wouldn’t give for a meal like that now. The grumbling of his stomach showed him that his body was keen to agree, and for a minute the low huff of his laughter joined his rumbling belly in cutting through the oppressing silence.

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a nice second breakfast right about now,” he mused out loud. “A luncheon and a good, hearty supper. I’d even settle for just a spot of tea.”

He talked to himself for a while, listing his most favorite dishes and slowly letting his eyes get used to his surroundings. With every minute that passed his sight grew clearer while his muscles grew more and more stiff. They ached too, in far too many places and a quick check had the back of his head feel sticky and crusty when his fingers carded through his unruly curls.

“And a bath, as well.” He added to his ever-growing list of things he missed most right now.

No answer or reply came from the darkness, and then Bilbo had enough. His eyes would not see more, he figured, while waiting longer would only make his aches feel worse. Up and at them, as his father would have said. Prized petunias wait for no one.

There would be no pretty flowers waiting for him outside, hungry for fertilizer and gentle care, but his group of smelly dwarves (his family, Mahal-be-kind) was out there, somewhere. He just had to find them. 

So, with his sword safely in its place where its light would draw no unwanted attention or cause strain on his already stressed eyes, he set about finding a way out. He stood up slowly, arms stretched to both sides, and started slowly shuffling forward. A few steps out and his hand touched what had to be the tunnel wall, jagged as it was, and Bilbo smiled. The mountain was silent, but even that could not curb his cheer. He’d find a way out now, just following the wall.

And so he did, the tips of his left hand’s five fingers trailing over the stones as he walked and walked and walked. It went on for what felt like ages in a mostly straight line. It would curve to the left or right ever so gently now and then, until suddenly it didn’t. Bilbo stopped walking then, index finger only barely touching the spot where the wall made a sharp bend.

There was nothing to the left, right or even straight ahead that his eyes could pick out, until he heard it.

Drip. Drip.  

It dripped so softly, but it was a drip alright. Drops of water falling down from somewhere. He started walking with renewed vigor, following the sound, until he felt water touching his toes. It took some blinking, but eventually he could somewhat see where he had ended up. It was a pool of some sort: mostly still water in a cavernous space. He could only barely see the stalactites that hung down from above, only their tips not being shrouded in black, and from them fell unseen the water that he heard dripping. 

Drip. Drip.

“Bless us, my precious! A feast! Bigger than the fishes: good food for us to eat, gollum!”

Who or whatever spoke, Bilbo could not see, but he drew his sword nevertheless. The flash of blue illuminated the room and burned his eyes, but it made him see his unexpected guest. A creature, crouched on a stone that protruded from the middle of lake like a misshapen, slimy island. Bits of shiny scales and twig-like bones were scattered around a skeletal and deathly pale body. The eyes, however, made Bilbo recoil.

A blue so bright they glowed like his sword. But captured in the murky reflection of the pool around the creature they were warped, somehow. Distorted and veiled in shadow and framed by the twisted spires from above that too were mirrored by the water’s smooth surface. They hung like swords on strings from dark clouds now that he could see their sharp edge.

Bilbo swallowed his distaste, it would do him no good here. Honest a response as it may be. “Who are you?” He asked instead. 

If his fingers crept up the pommel of his sword to curl in a familiar, ready grip, he paid it no mind. His instincts had yet to guide him terribly wrong, today at least.

“Who is he, precious? And what is he? Can I eat him?” the creature asked itself, hissing and slurring while it cocked its head. “I am very hungry, gollum." 

He made to answer, only to stop mid-word. From somewhere far above came a sound like a herd of horses stampeding down a hill, but dulled by distance even as it carried downwards. The ceiling rumbled, and one of the smaller sword like stalactites cracked down the middle and fell into the pool with a splash. The water rippled and formed small waves that circled outwards from where it fell, but Bilbo’s eyes were drawn elsewhere.

The creature’s reflection in one moment was so grotesque, caught mid-leap as it was, that Bilbo reacted on instinct. His raised his sword, sidestepped the lunge and slashed. It went down with a scream whose sound alone made his throat ache, for it was so raspy even in the throes of death. The body, even more thin with its elongated limbs up close than it had been from afar, gave a last rattle before the chest ceased to rise. Covered in blood as it was, the creature was less horrifying than it was pitiful. But nevertheless, it had tried to attack him, so it was dangerous in a sense. But still-

Bilbo shook his head. He gained nothing from worrying over this. He had an exit to find. So he glanced around the room, nothing but stone surrounding it on all sides save but for the tunnel he’d entered through, and made to leave. It was when he turned that he saw it, the reflection of his sword’s glow in something shiny. Nestled between two rocks and a rotting fish head, was a ring. He’d have missed it if he hadn’t needed to draw his sword, hidden as it was, but there it was.

A lucky break? Bilbo snorted. As if.

But a ring would do no one any good if it was left here, the least he could do was take it along. Craftsmanship, no matter whose, deserved to be recognized. Treasured. Someone had forged this through sweat and smoke and hard work.

Bending down, he realized how profoundly ugly it was. A smooth band so utterly bland it seemed almost impossible that this had shone so brightly in the dim light. But even an ugly ring could be pawned, he figured. More funds could mean more food for the company’s stores, perhaps even help them get new ponies? And so he put it in the pocket of his waistcoat, content in the thought of buying something nice once he got rid of it.

The stone beneath his feet hummed, but no words were sung in the furthest reaches of his mind. The voice slumbered, and offered only the faintest sense of lingering contentment that made his leathery soles tingle pleasantly. So on he went, through the dark, and a sword in his hand. There could be goblins here, he reasoned, or creatures like the one Gollum was, twisted and misshapen by whatever forces were work this far below the mountain’s warm heart. The shadows were made darker with the glow of his sword, which he really should name because it had seen him this far and would see him further as well. It would deserve one, if it did not do so already. Bilbo shook the thought away, he had to prioritize. 

He could see the ground in front of him through its glow, but it was like walking in a bubble of dim light. Everything at its edges was plunged in the deepest black. Sounds reached his ears from time to time, rushes of air that sounded like the flapping of wings and the low swoosh of something slippery sliding away. What made the sounds, he did not know. So he kept his mind ready and his eyes trained on the space in front of him, ready for anything to leap at him from any side. He kept quiet but did not slow his steady pace. He was already visible, being slow would only make him more of a target. 

The tunnel seemed to slowly slope upwards, and he could feel it in his sides. They ached like they hadn’t since those first few days of the journey. But he felt it again now, bruised and battered as he undoubtedly was. Crossroads and corners came and went, and he turned and twisted as his gut told him to. Once or twice he had to double back, the road ending in impenetrable walls of rock or, one time, a steep and sudden drop downwards. The pebble he threw inside vanished from view after a second, and he heard a faint thud seconds later. 

“Right then,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll take the other side then, I’d better not try jumping off cliffs after the day I’ve had.”

And so he walked on and on until, after what felt like hours, he smelled it. The faintest whiff of fresh air: of pine trees and grass mixed with mud and something decidedly unpleasant. Always follow your nose indeed, he thought fondly. A memory of him and his mother flashed through his mind, still-warm cookies clutched in their hands. His father yelling from the kitchen window, smile on his face.

But this was not the smell of freshly baked cookies, still chewy and warm. This was something better. Freedom. Outside. His kin was out there, somewhere, and now so would he. Spirits lifted, he hastened his pace and hurried towards the direction the smell came from. Nostrils flared, he let his nose guide him until his eyes started seeing more and more as light seemed to slowly seep into the tunnel. And then, a gently curved corner away, he could see the sun.

Then there a flash of something else and Bilbo narrowed his eyes. There, where the tunnel burrowed its way outside he could silhouettes, their features only partially hid by the bright light. Goblins, four of them. Each form outlined by lines and shapes that could only come from wearing armor. And, he reasoned, if they wore armor they would likely carry weapons as well.

Follow your nose indeed. He’d found what he most wanted, but also what he most preferred not to find. 

The thought of going back and wandering until he’d stumble across another way out was as appealing as letting Lobelia plan a party, so Bilbo let out a soundless sigh. His sword shone even in this twilight setting, where shadows were only just chased away by the sun.

He closed eyes. Breathed in. Thought of home.

When they opened there was only bloodshed on his mind, his heart beating a steady rhythm like a drum. He slid along the wall like water, smooth and silent, until he reached his enemy 

The first goblin was cut down before its partners could make a sound, flesh parting like butter when he sliced at its unprotected armpit. His sword sunk in deep, and the goblin’s agonized scream tore through the space. A pull and his weapon came free once more. Black stained mirror-clear glowing steel, but he paid it no mind 

Steel flashed through the air, dull and brittle but sharp enough to hurt, and Bilbo ducked to the side. The longsword nearly clattered to the ground when its wielder overextended their downward slash. Bilbo pounced at the opening, and the blade finally did meet the floor, still clutched in scarred hands. The clang of steel meeting stone floors echoed, even this close to the sunlit grass he spied not far away. It made the other two turn in full now, scarred grey flesh contorted in a gruesome expression of shocked disbelief that bared brittle, yellow canines in a silent snarl.

Two more, his mind supplied, and he’d seen their gear. One carried another sword made of inferior steel, the other an axe that had seen better days. The light they reflected was dull somehow, the song of steel cutting through air sounded off. 

The sword was batted to the side easily and with downward slash saw his second foe falling to the ground, his unprotected knees buckling. There was no time for mercy when the axe was foolishly thrown in his direction. It ricocheted off the cavern wall and left the last goblin unarmed. The thought of mercy crossed his mind, unbidden, but fled in the face of his enemy charging him mindlessly. He fell too, all too soon, his body expelling its dying gurgle before lying lifeless on the floor.

Bilbo regarded the bodies, their wounds. His sword kissed the pockmarked neck of the second goblin and silenced its pained moans with a kindness he had to wretch back from the dark recessed it had fled to. He owed them nothing, not when they had gone after him and his. But he offered it nevertheless, mind elsewhere. His sword was cleaned on one’s tunic, leaving the blade more-or-less bloodless, if not quite clean. The weapons he left lying there, silent watchers to their owner’s demise. With a steady gait he walked to where stone flowed into grass and stepped into the sunlight.