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Chapter Text

When it came right down to it, Bilbo just didn’t want to leave Erebor. At first it had been easy to find plenty of excuses to stay. After all, he’d been injured in the battle, and he couldn’t possibly travel all the way to the Shire with a broken arm. Then it had been deep winter, and no one would expect a lone hobbit to cross the Misty Mountains in all that snow. Besides, more dwarves arrived every day, and it was helpful to have a few people around that had been there since the beginning and could tell a traveller where to put their luggage. Unfortunately, it was spring now, and the steady trickle of new arrivals tended to have family or friends already in the mountain to help them get settled. The only useful occupation Bilbo had was helping Ori putter around the remains of the royal library, sorting and repairing the books that had survived decades of neglect. Even that was only available because most dwarves preferred not to bother with something as impermanent as paper.

Worst of all, Gandalf was back from wherever he’d popped off to. The wizard had made it clear that he’d willingly see Bilbo home, so the hobbit couldn’t even dither over the safety of the road. It was quite clear to everyone that the time to go had come.

Immediately after the battle, Bilbo had been welcomed warmly back into the mountain and given guest chambers in the royal wing; however, it now seemed that welcome had expired. Thorin was starting to hint.

Well, Thorin had been hinting for months really, but Bilbo had managed to avoid him at first by cleverly being elsewhere while Thorin had a whole mountain to repopulate and make safe. Certainly the king had spoken up a few times over the winter about wanting to see Bilbo’s bravery suitably rewarded, despite the fact that the hobbit had given his share of the treasure over to Mirkwood and Dale as a ransom for peace. The implication that once Bilbo had a sufficient reward he would scamper off home had been kindly left unspoken. Regrettably, unspoken or not, the idea that Bilbo should take a bag or two of gold and go was clearly at the forefront of Thorin’s mind no matter how much Bilbo tried to stay out of the king’s sight. Bilbo felt like a second cousin who’d been invited for tea, managed to talk his way into supper, and was now making hints about dinner. Unwanted, and unpardonably rude to insist on imposing.

So he would have to go back to the Shire. Which was lovely. And his home. Only, Bilbo dreaded the eventuality more than he’d once dreaded the dragon. Home didn’t offer the opportunity to dance with Bofur’s friends until long after anyone respectable would be well asleep. Home didn’t have Fili and Kili dashing about enthusiastically, sharing all the wonder of their newly recovered heritage with Bilbo in stories that always seemed to start, “Oh, oh, you have to see, it’s just how Mum said it would be.” Home didn’t have Balin’s wisdom, Dwalin’s stoic humor, or Oin’s rough care. Home had dozens of pegs for visitors' coats in the entryway, and large, empty rooms. At home, Bilbo would never see Thorin Oakenshield again.

Still, he couldn’t put it off forever. Bilbo was unhappily aware that he’d be lucky to put it off another day. His attendance on the throne had been specifically requested — Balin had fetched him out of bed first thing, before there was any chance to hide — and Bilbo shifted uneasily on his feet, waiting.

While Thorin dealt with pressing concerns like mine shafts that needed shoring up, trade agreements that needed royal approval, and living arrangements that needed to be made for returning citizens, Bilbo silently wished for something particularly distracting to come up. Just one more diversion, one more day to stay his exile, that was all he wanted at this point. The business of the court was so important, surely no one would notice if Bilbo just slipped quietly away. As soon as he resolved to sidle to the back of the crowd a bit, just to put a little distance between himself and Balin—who was very busy and did not need to waste time with a simple hobbit—Thorin looked directly at him, pinning him with a glare.

Bilbo sighed and stood still, eyeing the chest to the left of Thorin’s throne sadly. It looked suspiciously like the one Thorin had tried to offer him a few days earlier, full to brimming with priceless gemstones. That had been a tricky situation, being offered a treasure like that by a king in front of a whole throne room full of dwarves, but Bilbo had just barely managed to refuse. After all, such beautiful stones would go to waste in the hands of a hobbit. They belonged with dwarves who knew their value and would turn beauty into glory through their craft.

Naturally, Thorin had been furious at the refusal. “It is not a gift,” he’d grunted after a long moment. The only outward sign of his displeasure had been the bulging of his wrist muscles as his fingers failed to dent the stone arms of his mighty throne, but Bilbo had known the king long enough to read his mood.

“Of course not, O King,” Bilbo had said, bowing deeply. He could never have been churlish enough to refuse a gift, but he could be stubborn enough to ignore a hint.

The audience chamber had been absolutely silent. None of the dwarves awaiting their King’s displeasure seemed even to breathe. Every one of them would have leapt to accept such wealth. The box alone looked to be worth more than Bag End, made of some black metal but decorated ornately in gold leaf, set with a strong mithril lock and many shining jewels.

“It is a reward.”

“Yet I need no reward! My contracted share in the treasure was long ago paid, and I hope Your Majesty would accept any act of mine during the battle as an expression of my friendship.” It was a flip, lighthearted response, and it was the closest Bilbo would come to begging. It was certainly the closest he could come to saying, “I saved your nephew’s life and I promise to keep out of the way, so please just let me stay. Please, I won’t be a burden, please, you won’t have to see me, just please, please, please don’t send me where I will never see any of you again.” That would be embarrassing for all parties concerned, and probably annoy Thorin enough to have Bilbo thrown out of the mountain by his ears.

As it was, Thorin had frowned hard in disapproval, but allowed Bilbo to bow his way out of the royal audience without any treasure. Somehow, Bilbo knew that whatever was in the chest today would be more difficult to evade. Particularly because Fili was in the room this time. Bilbo wasn’t going to make any veiled references to the affair with the unusually large orcs holding the lad hostage while the young dwarf was standing right there. Saving Fili had been an act of friendship, and publicly leveraging the deed for a few more weeks of proximity would be foolish. It might well cost him the very camaraderie he longed to keep.

No, Bilbo would have to accept whatever was in the chest this morning. And then, like any party guest being handed a box of leftovers, he would have to say goodbye. It was pointless to keep resisting. But oh! How he hated that golden casket with its jeweled hinges and sparkling latch.

Being very maudlin and silly had always come naturally to him, unfortunately. Bilbo would laugh at himself if it only hurt a little less. Instead, he took a last opportunity to listen to Thorin’s voice, to study Fili’s face, to feel Balin’s sturdy warmth at his side. Bilbo was an adult. He would part from his friends with good cheer, not wail and drag at Gandalf’s heel like a fauntling leaving a particularly nice birthday party.

“This must be decided today?” Thorin sounded annoyed, and his eyes flicked in Bilbo’s direction again. The hobbit’s heavy heart leapt. He hadn’t been paying attention, but it sounded as though the court might be derailed before anyone could get around to giving Bilbo anything.

“It must, sire,” insisted the red faced dwarf who clearly didn’t know how Thorin felt about other people insisting. Bilbo recognized the fellow, but it took a minute to place him. A green tunic decorated with enough gold to lure a dragon, two dozen small braids in his red and gray beard, each one with an emerald bead, and a big bushy brow that hid his eyes—Bilbo definitely knew him. Oh! He was Doron son of Foron, one of the dwarves who came from the Iron Hills well after the Battle of Five Armies ended. Also, Balin didn’t much like him, because Doron had spoken against refugees from Erebor staying in the Iron Hills after Smaug came, but he had been quick enough to come to the mountain and seize the investment opportunity presented by the rebuilding. For that, Bilbo didn’t much like him either. He wondered what Thorin thought, but the king no longer shared his private opinions with simple hobbits.

“The chamber is large enough to store the entire delivery of lumber, and its proximity to the marketplace makes it the best place to do so. That is why my people spent so long clearing the rubble and repairing the doors. We need the storage space for materials while we rebuild the market, and your seneschal told us it was there.”

“The chamber has always been used so,” Balin said slowly, as though he did not want to take Doron’s side, but couldn’t see a way around it. “To store goods for the great marketplace that are not yet ready to be sold for one reason or another.”

“It’ll only take a few days to gather in the mushrooms,” Bombur argued. “Not even that, if I have a bit more help. They’re edible enough, and it seems a shame to let them go to waste.”

“It is spring now,” Doron grumbled, glossing over a lean winter with the ease of one who had brought supplies enough to feed himself—and only himself—from the Iron Hills. “There is plenty of food from Dale and beyond.”

“Yes, but not mushrooms,” someone said sensibly. Bilbo hadn’t had mushrooms in an age. Not since the elven army had decamped, really, and there had been precious few before that. Balin’s lips twitched in a little smile, and Bilbo realized that he’d been the one to speak. Oh dear.

Thorin’s eyes were on him again, but they only seemed impassive, not angry about the interruption. That was lucky.

“There is never so much plenty that a dwarf should welcome waste,” Bombur said, winking at Bilbo.

“And yet you would have my people waste time and effort dragging lumber up and down three full levels! How much extra work must we do for the sake of a few vegetables?”

“Peace,” Thorin said. “I would see these mushrooms before passing judgment.”

As Bilbo grinned, barely believing his own luck, an air of disappointment passed through the throne room. The waiting citizens knew their business would not be dealt with this morning. Still, they had all been expecting it sooner or later. Thorin was a great king because whenever someone brought him a problem, he was as like as not to pick up a hammer and go solve it himself. Early in the morning dwarves crowded his throne room looking for judgments, but by lunchtime they knew their ruler would be off doing something productive. That was the kind of king a hobbit could respect, though Balin didn’t seem to like it for some reason.

And as long as everyone seemed to be leaving the dratted golden chest back in the throne room, Bilbo thought he might as well tag along. After all, he had some passing familiarity with mushrooms. If Doron got his way, at least Bilbo would be on hand to help Bombur snatch up a few of the best before the builders started piling things in and crushing them.

Chapter Text

It was a merry procession from the throne room, through the arching corridors and magnificent halls, with Bombur and Doron bickering like Bracegirdles to lead the way. Slipping into the back with Bilbo, Fili bumped their shoulders companionably together.

“You are in a much better mood than you were when court convened this morning.”

“Of course I am! This promises to be high entertainment. Doron will bully until he gets his way, but I think our bombastic Bombur will surprise him. Thorin isn’t likely to appease either of them without wholly enraging the other.”

“My uncle’s difficulty amuses you?”

“Oh hush, it amuses you too.”

Ducking his head, Fili failed to hide a grin. “It does at that. Though only until I remember that someday I will have to be the one mediating such disputes.”

Bilbo patted his shoulder consolingly. “You should work on your glaring. Five crowns says that when things reach a head your uncle will simply stare them both into submission until they apologize.”

Laughing, Fili shoved his hand away. “That’s a bet I am not fool enough to take!”

“If only your uncle were equally circumspect about giving me his money.”

Fili grew quiet, though he kept pace at Bilbo’s side. When the hobbit finally looked at him, it was to meet the prince’s considering eyes. “I have wondered of late,” he began in a low, serious voice, “if perhaps it was some offense in the Shire to give gold for the sake of gratitude.”

At a loss for words, Bilbo stuttered a little, but he didn’t lie. If he was a burglar, he was an honest one. “No. No, not an offense.”

“You did accept a gift from my uncle once before,” Fili pressed.

“Yes. And quite glad of it I was, too, before the end of the battle. I should never have lived to do anything notable without it. But you must know that was different. That things were different then.”

“Yes. Yes, of course I know that,” the prince said hurriedly. “I would never ask you to accept such a gift again unless you were sure in your heart that you wanted one. But Bilbo, please believe that he isn’t trying to give you a gift. You saved us all by being clear headed enough to offer your share of the treasure to the armies at our gates. The whole company agrees it is unfair that after all of our adventures, you are left with nothing. You who did so much.”

“Not nothing.” Bilbo kept his eyes on the Raven Crown ahead and managed a smile. “I have thirteen good friends. That is far more treasure than any one hobbit deserves. Still, not to worry. I will not refuse your uncle publicly again. I know it must annoy him, and I would have us part as friends.”

Fortunately, they reached the cave chamber in question before Fili could reply. Bilbo should never have broached the awkward subject at all. It was much too early in the day to start saying goodbye. It was much too early in the year by Bilbo’s way of thinking, but that was immaterial.

Anyway, the big room was rather interesting, which made a good distraction from maudlin thoughts. It was quite unlike other places in Erebor. The chamber was large, but not unreasonably so. The ceiling was only two or three dwarves tall, not vaulted in the grand way that always made Bilbo feel so small.

Obviously it was meant to be a utilitarian space as Balin said. The stone doors were big enough for two dwarves to enter walking comfortably abreast, but they lacked even the basic ornamentation that dwarrow tended to put on everything. While they did open with that magical fluidity that Bilbo usually attributed to glowing runes, Fili said something about counterweights. It was true that there was no special key or password that made them open, just a firm tap at the invisible seam where the two doors met when closed.

For all that the chamber beyond was wider and longer than any space underground had a right to be by hobbit standards, it seemed more natural than most other places in the developed areas of the mountain. A few thick stalactites connected the roof of the cavern to the base. Although Bilbo suspected that any stalagmites which did not serve as pillars had been cleared away, the floor had not been perfectly squared or smoothed by dwarven craftsmanship. As promised, however, every inch of the ground was indeed covered with the apparently unwanted mushrooms.

Two of Bombur’s apprentices were more than halfway to the back of the chamber, clearing a path down the center of the room and filling a barrel with mushrooms as they went. Bilbo admired their initiative. At least something would be salvaged, even if Doron got his way.

“By way of a compromise, I thought we might do it by halves,” Bombur said to Thorin. “My folk and I can get one side cleared away by morning if we work through the night. First thing tomorrow, Doron can start moving his lumber in.”

“That’s hardly a compromise!” Doron was practically spitting with anger. “We cleared access to this room for use, and we need the whole of it today. I’ll not leave my lumber out in front of the mountain all night long to soak and rot!”

“Is it raining?” Balin’s mild tone implied that it was not. Bilbo hid a grin.

“It’ll take as long as it takes for us to clear them,” Bombur said reasonably. “Unless we can find a few more gentle hands willing to help out.”

“Perhaps Lady Zil’s children seek occupation,” Thorin suggested.

Zari and Ziri were young troublemakers in their forties who were often given menial tasks to prevent them from setting off firecrackers in the aqueducts. Hobbits in their tweens would never have been trusted among so many mushrooms, but Bilbo supposed it was different with dwarves. Curiously, he peeked into one of the already full barrels and inspected a mushroom.

“There’s no point pulling them up if they’re bruised in the process, so I’ll not have dwarflings tossing them into barrels like a game of conkers, thank you,” Bombur said firmly.

“Stop!” Bilbo shrieked. “Stop!”

The two workers did stop, standing up to look back at Bombur with a question in their eyes.

“All right there, Bilbo?” Bombur asked. “Only I’d rather they keep working for the moment.” His eyes flicked to Doron.

“As if I didn’t know you were trying to delay me with all of this insistence on the king’s judgment!”

Ignoring the merchant, Bilbo showed Bombur the poor mushroom in his hands. “They’re pulling them up by the roots,” he said softly.

“Aye.” Bombur’s brow furrowed, his massive orange eyebrows knitting together in the very picture of confusion. “They come up easiest that way.” Bending down, he went to pull a root.

Yelping, Bilbo surged forward to stop him, but he was too late. Bombur rose with a long white root in his hand, four perfect black mushrooms dangling from his thick fingers. Bilbo moaned in agony. Being struck across the face would have hurt less.

“No, you mustn’t. Bombur! You can’t put it back, you know! If you’d only—look.” Kneeling, Bilbo carefully plucked one of the precious mushrooms by its stalk, leaving the delicate white knob safely attached to the root. “See? The bud will sprout another mushroom inside of a month in a place like this with no weather to worry about.”

“A month?” Doron shouted. “I will have my lumber piled atop these foul things by this afternoon!”

“You couldn’t possibly! These are Black Trilbies!”

Looking to Bombur for support, Bilbo saw him blinking. “Well, we call them gabildûshtûr,” he said, before coughing and correcting his Khuzdul. “Dark Giants. They cook up well.”

“Cook up well,” Bilbo said faintly. Then he shook himself and appealed to a higher authority. “Thorin. Thorin, you don’t know what you have here. These are, without doubt or question, the best and rarest mushrooms in the world. The two barrels there—pulled up by the roots! Oh dear! At the height of summer there would not be two such barrels of Black Trilbies if we looked through every garden, farm, and pantry in the whole of the Shire.”

Blinking at Bilbo’s earnestness, Thorin tilted his head in a regal, considering fashion. “They are of value to you?” His words came slowly, but he didn’t seem upset with Bilbo for speaking out. He didn’t even seem annoyed that Bilbo had presumed to drop his title for the first time since the Arkenstone had come between them.

“They are of value.” Bilbo tried to emphasize the full stop at the end of that sentence. “By the light of Eärendil, you must have a whole acre here, Highness.”

“An acre and three tenths,” Balin said helpfully, “If I remember my Shire reckonings correctly.”

“Over an acre of Black Trilbies,” Bilbo said with a sigh before turning frantically back to Thorin. “More valuable than a vein of gold! You should let them grow, Your Sagacity. Cultivate them. They can’t be planted, you know. Not from a cutting or a seed, not for love or money, but once they take root like this they can flourish for generations. This could be a great place within your mountain, Sire. Your Percipience could call it the Mushroom Mine, for it would be just as enriching as any quarry of the same size.”

“Disgusting,” Doron grunted.

“I think it would be a charming name,” Bilbo said. “But names don’t matter. Never mind about names! The point is, Your Astuteness, that the mushrooms are valuable. Let me prove it to you! I’ll cook a dinner tonight. Bombur, can I?”

“You’re always welcome in my kitchen, Bilbo.”

“Once you taste what they can do to even the most ordinary recipes, you’ll understand.” Thorin’s eyes seemed to soften as Bilbo spoke, and Bilbo thought for a moment that he had a real chance of convincing the king. Thorin had not looked at him in such a way since they’d exchanged apologies after the battle. It was nice, seeing a hint of the old affection in his face.

Doron stepped between them. “We cannot wait until dinner to settle the question, you little fool. Funguses might be valuable in whatever little rat hole you came from, but this is a dwarven kingdom and a halfling cannot halt progress. This room has been opened for my use, and I will use it to store my lumber!”

“You would pave over gold with cement!” Bilbo was not at all intimidated by the larger dwarf with his pretentiously braided beard, but he also couldn’t say that he was particularly pleased to be seized by his waistcoat so that his feet lifted from the ground.

Happily, he was surrounded by friends.

“That was a mistake,” Fili murmured, a small laugh in his voice. Bilbo didn’t need to look at him to know that one of his many knives would have appeared in his hand, as if by magic.

“I will bounce you down a mineshaft, you jumped up banker,” Bomber said.

Bilbo wasn’t sure Doron noticed either of them, because Thorin stepped forward and simply glared at the well dressed dwarf, piercing blue eyes sharper than any dagger in the mountain. Going pale, Doron released the hobbit and took a hasty step backward. For a long moment, there was silence while Doron seemed to try and fail to swallow his own tongue.

Finally he said, “Apologies my king, Master Burglar. I meant no disrespect.”

“That,” Thorin said, still staring hard at Doron, “resolves the dispensation of the lumber. I believe it can be stowed quite easily in the Hall of Echoes, which has not yet been restored to past glories.”

“Yes sire. Of course.”

“It may also be time to revisit the zoning of the Great Market,” Balin said silkily. “While your proposed storefront would make an impressive addition, I am not entirely sure we’ve considered the traffic flow issue.”

“The king approved my plans weeks ago!” Doron’s eyes darted from Balin to the king’s stony face and he crumbled. “But of course, Lord Seneschal, if you say they must be reviewed again, I am yours to command. Perhaps we might do so in your offices, so as not to further disturb the king?”

“Aye lad,” Balin said, his tone devoid of all usual friendliness. “Perhaps we might.” With a firm hand on the merchant’s shoulder, Balin turned him gently and led him away, winking slyly at Bilbo as he went.

Slowly, the steely anger left Thorin’s eyes as well, and he turned to Bilbo as the dispassionate king once more. Bilbo was almost sorry to see it happen. He knew, of course, that Thorin’s affront hadn’t been personal. It hadn’t been for Bilbo, not really, just for the king’s own pride. After all, mere merchants couldn’t be allowed to threaten people under Thorin’s protection. But it had felt for a moment like they were comrades again, and Bilbo didn’t relish the return of the careful politeness that had characterized all of Thorin’s behavior toward him since he’d nominally forgiven Bilbo’s act of betrayal.

“You are serious, Master Baggins? About cooking for my table tonight? I would not like to impose upon your time.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, the urgent need to defend a veritable crop of Black Trilbies overcoming any other emotion. “Please, let me. Invite Bard and his family up from Dale, if they can come, and Tauriel, if you can bear to. There isn’t a person in Middle Earth who won’t concede that the Black Trilby is the most delectable foodstuff once they’ve tasted what it can do. If by some chance you decide not to keep them all for your own use, they’d be quite valuable in trade. Oh, you can make all sorts of things. Black Trilby infused oil, for one, sells for six times its weight in gold in the Shire, if a fellow is lucky enough to find a bottle. Dried, the mushrooms themselves can last for years without losing much potency, so they’d travel well enough to be traded in foreign parts, if there wasn’t sufficient domestic demand.”

“Peace, Master Burglar,” Thorin said. “You may sit next to me at dinner and explain how each dish benefits from the addition of the ingredient to your heart’s content.”

That gave Bilbo pause. It sounded like an innocent enough suggestion, but Thorin could offer him a going away present at dinner even more easily than he could during his regularly scheduled court audiences. For just that reason, Bilbo had been avoiding the public dinners since the snow started melting. When he got hungry in the evening, he cooked up a little something for himself on the charming hobbit-sized stove in his guest apartment. Lots of people did the same now that spring had arrived and food wasn’t quite as scarce in the mountain. It wasn’t rude, as he continued to take breakfast and lunch in the great hall, since Thorin was always too busy to attend those.

Still, he would not decline. If this was the end, he would face it nobly, defending and preserving the future wealth of Erebor. “As Your Highness commands.”

“Is the elf in the mountain?” Thorin asked.

Fili bit his lower lip and looked from his uncle to Bilbo. “Not in the mountain, no.”

“But she could be in time for dinner?” Thorin said.

“Well, elves you know. Remarkably fast beings, they are. I could probably arrange to get a message to her.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Tell your brother, then. But they are not to sit together at the head table.”

Grinning, Fili nodded in immediate agreement. “Yes uncle.” Spinning smartly on his heel, the young prince hurried away, but not before slapping Bilbo on the back and wishing him luck.

Then Bombur wandered down the aisle to speak with his assistants leaving Bilbo alone with Thorin. Another first since those awkward apologies made during the thrilling flush of survival and pain in the tent of an elvish healer. No less awkward for the months spent maintaining a polite distance, Bilbo bowed to the king and thanked him for the opportunity to prove his words.

“I heard what you said to Fili,” Thorin said stiffly. “That you would have us part as friends.”

Bilbo swallowed around the hard knot in his throat. “I apologize for the presumption, O King.”

“Do not,” Thorin said. “For I would have that also. If—when you return to your home, I would have you go in friendship.”

“Good.” Bilbo swallowed again. He was having some difficulty breathing. “Thank you. Your Magnanimity.”

“When you bid me farewell,” the king said, not looking at the hobbit, “do call me Thorin. One last time.”

Bilbo could say nothing to that as the great dwarf swept away, and he was very grateful to have a few private moments before Bombur and his assistants carried the third barrel of mushrooms from the cavern and closed the big dwarven doors behind them.

Chapter Text

The royal kitchens of Erebor were massive. The east wall was entirely ovens, each one big enough to roast whole oxen. There was counter space enough to suit a hundred cooks all working at once. By the pull of a lever, roaring fires could be hung with copper bottomed stew pots big enough to boil Bilbo and Bombur together with plenty of room for sauces. Yet the kitchens were sized for dwarves, so there were built in staircases alongside the giant pots, chopping blocks of a perfect height, and spits made to be turned by small hands. Bilbo was quite comfortable helping Bombur there when he was needed. However, helping with a meal was not nearly the same as being responsible for one.

“I am sorry we do not have much to showcase your mushrooms with.” Bombur led Bilbo regretfully through the massive larder. “I’d like to offer pork, but every sow that is not gravid with piglets ought to be made so, and there are only two boars in Dale at the moment that have not already gone into my ovens. There’s a little venison, as Kili brought me four good sized stags from his hunting trip yesterday, though of course they have very little fat this time of year. Other than that, we only have spring chickens and fish. As there is always fish.”

“Ah, my friend, but we have Black Trilbies. With those we can make a feast fit for a king.”

Bombur grinned. “You and I have both seen the king chew cram while marching to forgo stopping for lunch. He is not a particularly discerning eater.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Well, we shall make it a meal fit for his table, and since the two of us will be sitting at it, the standards there will be high.”

Though Bombur laughed, there wasn’t really time for jokes. Bilbo set one of the apprentices to chopping nuts for stuffing and the other to jointing a deer. The hobbit couldn’t quite bring himself to trust the young laborers with sorting and cleaning the mushrooms, but he readily showed Bombur how to do it, pointing out the overripe ones that ought to be set aside for stuffing as well.

“An old Shire recipe, this stuffing?” Bombur asked, making good natured conversation.

It was Bilbo’s turn to laugh. “Waste whole Trilbies to stuff a spring chicken? Any homemaker in the Shire worth their salt would have my head for the crime. No, I shall have to make the recipes up as we go for the most part, but don’t worry. I know the flavors well enough. It’s nothing to the wealth of Erebor, of course, but I was rather well to do in the Shire. I could manage to get my hands on a few Black Trilbies here and there when I wanted them.”

It took Bilbo a long moment to realize that Bombur’s hands had stopped working. When he looked up, he saw an intense expression on the dwarf’s plump face.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Bombur blinked. “Only, if we’re really to make this a meal to remember, we might put a few more hands to use. Word will get around that you’re cooking for the king, and most of the mountain will turn up at the hall for a taste. I’ve a few friends that might help. Trustworthy dwarrow in a kitchen, and they’ll come if I ask.”

“If you think it’s best,” Bilbo agreed, mentally doubling the amount of stew he’d planned to make. “Only I won’t let anyone but you fuss with the trilbies.”

Grinning, Bombur promised, “They’ll only do as you instruct. My word of honor on it.”

Indeed, in half an hour he was back with three dwarves who did not have the young, eager look of his apprentices. These dwarves were serious, older dwarrow, and reminded Bilbo a little of Gloin or Dori. Introductions were made and the hobbit came to know that the dam with wooden beads in her elaborate gray braids was Darro, the dam with gold beads in her yellow beard was Kira, and the chap with silver ribbon binding his black beard in a tight wrap was Gorful. After letting them know that he was charmed and at their service, Bilbo put them straight to work. There was no time to do anything else.

Bombur’s friends were interesting. As promised, they did only exactly as instructed. When Bilbo asked Gorful to clean the chickens, Gorful demanded that Bilbo show him how to do it. So the hobbit dutifully showed the dwarf the trick of scalding the bird in hot water for a minute before plucking it and how to grip it just so in order to get the giblets out intact for mushroom gravy making. Once Gorful had seen Bilbo do the first bird, however, he got to work expertly stripping feathers and perfectly cleaning the next bird in a third of the time it had taken Bilbo to demonstrate. Kira did not know how to debone a fish. At least, she apparently did not know how to debone the first fish. After Bilbo did another demonstration, however, she started flipping fish after fish across her cutting board with such efficiency that her knife seemed a blur. Darro needed to be shown how to properly peel a potato of all ridiculous things, but Bilbo showed her, and he could not call it a waste of time. Not once she got to work and filled one of the enormous boiling vats with bushel after bushel in short order.

Another time Bilbo might have accused them of toying with him, especially since Bombur seemed to be doing the same thing, but they were a great help given how little time he had. Anyway, if Bombur hadn’t needed a thorough lesson on sorting, cleaning, cutting, and cooking with Black Trilbies, he would have been the one mounting a defense of the mushrooms instead of Bilbo.

Soon enough the hobbit came to appreciate the unusual approach Bombur’s friends had to following only exact instructions.

“No!” Bilbo yelped. “No, no, no! You cannot mean to put perch into that roasting pan. Are you mad? Have you been struck about the head? Speak up if you have, for we can continue very well without you if you must go and see Oin.”

“You said to put the filleted fish into the roasting pans,” said Bombur’s hapless apprentice. “They are to be broiled in the brown sauce.”

“I said to put the trout fillets into the roasting pans, I am quite sure. Perch in brown sauce? It would drown. Ever thirsting never drinking my right eye! The perch is to be sauteed lightly on the stovetop with the clear sauce.”

The apprentice blinked at him. She was very young, and her thick brown hair had more of curl to it than most dwarves could claim. In that moment, she reminded him of a puzzled little lamb encountering a fence for the first time.

Realizing the problem, Bilbo sheepishly took the lass by the hand and showed her the differences between the smaller, footlong fish and the big heavy meat of the trout, taking special care to point out how light and thin the flesh of the perch was. Then he took himself off for a moment. Whisking together melted butter, eggs, and a few of the choicest trilbies in a small dish, he put it off to the side to rest a while. In another bowl he sifted flour, brown sugar, salt, baking powder, and a few carefully selected spices. Then Bilbo stirred the lot together gently, watching the disparate ingredients become smooth, silken batter. When he put it into the oven to bake, he was the calmest he’d been in weeks. So he buckled down to work for another hour.

It was a wonderful group to work with, for once everyone fell into the rhythm of their tasks, they also fell into one of Bilbo’s favorite dwarvish traditions. They sang.

“Excuse me everyone,” Bilbo said when the hour had passed. “Darro, if you and Kira could help Gorful get those last few chickens into the ovens I would so appreciate it, thank you. The potatoes can wait. In fact, everything else can wait, please come over here and have a seat.”

The mushroom stew wasn’t quite done yet. As was often the case with soups, it would get better the longer it simmered, but it was hot and all of the vegetables were cooked. Bilbo ladled out seven big bowls and set them on a clean, unused patch of counter. Then he cut his special loaf into seven even slices and set those out as well, one for himself and one for each of his helpers. “I know dwarves don’t have second breakfast or elevenses, but we all missed lunch and it’s now gone tea-time. Dinner will be in two hours, but we’ve been working hard. If we’re hungry, we’ll make mistakes. Or possibly sneak away and eat most of the ganache, and that would quite ruin all of our work. So please: the roasts are in the ovens and the prep is done, let’s take a short break.”

With hearty approval of this sensible plan, the dwarves all sat and quickly helped themselves to the little meal. Bilbo himself was so intent on his own bowl that he did not look up to see if the others were enjoying their food at all until he heard Darro’s sharp little, “Oh!”

“Is something the matter? Do you not like the bread?”

Darro was frozen, her hand still halfway between her chin and the table, but she chewed slowly before speaking. “You did not just create this recipe today,” she said with certainty.

“No,” Bilbo agreed anxiously. “This is Baggins Black Bread, quite famous in the Shire. It’s never failed to win its category in a baking competition.”

When she didn’t respond, he continued nervously. “My father taught me the recipe just after my twentieth birthday when I started to prove I wasn’t completely useless in the kitchen. He had it from his aunt Pansy Baggins, who had it from her father Balbo, and so on back to my seven times great grandmother Begonia Baggins. The story goes that she found a whole basket of Black Trilbies while walking in the Old Forest. She had been a Took by birth—so it is not as unusual as you might think that she went walking alone out there—but to find a whole basket! Of course that was enough to experiment a little, and so she hit upon the idea of making a mushroom quick bread. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather quite approved of the results, and thereafter whenever she got her hands on a few trilbies, she would make it for him, tweaking the recipe over the course of her lifetime. Once it was perfected, she passed the secret down to her favorite son, and so it came eventually to me. Do you not like it?”

“It’s delicious,” Bombur said reassuringly.

“I like it,” Darro agreed, taking another thoughtful bite and closing her eyes. “Do I taste nutmeg?”

“Perhaps.” Bilbo smiled into his own soup. “Or perhaps not. As I said, it is a secret recipe.”

“You will not make it for the dinner?” Gorful’s slice was all gone and he was eyeing one of the apprentices’ plates covetously.

“Serve quick bread at a big dinner? I should die of shame,” Bilbo said. “Besides, all of that ganache we made would go to waste.”

“We could put the ganache on the bread,” Kira said, lingering over the last morsels of her own slice.

Bilbo laughed. “And spoil both in the combination, I have no doubt. Besides, quick bread is for tea, or elevenses. Perhaps second breakfast. But it is certainly not nice enough to serve at the king’s table in the great hall when the dwarf in question has been promised a feast.”

“This is nice enough for anything,” said the fluffy haired apprentice, who then promptly looked embarrassed to have spoken.

Flushing with pleasure, Bilbo tried to retain some semblance of modesty. “I shall make it again for you sometime. If you like.”

“I should certainly like,” Bombur said. “The rest of the company ought to taste it as well. I cannot believe you travelled so long with us and never shared that you had such a secret.”

“Ah, yes,” agreed Bilbo, who did not like to think of travelling just then. “Yes, the company should have it, and perhaps I may even teach it to you. If I—before I must go away. I quite like the thought of a Shire recipe and the name Baggins remaining part of life in Erebor. Not just as a footnote to the story of the dragon or the Battle of Five Armies, but as a thing that can be touched and tasted.”

“I would be honored.”

“Well, you and the company are as much my family as any hobbits bearing the name of Baggins might be. Perhaps more so in the case of my cousin Lobelia.”

“It is a good recipe,” Darro said. “Well worth the preservation of your family secret. But the dishes you make for dinner tonight, they are all of your own design?”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said, draining his water goblet and gesturing for the apprentices to clear away the evidence of their little meal. “Though the clear sauce for pan fish is of my design as of about fifteen years ago and my Trilby Mashed Potatoes have been the delight of many a Shire dinner party in their own time. Always on a much, much smaller scale, of course.”

“Of course,” Bombur said. “And given the scale involved with tonight’s menu.”

“Yes, yes. Do let’s get back to work,” Bilbo agreed.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Erebor had been one of the places in the mountain large enough to fit the vast girth of Smaug easily, and so the evil wyrm had not damaged it overmuch. Even so, it was one of the first halls Thorin had ordered restored wholly to its original splendor. He wanted it lined with roaring, happy fires, full of ale and cheer, and as always the King Under the Mountain simply hammered away until he got what he wanted. The repairs to the stone work had been done before Thorin himself was healed enough from his injuries to stand, and they had been done well. The vaulted marble ceiling made the room seem too grand for a hobbit to stop long in, but the smooth, granite tables were actually quite comfortable. It was a hall for feasting, and it pleased Bilbo to no end to see it used as such.

The first great gathering he had seen in that hall had been the Victory Feast: one massive celebration for all those who had survived the Battle of Five Armies. On that day thousands of dwarves crowded around the tables, most wounded, but all in high spirits, rebuilding their strength before going home to the Iron Hills. Around those tables too had been the men and women of Dale, feasting and carousing in joyful fellowship, gladly restoring the old alliance between the city and the mountain. There had even been a small party of elves, including Captain Tauriel, who stayed to show hope of renewing the friendship between Mirkwood and Erebor, though Thorin allowed them in the mountain only that once.

That had been a day of plenty, with an ocean of ale to wash away the memory of hardship and bellies full enough to sink the soldiers back to earth. Since then, there was always something to eat in Thorin’s hall. Through the long winter as dwarven refugees returned home and the trade caravans of men or elves came with supplies—leaving with more gold than such things would have been worth in any other time and place—there was always food on those tables. Thorin did not forget the many years his people had been hungry. If it was often only porridge, only stew with thick grainy bread, only a few fish out of the Long Lake, it was always there and free for the taking. No dwarf in Erebor would ever go hungry while Thorin was king.

Still, as any hobbit knew, there was a big difference between not being hungry and being happily full. Bilbo was quite pleased that one of his last acts in Erebor would be to make it snow food and rain drink on those tables in a way that would be the envy of all Hobbiton if his neighbors had any idea. It was fortunate that he’d planned the meal with that goal in mind, for when he arrived in the hall, he saw that the entire mountain seemed to have turned up in anticipation of the feast.

On a typical evening of no special import there were usually only a hundred dwarves around the tables closest to the king’s seat. Apparently the story of Bilbo’s mushrooms had grown in the telling, for the great hall was nearly half full. It was not so bad as feeding two armies, but Bilbo had not planned for it. Frantically he started doing the math. Dwarves loved meat, and so he had intended for everyone to have a whole chicken. Spring chickens were tender, but small. Now each diner would be lucky to get a quarter of a bird. Of course there was venison to be had, and enough fish for each dwarf to have a good portion in both sauces, but it would not be the same. The stew was plentiful enough. Indeed, between the stew and the potatoes there was more than enough for every person to fill their stomach, but that was not a feast. That was not special enough for his last meal at Thorin’s table.

Bilbo’s panicked calculations were suddenly interrupted by something hard striking his middle and his feet lifting from the marble floor. “Hey!”

The objection was pointless, as Kili continued to spin Bilbo around like a small child on a dance floor. “Best of hobbits! Oh Bilbo, how can I ever thank you?” asked the prince, setting his friend back down and grinning from ear to ear.

“Thank me? You haven’t even tasted the food yet. Anyway, you provided the venison.”

“Yes.” Kili laughed. “And perhaps you think you are being subtle, but Fili told me the whole story. Because of you, Tauriel dines in the mountain tonight. At the head table no less!”

“I’m fairly certain your uncle said the two of you weren’t allowed to sit together.”

“Well no.” Kili’s smile didn’t dim even a little. “It is only a first step, but it is a step taken when for months I have believed the journey impossible. Of course uncle will deny you nothing when you are only days away from leaving with Gandalf. That you should come forward to help us, though, when you have so many troubles of your own. Oh, Bilbo!”

Bilbo didn’t know how to say that he had not been looking to forward the cause of young and forbidden love so much as prove that elves liked mushrooms, but fortunately he was at that moment interrupted.

“Master Baggins does not often think of his own troubles when he sees another in need of aid,” Bard said warmly.

“Bard! I mean, Your Highness, thank you for coming.”

“It is always Bard to you, Bilbo, and I shall always come when my friends ask for me. Even if it is your fault that I am now king of Dale and so must spend my days with ledgers and lawyers instead of at some honest toil.”

Laughing, Bilbo said, “It is no one’s fault but your own if your people see your worth.” Then he greeted each of Bard’s children with a friendly hug and shook Tauriel happily by the hand. Finally he came to Gandalf, last among the small cluster of big people.

“Well my friend is it true?” the wizard asked. “An entire acre of Black Trilbies?”

“More, Gandalf!” Bilbo’s mind immediately snapped back to the importance of the evening. “Almost an acre and a half!”

“Who ever heard of such a thing? I’ll wager you did not think to find so much wealth in all of Erebor.”

Bilbo peered suspiciously up at the old man, but other than a merry twinkle in his eye there was no indication that he was mocking the hobbit. “At least you know how rare they are. I trust you will be on my side in this.”

Gandalf smiled. “And how precisely do you think I should support you?”

“Why you must tell him, of course! You must tell Thorin how very much the trilbies are worth! For you know how dwarves are. If it is not some shiny metal or a bit of pretty stone, they will refuse to believe it has value.”

“Just as hobbits refuse to respect any traditions but their own,” Dwalin said, coming up behind Bilbo. “Still, I will see you sit before my king enters his hall.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo skipped over to his little chair next to Thorin’s great seat. At least he would have Bard on his left, if he needed someone friendly to speak with. The head table was quite cleverly designed with stone blocks that could be removed from the floor to fit taller chairs where necessary. So Bilbo and Bard could sit side by side without Bilbo’s feet swinging or Bard hunching to eat with his plate on his knees. From the other tables in the hall they would appear to be of a height, if not precisely the same size. It was a comfort when Bilbo sorely needed one, for just then Thorin entered the hall in full state. Balin, Fili, and Gloin were with him, all of them dressed in their finest jewels, and their arrival marked the start of the feast.

With a dry mouth, Bilbo looked around at the rest of the company, seated as they were at the high table. All of them wore gold and silks decorated with precious stones. Even Bofur who so often prefered a warm knit cap to finery had a mithril chain braided through his hair. They looked every inch the rich dwarven lords that the quest had made them, and Bilbo had never felt so out of place in their company. He was quite certain that they knew something of what would happen after dinner, something that he did not. He was nearly positive that they had gone to such efforts with their appearance for his sake. Perhaps because they knew as he did that this would likely be the last meal they all shared together.

Piling meat, potatoes, and mushrooms on his plate, Bilbo tried to ignore the leaden weight in his stomach. Of course the food was very good, and it did look beautiful on the golden plates that were used for the high table. Morosely, Bilbo refilled his stew bowl from one of the bejeweled tureens and wished he was sitting on Thorin’s other side so that he could better hear the joke Gloin was telling.

“You are not keeping up your end of the bargain, Master Baggins,” Thorin observed, frowning at his own plate. “You are meant to tell me about the dishes.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, anxiety making him a bit rude, “the dishes are made of gold and I believe they were crafted in your grandfather’s time. They were certainly part of Smaug’s hoard, but we’ve washed them since.”

Thorin snorted and Bilbo almost thought he saw the king’s lips twitch in a fraction of a smile. “The soup is delicious, though I cannot discern the meat you used.”

“There is no meat. It's a mushroom stew. The flavor comes entirely from the Black Trilbies.”

The king gave a thoughtful hum and Bilbo ticked off a point in his own favor, especially when Thorin used a dinner roll to sop the last taste of broth from his bowl. “I think I recognize the taste now in this gelatin on the lake fish,” he said, tasting a small forkful carefully. “Though I do not see any mushrooms.”

“No. The perch is a recipe I made often in the Shire. You only need one trilby to come up with enough sauce for several fish, as long as it’s a big fat one, of course. The trick is to cook the fish in the sauce, but then rest it out of the pan while you use a bit of cornstarch to thicken the sauce into a glaze. Brushing it over the fish keeps them warm and moist while giving them that lovely shine.”

“Yes. It looks well on the plate.” Thorin took another bite and chewed it carefully.

“Though of course all that really matters is how it tastes,” Bilbo said nervously. “That’s the benefit of the Black Trilby. Just one mushroom is enough seasoning to make fish for an entire dinner party.”

“It tastes—delicate.”

Stomach plummeting to the soles of his feet, Bilbo stammered an apology, trying to salvage the situation. He knew how Thorin felt about delicate things. “I am sorry Your Judiciousness does not like it, but please don’t make up your mind just yet. Your Gloriousness. Try the trout, it’s much better. You’ll like the brown sauce, I know you will. Much more flavorful. Or the venison! You like venison. Your Stateliness.”

“I did not say I do not like it,” Thorin said with gruff politeness.

“No matter! No matter! There are plenty of other dishes for Your Majesty to try.”

In answer, Thorin shoved the entire perch into his mouth, chewing it voraciously. A little of the sauce flecked his beard, but there was far less mess than Bilbo might have expected from such a maneuver. “I like it,” the king said after he had swallowed some, but not all, of the food in his mouth. Then he washed it down with a swig of ale, looking angry.

At a bit of a loss, Bilbo focused on his own food for a minute to hide his confusion. He would not like for Thorin to be kind during the meal and then decide against the mushrooms because he did not care for the food, but he also didn’t think Thorin would lie. Moreover, he could not understand why Thorin was so forceful. It wasn’t as though the king cared what Bilbo thought.

He was saved from having to broach the silence by another soft hum from Thorin. “It may be said, perhaps, that I like this more.”

Looking up, Bilbo saw the king take a second large bite of his trout. “Oh?”

“I mean no insult to your craft, nor disparagement of your skill, but when things are more settled and I can dine as I choose without being a poor example to my people, I shall not eat fish for a year. Yet still I would eat this.”

“It's the trilbies, of course,” Bilbo said, giddy with relief. “Don't they make a nice, rich sauce?”

“Indeed. Though I am sure the product has more to do with a clever, capable chef than the rarity of his ingredients.”

Taking a long pull of his own ale, Bilbo did not panic or lose heart. There were still half a dozen dishes left for Thorin to taste. One of them would convince the king to spare those mushrooms.

Chapter Text

The feasting in the Great Hall of Erebor went on for hours. Huge roasts of venison were picked to the bone, shining glazed fish were devoured, and every plate that had been graced by savory brown mushroom sauce for the big trout was licked clean. Almost a hundred spring chickens had been roasted with sage and mushrooms, and every morsel of that meat was savored with an appreciative dwarvish grunt. Of the enormous tureens filled with mushroom stew, only a little broth remained in each. Of the mighty bowls of potatoes mashed with mushrooms and cream, barely a trace of starch yet clung to the golden dishes. Even the breadcrumb stuffing had been decimated, and Bilbo noted with pleasure that all the Black Trilbies had been picked out of the vegetable primavera and eaten. Plenty of dinner rolls were left, and dessert was yet to come, but Bilbo heard the satisfied groans of well fed dwarves ringing out all over the hall. To his ear, it was music.

Listening to Gandalf tell Bain, Bard’s son, all about the meal even as Bilbo was doing the same with Thorin was an amusing counterpoint to that melodious song.

“So halflings eat like this all the time?” the boy asked earnestly.

“Like this? Certainly not, my boy. They might eat in similar quantities at a birthday party, and most hobbits have large families and enough friends for a birthday party invitation to come round at least twice a week, but in this style? No. This should be counted a rare feast indeed in the Shire.”

“Because of a few mushrooms?”

“But you must understand, dear boy, that hobbits love mushrooms above all things. You have lived all your life on a lake and so you well know that if you fish with leeches you will catch one thing, and if you fish with earthworms another.”

“Of course. Everyone knows that.”

“Of course! Ah, to be young and know all that is worth learning.”

“No, Mister Gandalf. Please, I am sorry. Do tell me about hobbits!”

“Very well then, I will tell you this. If you wanted to lure an elf you might bait your line with a bit of poetry, for elves live long lives and they care most for that which helps them pass the time in entertainment. If you wanted to lure a man I might suggest coin, for men have very little time on this earth and they often spend it struggling to achieve one thing or another. Coin, which eases many difficulties in the wide world, is of great value to men. To catch a dwarf you had best bait your line with gold, for it is their toy and they take great joy in shaping it to their whims. But if you wished to catch a hobbit, you could not do better than to lure him with a mushroom.”

“You cannot be serious. Instead of gold?”

“Oh yes. For I have never met a hobbit yet who would part with a Black Trilby if he had only one, not for any amount of gold in the world. Certainly if he had several he might sell a few, but the hobbits he sold them to would pay a very high price indeed and count themselves grateful to do it.”

“But that is not the same as it being more valuable than gold,” Bain argued. “For a dwarf might pay gold for food. Everybody needs to eat. That doesn’t mean he values food more than gold, only that he was hungry.”

“While I might argue that in such a moment the dwarf must indeed value the food more than the gold to make the exchange, I will cede your point. So look to the people as a whole. Dwarves live most often in mountains, mining and working at their craft. Men live most often in cities, building, fighting, and competing with one another in turn. Elves live always in some natural place, writing their poems and playing at their music. But hobbits live only around the Shire, and they farm. Those that do not farm garden. And those that do not have gardens are considered very poor indeed by others of their kind, forced to live in houses built above ground and quite dependent on the kindness of wealthier neighbors.”

“For mushrooms?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“For some reason, the way Master Baggins talks, I did not think there were poor hobbits in the Shire.”

“Where there are rare things which are considered good, there will always be some with more and some with less. So I tell you Bain, son of Bard, that there are poor hobbits. Poor hobbits live in houses above ground instead of cozy burrows, and the seven meals a day which they enjoy feature buttered potatoes more often than mushrooms.”

“Seven meals a day does not sound very poor to me,” the boy said softly.

“Nor to me,” the wizard agreed. “No one ever goes hungry in the Shire—save during times of great evil like the Fell Winter when all go hungry—but that does not mean everyone eats well. No, some are wealthy, and in the Shire that means mushrooms.”

The lad hummed thoughtfully to himself. “I suppose people are different everywhere. Though it seems strange to me still to count wealth in such a way, I am sure it is good enough if it makes them happy.”

“It would serve you well to remember that, when you are a king yourself. And this.”

“What?”

“This next,” the wizard said simply.

“What next?”

But Bilbo did not hear the rest of their conversation, for just then the king spoke, demanding his attention.

“I suppose it is time for me to make a pronouncement,” Thorin said abruptly, looking around the hall.

“What? Already? You have not even had dessert. Your Majesty.” Bilbo looked hurriedly down at his own mostly full plate and Thorin’s empty one. Trying to catalog by absence whether or not the king had truly tasted every dish was futile, but the hobbit could not afford to misstep. There was too much at stake. If he succeeded, a whole acre of Black Trilbies would be allowed to grow and flourish in Erebor. If he failed, then all those lovely mushrooms would be lost.

“I am sure it will be good, but it will not change my mind. Already many of my people fall into an after-supper stupor, and I would have this heard.”

“Well, at least—at least tell me, did you like the mushroom itself? Your Brilliance.”

“The mushroom itself?”

“Yes. It was extravagance in the extreme to just cook them up like that with the other vegetables, but, well, you are a king. Your Preeminence. And I thought that if you could taste one, just one, you might. Well, you might. Well, I thought you might like it. Your Supremacy.”

“I did not eat one of the mushrooms alone,” Thorin admitted slowly.

“What?!”

“They flavor other dishes so powerfully, I thought it would be too pungent to eat one alone. I do not much care for vegetables.”

“Then what is the point of anything?!” Casting about frantically, Bilbo noted with panic the same thing that had brought him pleasure only moments before. All of the Black Trilbies had been picked happily from the communal dishes. There had never been any on Thorin’s plate, and so there were certainly none left there now.

“Master Baggins, do not trouble yourself,” the king said. “I did not mean to distress you so.”

There was a trilby left on Bilbo’s plate. He had helped himself with a hobbit’s gusto to the vegetables when they had come around, but then been far too nervous to do anything but pick at his own dinner while Thorin ate. It was inappropriate, of course, wildly so, and Bilbo knew that even in his panicked state. Yet dwarves would not understand the impropriety, and it was a desperate moment. Bilbo could not afford to sacrifice an acre of Black Trilbies to his own cowardice. Stabbing the mushroom with his own fork, he held it up for Thorin to taste.

Time seemed to slow as the king leaned forward.

Bilbo could smell him. Over the many pleasing scents of good food and mushrooms, Bilbo could smell fire, metal, and the opulent incense that followed the King Under the Mountain. Beneath that, he could even smell the warm, earthy richness of the dwarf himself, a scent that Bilbo had come to know well over the course of their long journey together. A scent that Bilbo often missed during the lonely watches of the night in his quiet guest room.

Thorin’s lips closed around Bilbo’s fork. Bilbo felt it, just a little shift in pressure, a change of the weight against his small, unworthy hand. For a long moment, the hobbit saw how pink the dwarf’s mouth was against the gold of the fork, and the shining metal looked more beautiful than ever before when contrasted against that dark beard.

Then Thorin pulled back with a deep hum of pleasure that seemed to go straight to Bilbo’s heart and pass through, shaking the hobbit’s very bones. “Oh.” Those impossibly blue eyes were wide. “It is not too strong at all,” Thorin said around the morsel. Bilbo could see his tongue. Could see the food that had come from Bilbo’s own fork. Could see those perfect white teeth chewing. “I like it.”

He liked it. A mushroom picked by Bilbo’s own hand and cooked by no other. Served from Bilbo’s plate with Bilbo’s fork. He’d taken it directly into his mouth. Bilbo could give him other things. He would like those too. Sweets. Kisses. A long, slow—but of course Thorin had no idea at all what the gesture meant to a hobbit.

Dwarves did not find meaning in food the way hobbits did. Bilbo had seen Gloin offer Oin tidbits from his own supper around the campfire many, many times though they were brothers and Gloin was ecstatically married elsewhere to boot. Bofur made a game of throwing food into his brother’s mouth, while Fili and Kili shared cutlery frequently, mostly to halve the washing up when it was their turn to do it. The entire company had often shared everything on the road, and there had been no flirtation in it. Just as there was no flirtation in the gesture now. Not on Thorin’s end at any rate.

Surreptitiously, Bilbo took a tiny morsel from his plate and tried to taste Thorin on the fork. He almost failed to notice when the king rose from his feet and the hall went quiet.

“It is known in Erebor that six times I have tried to give reward and been refused,” the King Under the Mountain said.

Bilbo squeaked and dropped the golden fork with a clatter against the table. He’d forgotten that it wasn’t only mushrooms at stake tonight. Thorin’s plan all along had been to use the occasion as an excuse to give Bilbo his going-away present.

“For great valor in battle, saving my own life and the line of Durin, I have offered gold, mithril, and jewels. I have offered valuable heirlooms, beautiful metals, and finely cut stones. All have been rejected, but I will not suffer that a seventh time.”

Shaking, Bilbo squared his shoulders. He had stung spiders, run from dragons, and riddled his way out of dark places. He could accept a gift with grace. He could leave a party with a polite smile.

“The argument up to this point has been that payment for services rendered was given and accepted. There was a contract guaranteeing a burglar one fourteenth share of the treasures of Erebor for what help he could give facing down the dragon and recovering the mountain. Of the great deeds done on that adventure I will not now speak, save to say that the contract was fulfilled beyond any right of hope or expectation. One fourteenth share of the treasure was well earned, but no sooner did the burglar have it than he gave it away. All of his treasure was given to the Men of Laketown as reparations for the destruction wrought by the dragon we woke, and to the Elves of Mirkwood—in the form of some trinkets of theirs left within the mountain—to buy peace between Erebor and that kingdom.”

Thorin nodded at Bard and Tauriel, who both gave him half bows in return. Bilbo had to admire the buildup. No amount of fast talking from a hobbit was likely to turn aside the offered reward when the full weight of such a story was behind it. Not that he intended to try, but it might have been nice to have the option. It might have been nice to have one more day.

“I have been reminded that the twelve other contracts signed by members of my company all contained provisions not included in the one offered the burglar. Restoration of privileges lost with our home,” Thorin nodded to Balin and Dwalin. “Restoration of property,” he nodded to Oin and Gloin. “Granting of titles,” Dori and Bifur, “Guarantee of a mine,” Bofur, “Promise of a guild hall,” Bombur, “Assurance of a royal appointment,” Ori, “Royal pardon for past offenses,” Nori.

“Only my heirs did not have land and titles granted them in their contracts, and even they had certain promises outlined. Kili insisted on hunting rights to the entire western slope. Having never seen the mountain, he did not know how big that tract of land would be.” Laughter burst from the assembled dwarves and the embarrassed prince rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Fili asked for a forge of his own, and the guarantee of a busy uncle’s time—in writing—to finish his Mastery of Smithing.” If anything, Fili looked more embarrassed than his brother at this revelation, but the dwarves did not laugh at him. The people of Erebor looked on the heir to their throne with intense, misty-eyed fondness. Dwarrow had an innate respect for those who sought to master a craft.

“No such provision of property or nobility was offered in the burglar’s contract. Indeed, what right could any but a dwarf have to land within Erebor? What profit could come from the mine of a burglar? He would line his own pockets and rob the realm, for well was it known that there is no such thing as an honest thief. No one but a dwarf could have wisdom or good counsel to offer a kingdom.”

Bilbo thought that was rubbing it in a little. It almost sounded like Thorin was going to destroy the Mushroom Mine in some kind of revenge for Bilbo refusing the other presents Thorin had offered. Of course Thorin had always cared a great deal for revenge, but the Black Trilbies didn’t deserve to suffer for a hobbit’s mistakes.

“That contract concluded with the death of the dragon, and it was paid. However, that contract made no mention of the great battle which was joined shortly thereafter. A hobbit from the Shire, even a brave burglar, had no place on that bloody field. He was not contracted to kill the foul creature holding a knife to my nephew’s throat. He was not contracted to put his own body between myself and the Pale Orc when I was stunned and lay bleeding. Erebor, would you see such valor go unnoticed?”

A great roar of negation echoed up to the marble arches of the hall.

“Would you see it rewarded?”

There was a resounding cheer, and Bilbo felt his heart sink. Under no circumstances could he refuse whatever Thorin was about to give him so publicly, but he would miss Erebor. He would miss the echoing halls and the dwarven music. He would miss his friends. He did not want to go.

“Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, Master Burglar, I Thorin, called Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, do deed to you, and unto your heirs, the naturally occurring cave chamber between the Hall of Echoes and the Grand Marketplace, hereafter known as Mushroom Mine, with all attendant rights and responsibilities. Let no hand profit from your labor but your own. Let no force take from you what is yours, so long as my reign, and that of my line, shall last.”

Bilbo stared at the king, unblinking.

“Do you accept?” Thorin asked after a long, silent moment.

“Gandalf?”

“Yes Bilbo?” The wizard’s voice was as quiet and conversational as it would have been during a fireside chat at Bag End, though Bilbo had no doubt that it was heard by every ear in the perfect stillness of the hall.

“New plan: don’t tell Thorin what the mushrooms are worth.”

The roar of laughter which filled the hall was deafening. Bilbo was out of his chair in half a second, shaking Thorin by the hand and thanking him profusely. Perhaps Thorin tugged at their joined hands, or perhaps Bilbo simply gave up any semblance of restraint and threw his arms about the dwarf in joy. A farm was not a going-away present. A farm was a stay-forever present. When Thorin pulled back to put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders in a kingly manner, Bilbo just ducked forward and hugged him again.

Chuckling, Thorin held the little hobbit close. “I am glad there is a treasure in my mountain that has value to you.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo said, swiping at his eyes discreetly. Probably no one but Thorin noticed with all the cheering and quaffing of ale going on about the hall. “I’m not. This isn’t about mushrooms. Only, I thought it was probably time for me to be going, and you hadn’t asked me to stay, and, well. I’m just pleased. That’s all.”

Grasping Bilbo with a force that pinned the hobbit’s arms to his side, Thorin stared down at him. There was nothing even remotely polite in the dwarf’s intense expression. “Stay,” he said fiercely. “I ask it. You have fought and bled for Erebor as much as anyone. This is your home, for as long you will have it.”

Flushing with pleasure, Bilbo looked down at Thorin’s ornamental armor and tried to lighten the mood. “Yes, well. You’ll never get me out of your guest room now, you know.”

“I have done impossible things before this day,” the king said.

Hurt, Bilbo looked up to see Thorin’s smile soften, his eyes glowing with genuine warmth.

“But I will not push my luck. If you remain in my guest room for a thousand years, I shall count myself fortunate to have had you so close.”

Bilbo grinned. He could take a little teasing if that’s all it was. Indeed, it made him feel like Thorin was his friend again to be prodded so. “As well you should. I’m a much better house guest than some I could mention. Always launder my own things, do the washing up, never keep my host up all night singing.”

Thorin laughed, but before he could answer, Bilbo was tackled from behind by Kili.

“I knew you would not leave us! I knew it!”

“Of course he would not leave us,” Fili agreed, pulling the little hobbit from his brother and into another rough embrace. “He would perish of boredom in a week without me to entertain him!”

After that, nothing would do except each and every member of the company hugging or bumping heads with Bilbo to repeated assurances that they had all known he preferred their company to his homeland. It was a gainful and emotional evening for all concerned, not only the hobbit. In the background, while he was being crushed under Dwalin’s armpit, he even heard Thorin stiffly inform Tauriel that she might be allowed within the mountain, so long as she stayed out of the royal bedrooms. Perhaps laughing at the way Kili tackled his uncle joyfully was incautious, as Dori quite knocked Bilbo to the ground with his next embrace. When Balin helped him up, he said how good it would be to have a voice like Bilbo’s on the advisory council, but the hobbit was pulled away by Bombur before he could decipher what that meant.

Fortunately, after the third time Nori assured Bilbo that no one had placed a single unlucky bet against the prospect of his staying, dessert was brought out. The small mushroom-shaped cakes proved a welcome cap to one of the best meals of Bilbo’s life. The very best, of course, having been held at Bag End almost a full year before. Another meal when he’d barely been allowed more than a bite himself, but had gained something far more valuable than dinner.

Chapter Text

If Bilbo got a late start the morning after the great mushroom feast, he could hardly be blamed. After desert there had been music, dancing, and ale. Now, a hobbit could hold his ale as well as any dwarf, but the fact remained that Bilbo had indulged a bit more than he usually would have. It was just such a relief to be staying. So if he lay abed past breakfast, feeling the warm sun on his face through his tiny window, it was only because he was lucky to have a window at all. He had been reliably informed the long porthole through tons of rock to the eastern slope of the mountain was the only window to the open air in the whole of the royal wing so he might as well enjoy it. Anyway, it was nobody’s business but his own. When time came for second breakfast, though, Bilbo levered himself out of bed. He had such a lot of work to do.

A crust of bread, a mug of tea, and a quickly fried egg: that was all he needed to be on his way. An entire acre of Black Trilbies had been entrusted to his care. It was true that they didn’t need much. The natural moisture of the cave and the composition of the stone clearly provided whatever the mushrooms needed to grow and thrive, but they did need harvesting. It was possible for trilbies to go overripe and spoil on the bud. Bilbo had at least a week of heavy work getting everything sorted so that his mushrooms would be nicely productive instead of overgrown and wild. If he got to work at once, he need not risk losing a single trilby.

Of course, he could not get to work at once. Someone was waiting for him at the big stone doors to his new mushroom mine.

“Bifur! Bofur! Good morning!”

“Hullo Bilbo!”

“Huglgla!”

“Have you come to see the mushrooms in their natural state? I should not have minded you opening the doors without me, so long as you were careful not to step on any.”

Bofur grinned. “We would be delighted to view your lands with you, Lord Baggins, but that is not why we have come.”

“Lord Baggins? Whatever could you mean by that? There are no lords among hobbits, though the Thain is a relative of mine on the Took side.”

“Well there is a dwarf lord among them now,” Bofur said cheerfully. “Or do you not know what it means to own property within the mountain?”

“I suppose I did not! Pray do not call me by a title and we shall hope ignoring it makes it go away. Thorin might have warned me, though I suppose I was too distracted by the prospect of my lovely mushrooms to hear much last night.”

“As you wish, my friend. I know you must be eager to survey your lands now that they are your own, but my brother and I thought we might ask for a moment of your time this fine morning.”

“Of course! Anything you need. You know I am ever at your service.”

Bofur’s smile grew warm and fond, and Bifur shared a knowing look with his brother. “Aye, Bilbo. We’re well aware of that.”

The older dwarf, who had only recently had part of an axe removed from his skull, said something in Khuzdul that made Bofur straighten up seriously, though still with a friendly sparkle in his eye.

“In any case, my brother and I happened to make this sign yesterday. Just an exercise in craftsmanship, you understand, but then we thought that we might be able to find a buyer for it if we headed down this way.”

Between them, the two dwarves hefted a long rectangle of obsidian, nearly as tall as they were and as long as the two of them together, showing it to Bilbo. The face of the sign had bright gold calligraphy written in the Shire style as though it had been Bilbo’s own hand holding a truly giant pen. It read “The Mushroom Mine” as smoothly as if it was crafted with ink instead of beaten gold. Around the base of the sign were little mosaics of mushrooms made out of gemstones. Bright red toadstools were depicted in rubies and diamonds, springing up between blades of grass made of shining green peridot, comfortably surrounded by little brown button mushrooms formed from topaz. It was absolutely charming, all the moreso for being crafted with typical dwarvish excess.

“Oh! My friends!” Bilbo was quite speechless. “I am quite speechless! It is more beautiful than I can say.”

“Right,” Bofur said. “Fair’s fair. You’re our friend and we won’t overcharge you. I’ll trade it to you for one of those brown fish you made last night, and Bifur wants some more of the potatoes.”

Laughing, Bilbo hugged them both. “It’s a bargain. What’s more, I’ll make it a proper meal. Come to my apartment at the midday bell, and you’ll have a lunch that puts last night’s dinner to shame.”

Once the deal was agreed to by all parties, Bilbo was allowed to work with his mushrooms accompanied by the pleasant sound of two dwarves efficiently hanging a sign over his brand new door.

Of course such lunch plans took preparation, so Bilbo only had an hour or two to spend among his mushrooms. Still, every moment in that place was a pleasure. Bilbo followed the path down the center of his little farm that had been created by the two bumbling kitchen apprentices. As he did so, he was forced to admit, if only to himself, that its existence wasn’t a complete tragedy. He might do well to put down flagstones of some material that the Black Trilbies could not take root in to preserve the path. As he left any overripe mushrooms to seed a new generation if they would, the little places he could step safely might one day disappear. That would not suit. Not when it was such a joy to crouch among them, carefully plucking the very best for use and leaving the small to grow big. Even in spring, the smell of so many mushrooms always brought to mind the best parts of harvest time and plenty. A few stolen moments in the morning was not nearly enough time to spend with them.

However, an hour and a half was enough time to fill a basket for himself and a barrel for Bombur’s kitchen, taking only perfectly ripe trilbies. Indeed, the only part of his labor that could be called work was trying to drag the barrel to Bombur himself. Fortunately, one of the apprentices, the lamb-like lass who had had such trouble recognizing the differences between filleted fish the day before, popped up just before elevenses on suspicion that Bilbo might need her. It was a bit embarrassing to watch the young girl lift the heavy thing easily, especially when she and Bilbo were almost of a height, but walking together gave Bilbo the opportunity to correct his earlier oversight in manners and get the dwarrowdam’s name.

Finding out that Lea was only sixty three was a bit of a surprise. She was barely of age in dwarvish terms, not at all the sort of person a hobbit would expect to find already working in the kitchen of a king. Still, dwarves were strange about some things. She would not under any circumstances call him Bilbo, but he did manage to talk her down to Master Baggins. Since they’d started the walk at Lord Master Burglar, Bilbo was quite willing to call that a success.

Another success, this one for the Black Trilby more than the hobbit personally, was that Bombur wanted to pay him for the mushrooms beyond simply trading a few items from his larder so that Bilbo could make a respectable luncheon for his friends.

“You’ve proved their value, so take value for them,” the plump cook said jovially.

In truth, Bilbo did not argue much against taking the coin. His funds over the course of the last year had been practically nonexistent, and selling trilbies was a very respectable way to make a living. Though his money in the Shire came mostly from tenants and his inheritance, he should not have been ashamed to open up a little mushroom shop if he had happened upon such wealth during his less adventurous days. Anyway, he could certainly use a new waistcoat or two if he was definitely settling in Erebor.

He did not spend long in Bombur’s kitchen, though his guilt at treating it like a grocery was mitigated by accepting an invitation to a private dinner at the recently constructed guild hall. Not only would it give him a chance to have a proper talk with Bombur about how exactly one should go about selling produce in Erebor—other than directly to the royal kitchens—but the hobbit was curious about the guild.

Anyone who lived among dwarves soon got the idea that guilds were rather important to them, of course. They seemed to be something of a cross between a regular pub and a group of people in the same profession. There was nothing at all like it in the Shire, but the clubs were very important to dwarves. Bilbo knew without knowing quite how he knew that Dori was part of a guild of weavers, for instance. Bifur and Bofur belonged to the guild of artisans, but Bofur was also somehow a miner. There was a merchant’s guild for Gloin, a healer’s guild for Oin, and a guild of scribes for Ori. It was strange that Bombur had asked for a guild hall as part of his contract, but it was even more unusual to Bilbo’s mind that the hobbit had no idea what guild the cook belonged to. If there was a guild of chefs, it didn’t seem to be something people spoke of.

Still, Bilbo’s curiosity could wait. There was something much more important to see to: lunch.

When Bifur and Bofur knocked at Bilbo’s door precisely at noon, they found trout and potatoes as requested. They also found Baggins Black Bread, egg and mushroom puffs, sweet candied carrots, spicy mushroom crostini with fresh goat cheese, stuffed mushrooms, watercress soup with mushrooms, and little strawberry shortcakes for afters. It was a lovely luncheon, if Bilbo said so himself, with lots of dishes to sample and plenty of everything. Afterward, the brothers kicked back in their chairs and claimed they could not move for having eaten so much.

“I think we got the better end of the deal, Bifur,” Bofur said.

“Ai. Ai, ut gaang.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said. “It was so very kind of you to make my little mine a sign like that. Of course it is far too grand for me, but it is just right for Erebor. I feel almost dwarvish to own it. Yet it is in the Shire style, and it is a sign for mushrooms, and I shall never find the right words to tell you how it makes me feel quite at home. Like I belong here.”

Bofur’s smile was soft and warm. “You do, Bilbo. We all belong here,” and if the words were an echo of other words said in despair on the side of another, more dangerous mountain, they were not less powerful for that.

Hugging them both was simply necessary then, as was making a nice pot of digestive tea.

Of course lingering all day over lunch was a luxury they did not even contemplate. Erebor needed two of its finest craftsmen to aid in the rebuilding efforts, and Bilbo needed to get back to his mushrooms.

They really were quite lovely. A thick, living carpet over the cold stone of the cave chamber. Where they were too crowded, he thinned them to make room. Where they were plump and perfect, he harvested them happily. And where the Black Trilbies were overripe, he gently encouraged them to go to seed in the few unpopulated directions. Of course they would only spread with a great deal of luck, but it didn’t hurt to nudge things along in his favor. By the end of the day, he had nine big barrels of perfect trilbies and plenty of ideas about what to do with them.

The riches of Erebor indeed.

Chapter Text

Without really knowing what to expect of Bombur’s guild, Bilbo dressed his best for dinner. Unfortunately, his best wasn’t particularly impressive these days. He had a rather nice red dinner jacket crafted by Dori just after Bilbo’s arm had started to heal enough to put one on. The friendly dwarf had “sold” it to the hobbit for two crowns and a bit of pipe weed, as though Bilbo would be shy about taking charity. Sadly, under the jacket he had only a mostly white shirt and rather threadbare trousers. Still, it was what he had, and it had been good enough for the king’s table the night before. It would have to be good enough for Bombur’s guild.

It definitely seemed to be good enough for Bombur, whose chubby cheeks stretched in a grin fit to break his face when he fetched Bilbo to show him to the guild hall.

“You’re in a fine mood tonight,” the hobbit observed as his weighty friend practically skipped through the halls of Erebor.

“I am indeed,” Bombur said. “For the second time after long months of rough going, I have served to the king’s table a meal of which I need not be ashamed. Beyond that, tonight I have burgled the burglar and we shall have an even better supper than that.”

Laughing, Bilbo said, “You have not stolen me away. I often miss dinner in the great hall.”

“But you do not often come to dinner with me, and you have never visited a dwarven guild hall before this day. Welcome, Bilbo Baggins, to the Culinary Guild.”

The enormous arched doors were made of gold. This was no unusual thing in Erebor, but Bilbo couldn’t believe he’d never noticed them before. Granted the city was vast and absolutely filled with expertly crafted treasures; even so, the doors to the Culinary Guild were unique. Instead of runes and abstract carvings, they were sculpted into the scene of a wonderful feast. Looking upon them was like looking down at a huge table during a birthday party, where everything that was good to eat had been gathered. Bilbo saw meat and fruit—roasted lamb and golden apples so real he was tempted to have a bite of one—beautiful creations of pastry and elaborate appetizers. The desserts were so many in number and so detailed in depiction that the hobbit’s mouth began to water. When the doors opened, Bilbo didn’t step through, instead he kept staring at the bas-relief trying to decipher every detail of the tempting dishes.

Clapping a warm hand to the small of Bilbo’s back, Bombur ushered him through. “You can come back and have a proper look at the doors any time you like. I’m rather proud of them myself. As the commissioning financier, I had a lot of input in the designs.”

“They’re incredible,” Bilbo said honestly.

Chuckling, Bombur was a shade too modest to agree. “Unfortunately, the rest of the hall is a bit less so just now. We may be established by the king’s decree, but we still have to bid for skilled workers the same as everyone else. Getting us settled just isn’t the same priority as making sure all of the public throughways are safe and reopening the mines.”

“I think you have a lovely hall,” Bilbo said. Polite enough, but also true. For all that it did not compare in size or scope to the Great Hall of Erebor, the Culinary Guild Hall was enormous by hobbit standards. There were many arched doors off to either side which Bombur referred to as store rooms, work rooms, and housing for apprentices, all of which Bilbo was welcome to explore if he liked, but the hall itself was centered around a single gigantic table shaped like a horseshoe. About twenty dwarves were already seated, most gathered toward the top of the arch, but it looked like the table might easily seat a hundred, and that was if they only sat around the outer edge.

“Good.” Bombur gripped Bilbo’s shoulder tight for a moment before showing him to a seat next to Kira along the righthand curve of the table. Bombur himself sat in a great chair at the apex of the horseshoe, but that was quite alright. It was a very good dinner, and Bilbo had dozens of questions about each dish which Kira seemed more than happy to answer. Dwarvish cuisine really was a lot more than roasted meat and road stews, Bilbo was coming to learn.

“How could I not have realized Bombur was part of such a wonderful guild?” Bilbo asked aloud somewhere between a delightful course of breaded rockfish roe and a truly delicate cornmeal souffle.

“Easily enough, I imagine,” Kira said. “We have only existed for a few months.”

“Is that so? For some reason, I thought that the guilds all existed in other places. That they were connected somehow.”

“And so they are,” Kira said. “A miner from the Blue Mountains may find welcome with his guild in the Iron Hills though he has never before met any of them in person. Yet there has never been a Culinary Guild in any dwarven kingdom before the retaking of Erebor.”

“Whyever not?”

“Lea, you may tell Mister Baggins our history.”

Bilbo realized with some embarrassment that Bombur’s lamb-like helper, with whom he was just as acquainted as Kira, had been seated to his right all evening. He had quite rudely neglected any conversation in that corner. The fault was all the more evident when the girl grinned, clearly very pleased to give him a history lesson.

“For as long as the Children of Mahal have eaten food, they have crafted it. Fire is our tool, and meat is never eaten raw. Did not Durin himself shape a cooking pot of ironwork and call it pleasing? Yet never was the pursuit of excellence in such a craft called dwarvish. Never was a cook called a Master. For food is not iron, and a meal cannot be crafted to pass from one generation to the next.”

“Poppycock,” Bilbo said, then quickly apologized for interrupting.

“As you say, Lord Baggins.”

“Mister, please, Lea, we covered that this morning.”

“Master Baggins,” she corrected. “Those who pursue the craft in love have always known this to be untrue. Recipes and techniques may be passed on to others. Skill can be measured. There is a great difference between eating a meal cooked by the unskilled and enjoying one crafted by a Master. Yet never was our right for self governance recognized, nor the need to regulate our trade. Even as every tinker and tailor plied their trade openly charging a fair price, our work went unrewarded—with only a pittance paid for time—since dwarves must be fed. The last petition for a guild before Lord Bombur’s was made here in Erebor during the time of King Thror. He laughed at the idea that food could have value as anything more than fuel for better crafts, and sent the petitioners away with one word: no. It was only through Lord Bombur’s prescience in joining the Quest and King Thorin’s great wisdom that we are now established here in Erebor. I count myself among the most fortunate dwarves in history to be able to train in the craft that calls to me by the great masters here.”

“I wish you joy of your studies,” Bilbo said. “From what I saw yesterday you’re very talented, and I cannot think of a better master than Bombur to study with. Anyone who can keep thirteen dwarves and one hungry hobbit fed as well as he did with only hastily packed supplies has much to teach.”

For some reason Lea flushed at that. Or she seemed to as best Bilbo could tell, given the low light and her extremely bushy brown beard. Instead of answering, she mumbled something that might have been thanks into a rather tasty salmon mousse.

Bilbo turned back to Kira, who looked amused. “And I wish you the joy of your guild. It sounds long overdue.”

“Indeed it was,” Kira said amiably, and they went back to discussing the courses and the trick to getting mousse to stand up just so.

Dinner really was magnificent, though Bilbo could tell that they had made much of little through hard work and the judicious application of excellent seasoning. For one thing, there was no meat at all on the table except for fish, and Bilbo expected that members of the Culinary Guild shared the general dwarrow preference for roasts ripe on the bone. Not that the lack bothered Bilbo in the least. Every dish was a delight, and plated with a great eye to beauty besides. Only after almost two hours did the courses flag, when Bombur rose to speak after the third dessert.

“I have witnessed a Mastery,” he said without preamble. “For when there was food I myself disparaged as bare sufficiency, a feast was made.”

Bilbo put his hands together thinking to applaud the lovely dinner, but as no one else did the same he stopped and sat quietly.

Across the table, Darro stood. “I have witnessed a Mastery,” she said. “I was privileged to taste an ancient recipe made perfectly from memory alone.”

Bilbo wondered which of the dishes had been an ancient dwarven recipe, but it seemed rude to ask Kira just then.

“I have witnessed a Mastery,” said Gorful. “For a Master knows that not every dish is to be served on every occasion. I saw a meal prepared to work seamlessly, not simply impress with as many embellishments as could be mustered.”

It seemed as though everyone was going to compliment the meal. Bilbo tried to think of something appropriate to say, but it wasn’t easy. “The potatoes and cheese were particularly nice,” didn’t seem to be in keeping with the general terms of expression.

“I have witnessed a Mastery,” Kira said. “For a Master’s knowledge is broad as well as deep and he takes pleasure always in adding to that scope.”

“I have witnessed a Mastery,” Lea said, standing up very quickly. Suddenly Bilbo was quite glad that he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say, for reactions around the table seemed to indicate that it was not entirely appropriate for the girl to join in. Still, Bombur gave her a nod and she continued. “When I was ignorant, I was corrected with grace. My errors were noted before they could affect the outcome of our labors, but though time is always short in a kitchen, learning was given precedence over working without understanding.”

Bilbo thought that was very fine indeed, and he was not alone. All around the table, dwarves were nodding in agreement that this was a quality to be desired in a kitchen with apprentices. Though it still didn’t seem time for Bilbo to speak quietly to a seatmate, he reminded himself to congratulate Lea later for whatever part she had played in the creation of the meal. Even if it had only been peeling potatoes, any contribution to such a delightful dinner ought to be commended.

For a long moment, it seemed as if no one else was going to say anything, and Bilbo wondered if he ought to just to fill the silence. Then Bombur said, “All here bore witness to the results. What say you Masters? Who among you has witnessed a Mastery?” Darro, Kira, and Gorful all raised a fist as did two other dwarves Bilbo did not recognize. Bombur appeared pleased by this result.

“What say you Craftsmen? Who among you witnessed a Mastery?” About ten more fists were raised in the air, and Bombur looked even happier.

“Apprentices, have any of you witnessed a Mastery?” All of the remaining dwarves raised their fists immediately. Bilbo wondered if he ought to join in somehow, but as he was not included in the groups Bombur was specifically addressing, he kept his hands to himself.

“Very well then. Bilbo Baggins, Lord of the Mushroom Mine in Erebor, Master Burglar: given that no kingdom would ever allow a Thieves’ Guild to build a hall within its borders, will you join our company as a Master of the Culinary Arts?”

The hobbit blinked. “What me?”

Bombur laughed. “Yes you, my little friend. For I had not known you a week before I knew that you were a Master in the kitchen. Join our guild and share with us the Shire ways of using mushrooms to make stew and we will give you our secrets in turn.”

“Oh, well of course. I should be very happy to. Thank you for the invitation,” Bilbo said, a little uncertainly.

That seemed to be enough for Bombur, however, who waved Bilbo out of his chair. Having him come up to the apex of the horseshoe table, Bombur presented the hobbit with a fancy jeweled lapel pin and a ornate wooden box with little stamps inside. Looking around the room, Bilbo saw that everyone who had raised a hand for the call of Masters had a similar jeweled cauldron pin displayed prominently about their person, though not everyone wore it in the same place.

“Do you swear to Mahal that you shall keep our secrets and our codes lest your maker shall unmake you and ban you from the halls of our fathers? That you shall never knowingly serve food which might harm the one who eats it; that you shall prepare all you serve to the best of your ability; that you shall help and guide others as they pursue our craft; that you shall work for the betterment of the guild; and that you shall pursue perfection in your craft all the days of your life?”

Bilbo thought about it for a moment.

“I swear to Mahal and to Yavanna that I will keep the secrets and the codes of the Culinary Guild. I will never knowingly serve food that might bring harm. I will always prepare the food I serve to the best of my ability. I will help and guide others that pursue the craft. I will work for the betterment of the guild as I may. I will pursue perfection in my craft all the days of my life. If I do not keep this oath, may my maker unmake me and ban me from her far green country which is promised hobbits after death, and also the halls of the dwarven fathers. As suits them. I should never presume to tell that great Lady and her Lord their business.”

Laughter from the small group bounced around the hall, and Bilbo could see the guild the way Bombur wanted it to be. All of the empty chairs around the horseshoe would one day be filled at every dinner and the majesty and grandeur of Erebor would imbue a ceremony such as this one with the dignity and history that came effortlessly to other guilds.

“I had forgotten how hobbits swear oaths,” Bombur said, pinning the jeweled cauldron to Bilbo’s jacket. “Still, that will do well enough. Some were concerned about you swearing to Mahal alone, as you are right, he alone was not your maker.”

“That is not how hobbits swear oaths,” Bilbo said.

Bombur tilted his head to one side curiously.

“I am not a dwarf,” Bilbo said quietly, and a few of the guild members closest to him stopped laughing to listen. “I do not presume to know your ways. But I have spent a little time with dwarves. I think I know this much: that your crafts come to you from Mahal. You do not choose them. Dwarrow are born—made—with a calling. It is not the same for hobbits, of course. The only call we ever hear is to the supper table.”

A small chuckled bounced around the table and Bilbo knew that everyone was listening, though he did not look away from his friend’s face.

“Still, I know that those around this table who are called Masters have spent their lives in pursuit of work that they must have believed would never be acknowledged or rewarded. You have spent your lives mastering a craft while knowing that such mastery would never be valued by your own people. And you pursued it anyway. You have worked at it every day only to be scorned or to have your contributions belittled. That isn’t fair. It isn’t right. You deserve to have a guild as honored and respected as any other dwarf pursuing any other craft. And I will help you build it, if I can.”

The room was very quiet for a moment. Bombur’s mouth opened and closed a few times. Then a big, fat tear rolled down his ruddy cheek and he was crushing Bilbo to his chest, bawling. “Aye,” the dwarf cried. “Aye, I have heard a hobbit oath just like that once before.”

Patting his back awkwardly, Bilbo tried to pull away, but Bombur seemed to need a good long cry. It was quite mortifying, really, but since Bilbo could not see the other dwarves of the guild, he counted to one hundred and pretended they were somewhere private. Eventually, Bombur did release him. Bilbo pretended not to notice as the big dwarf made use of a handkerchief. Putting his hands in his pockets, he politely ignored the loud trumpet of Bombur blowing his nose. And then again. And a third time. Bilbo fought the urge to whistle. He could not make eye contact with anyone else in the room under any circumstance. Oh dear. There was a fourth hooting sound followed by great big sniffles.

“If dwarvish emotions make you so uncomfortable,” Darro said, catching his attention by pulling on his sleeve, “You should not make such speeches.” The gray bearded dam had tears in her own eyes, though she was grinning fiercely up at Bilbo from her seat. Then she rose and hugged him as well.

After quite a while the ceremony resumed. Bombur—having washed his hands in a golden basin—handed Bilbo a bit of pickled ginger on a rather interesting green cracker. It was very good as a spicy palate cleanser, and Bilbo didn’t realize right away that it was meant to be part of the ceremony until Bombur pushed him over to the basin and he washed his own hands. Still, he was no cotton-headed Boffin. He figured out quickly enough that he was meant to put the ginger on the crackers, season it with a bit of chopped basil, and give one each to all of the members of the guild. Once that was through, everyone drank small glasses of liquor and followed it with the swearing of more oaths. There were a lot of oaths, and even more tiny glasses of liquor.

When Bilbo woke the next morning it was to find himself underneath the big horseshoe table. Bombur was nearby, snoring in his guildmaster’s chair. All around he could hear the familiar chorus of dwarven slumber. Honestly, after all such a night the hobbit was not a bit surprised.

Chapter Text

It was very early, Bilbo thought to himself as he tapped lightly at the door to Balin’s office. Probably the dwarf was not yet at work. Bilbo would have to come back later. Some other day, even.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck. Balin opened the door at once and welcomed Bilbo in with a smile. The old advisor was not even alone. Thorin and Ori were both with him, looking over some papers at Balin’s large writing desk.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, turning to go. “I’m interrupting. My apologies. Perhaps we can speak later.”

Stopping the little hobbit easily with one hand to his shoulder, Balin turned him around. “Some trouble you’re in then, lad?”

“No, no, not trouble. Not exactly. I just wanted your advice. Well, to run something past you, really and see what you thought of it. But obviously you’re advising the King right now, and that is much more important.”

“We will leave you,” Thorin said, drawing up to his full height with dignity and authority.

Bilbo sighed. “No. Please don’t, if you have a minute. I should like to know what you think as well.” And how angry you will be, the hobbit added silently. Really it was best to get it out of the way all at once.

“Very well,” the king said, looking at Bilbo impassively.

Rather than fumbling with words, Bilbo simply took the golden cauldron pin, with all of its diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, and pinned it to the front of his jacket. All three dwarves understood at once, judging from the way Ori immediately started swearing in Khuzdul.

“So perhaps I acted hastily and without full possession of the facts, especially since I was aware that the situation is a bit political, but can you tell me why it is such a bad thing that I should join Bombur’s guild?”

“It is no bad thing,” Thorin said. Smiling with a great deal of warmth, the king put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Allow me to congratulate you on your Mastery. I know little of cookery, but I know that you deserve it.”

“It is a terrible thing!” Ori cried. “That snake! That dragon! He knew that you were working with me in the library. That is as good as an apprenticeship, though you have not paid me. May his mustache wither and fall off! Now that you own land and are a Lord—which is as good as any dwarf and better than most—I should finally have been able to teach you proper runes.”

“Peace, Ori,” Balin said. “Bilbo can still study Khuzdul with you, and take Mastery with the Guild of Scribes should he desire it.”

“Second Mastery,” Ori said, as though it was another curse.

“Er,” Bilbo said. “I don’t quite—”

“Many dwarves take up other crafts once they have Mastered their first,” Balin explained. “A great warrior for instance,” he nodded to Thorin, “might become a Master Blacksmith as well, to better understand his weaponry. I myself have a Second Mastery with the Guild of Scribes, due to my study of political histories.”

“It’s not the same!” said Ori.

“Ori is distressed, because first loyalty goes to the First Mastery. If you should join other guilds to study other crafts, your first duty would still be to the Culinary Guild.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo said. “My first loyalty is to Thorin, though.” When he noticed how still this declaration made the others, especially the king, he quickly added, “I mean the Company. Erebor. All that.”

Balin smiled. “Aye. That is right enough. And it would do Ori well to remember his is the same, as he accuses Bombur of stealing you away.”

“This is a good thing,” Thorin said firmly. “I knew Bombur would not let his people tax you unduly, but now you will be able to do what you will with your mushrooms.”

“Tax?” Bilbo was vaguely familiar with the concept of taxes. In the Shire they were mostly voluntary, of course, but he’d always seen the sense behind giving a little money now and again to keep up the Bounders and the roads and whatnot.

“Indeed,” Balin said. “Guilds have a right to regulate their crafts. If a non-member wishes to sell prepared foodstuffs in Erebor, they must obtain a license from the Culinary Guild and pay a small percentage of their profits for the privilege.”

“Oh. Is that why your grandfather did not want them to have a guild?”

Thorin looked sharply at Bilbo. His blue eyes were narrow and considering, but he didn’t seem to find whatever he was looking for in Bilbo’s face. “My grandfather did not want them to have a guild for the same reason I did not want Bard to have the gold I promised to the people of Laketown. When one is mad, one does not think much of the needs of others.”

A hiss broke the silence of the office, and Bilbo realized he was sucking in air as though he had forgotten to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“All is well,” Thorin said, and his features softened. “You did not know. Moreover, you are correct that the inherent right of a guild to tax is an often cited reason why a Culinary Guild has not been allowed to form. It is common for the poor of any city to earn a little money by catching rabbits or gathering food and selling to others without the time to do so. A mother might make stew enough for her children and invite neighbors to eat the extra for a small fee. Yet there is a danger in that, too.”

“Many times over the course of our exile,” Balin said, “our people were taken advantage of. Wicked men would sell us bad meat or poor foodstuffs for far more than we could afford. Even dwarven merchants who were unused to dealing in food but saw the potential for profit were guilty of making people sick. It cannot happen again. A well regulated guild is the best answer.”

“It is an answer,” Thorin agreed, “And I am happy enough to give it to Bombur. Certainly the ancient prejudice against crafting with cookery is foolish. That is based more upon the fact that ingredients must always come from Yavanna’s gifts instead of Mahal’s than any true doubt of the skill required. But though I would have them regulate the sale of foodstuff in Erebor, I cannot afford to offer the Culinary Guild a monopoly on the providing of it.”

“No,” Bilbo said, realizing what the king meant. “The poor of your realm will always have a table at which to eat.” The hobbit’s little heart felt like it would melt away within his chest. Thorin’s face was so gentle and good.

“Yes, they will.” That deep voice rumbled through Bilbo’s body and set his stomach aflutter. “To Bombur’s credit, he did not even argue the point with me, though his guild is paid for labor done in my kitchen at a far lesser rate than they might charge to other coffers.”

“You really are a very fine king,” Bilbo said softly. “Very fine indeed.” He felt he should drown in the deep blue of Thorin’s eyes, and he would not mind a bit. Meeting such an end was not an unhappy fate at all.

Gifting him with a rare true smile, Thorin said, “It is not a time for me to receive congratulations.” A warm, impossibly strong hand went to the back of Bilbo’s neck and pulled him close. For a wild, desperate second, the hobbit thought Thorin might kiss him. Instead, Bilbo found his forehead pressed against the king’s in a dwarvish gesture he had received before from other members of the company though never with such an effect. It felt nice. Nicer than a hug even, for both of Thorin’s hands were on him, one holding the base of his neck and the other gripping Bilbo’s waist firmly. Bilbo put his own hands to Thorin’s sides and held on gently, keeping him close.

“Achieving a Mastery in any craft is no small thing, my burglar. I am proud of you.” Thorin’s breath was hot across Bilbo’s cheeks and it smelled a bit like tea. For a much longer, much wilder moment, Bilbo thought he might lose all control of himself and kiss the king.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly, his heart racing in his chest.

Leaving Bilbo utterly bereft, Thorin straightened up and turned back to the papers on the desk that had been forgotten when the hobbit interrupted. “Now, I must go see Doron about the price of granite. If we are correct about this precedent then he is behaving criminally.”

“We are,” Balin said, following the change of subject easily.

Bilbo, who had a hobbit’s natural tendency to fail to drop a subject that interested him even when given a large hint, said, “Won’t you come with me to breakfast?”

“I have already had tea,” Thorin said dismissively. Bilbo assumed he meant the beverage not the meal, as it was only just dawn. Drinking a cup of tea might certainly be part of breakfast, but the hobbit failed to see how it precluded taking the rest of the meal.

“I will come with you, Bilbo,” Ori said, “for I have had nothing at all this morning, and now that the translating is done I am not needed here.”

“As will I,” Balin said. “Even an old body like mine needs fuel.”

Unfortunately Thorin only nodded, giving the three of them permission to go, before stalking off elsewhere to do kingly things. However, Bilbo did not sigh to see him go. Really it was quite a lucky escape, as the hobbit might have embarrassed himself if things had continued on in such a friendly way.

Growing accustomed once more to Thorin’s proximity, to the intensity of his good opinion, to how much Bilbo craved the slightest touch of the king’s hand: all of that would take time. Only ever seeing him at a polite distance for months on end meant Bilbo was no longer used to things like a friendly pat on the shoulder. Hopefully he would acclimate sooner rather than later. Once he did, they could return to the amiable camaraderie he had struggled so hard to earn along the road to Erebor without anything embarrassing happening.

In the meantime there was other work to be done, and Bilbo was very pleased to be allowed space in the Culinary Guild hall to do it. A nice young dwarf with one of the plain gold cauldron pins—indicating the was a craftsman—pointed Bilbo to an empty workroom. There wasn’t much in it but a fireplace and a single table, which made it perfect for his uses. It was clear that the underpopulated, unfinished guild was being built with the expectation of many more occupants in the future. Bilbo was also able to nip a good knife, needle, and ball of string from the guild storeroom. He was a burglar, after all, and he would put the knife back.

By far the most useful thing he acquired in the guild hall that morning, though, was not string, space, or tools. It was young Lea, who seemed more than happy to help him carry the nine big barrels of mushrooms from his little farm to the workroom. She carried barrels Bilbo could not lift two at a time, seeming happy to volunteer, even when he made it clear that only one was to go to Bombur’s kitchen.

“You’re a very useful lass to have about,” Bilbo observed happily when they brought the last barrel of trilbies to the workroom. His pocket was jingling merrily with the proceeds of the sale to the royal kitchen, and he had a solid plan. “I don’t suppose you’d like to learn to string mushrooms for drying.”

“Yes!” she cried, grinning fiercely and startling the little hobbit rather badly. Immediately, she schooled her features professionally. “I mean, if it please you, Master Baggins. I should very much like to work as your apprentice. For five crowns a week?”

“Oh. Well.” Bilbo supposed he should have been expecting as much. It wasn’t fair to ask her to work for free of course; he really ought to pay her. Five crowns a week was manageable, though it might take him a little while longer to get things set up if he had to budget for a regular expense. Likely, he would not be able to invest as much as he wanted in the riskier, but more amusing, venture he had planned. Still, fair was fair, and five crowns a week was a pittance for a such a strong, young dwarf.

“Seven crowns,” she said quickly, before he could agree to the first price.

“Er, what?” Bilbo was fairly sure haggling usually worked the other way round, and it wasn’t particularly nice of her to increase her asking wage by such a sum so abruptly.

“I insult you by offering so little,” Lea said. “Ten crowns a week, please.”

“Lea, I don’t understand. Are you offering to pay me? To work for me?”

“To work as your apprentice.” Lea narrowed her eyes as if wondering if Bilbo might be a bit slow. It was an expression he was used to seeing on dwarvish faces. “I should very much like to learn from you. I know you have only just been made a Master, and only just learned my name as well, but we have worked together many times in the royal kitchen. You have skill and knowledge that no dwarrow possesses.”

“Well.” Bilbo felt his chest puffing up a bit. That was quite a high compliment from a dwarf. “I am very flattered, and I should very much like to have you work for me. I’d be more than happy to teach you a few tricks in the kitchen. However, by my own customs, you know, I should pay you for your labor. There will be a lot of carrying heavy barrels in your future, if you throw your lot in with me. We may take trips to Dale Markets when I need produce and fresh herbs, for I do not trust them to bring the best to Erebor when so many dwarves cannot tell the difference. Probably there will be a great deal of other tedium besides. I am trying to sell my mushrooms in the best way, and that must be my first priority. I cannot be always teaching you new things.”

“Yes,” she agreed quickly. “That is exactly what I expect of an apprenticeship. I am a hard worker. Lord Bombur will vouch for me. I can be of use to you as you build your business.”

“I’m sure you can,” Bilbo said warmly, pleased to find her so excited to work for him even after he explained. “I shall pay you five crowns a week to start. I know it is not much, but once things start moving and I have more liquid capital, I promise to triple it.”

“Absolutely not,” Lea said, brown eyes wide with shock. “I want to be your apprentice, not a hired hand. But perhaps you would be kind enough to accept five crowns a week from me for the privilege. It is very little.”

“It is very ridiculous,” Bilbo said. “If you are paying me to work where does your own money come from? You will never get anywhere if you do not look out for yourself, young lady.”

“I can make five crowns in a single day working with the restoration groups. Any dwarf can. Perhaps you do not know, but it is common for a Master to give his apprentice a day of freedom once a week. If you should accept me, I could use such a day to earn my apprentice fee and not go into debt at all.” She said this as though it was the greatest dream a young dwarf might have. Bilbo found the idea appalling.

“Or, you could keep those five crowns and have five more from me besides. I promise I will teach you all I can whether or not I pay you, but I will not have you working all the time for the privilege of more work. That is not an apprenticeship. That is slavery.”

Folding her arms over her chest, the dwarf squared her jaw obstinately. “I must pay to learn my craft, otherwise there is no proof of my devotion. If you will not accept this, then I cannot be your apprentice.” Having spent nearly a year among dwarves, Bilbo could see the unhappiness behind that stubborn face. If she was the emotional sort, like Dori or Bombur, he thought she might be near tears. If she was the other sort, like Dwalin or Thorin, she was probably near a spontaneously violent and shocking action.

“One crown a week,” Bilbo said, giving in. “You may pay me one crown a week for the wonderful privilege of lifting and carrying all the dwarvish things that I am too little to lift and carry myself. That will give you some breathing room and a little spending money of your own if you are making five crowns a week elsewhere, though I tell you now that if you should forget to pay me every so often I will not mind.”

Relaxing a little at this concession, Lea said, “It is an insult to your skill as a Master to pay you so little. Any who know I pay so small a fee will think less of you, and less of our guild as a result.”

“I do not see what business it is of anyone else’s what agreement we come to.”

“Nor do I,” she agreed, finally uncrossing her arms. “We can draw up a contract between ourselves. There is no need to pay a scribe. As a Lord of Erebor, anything you set your pen to will be legal enough.”

Bilbo sighed. He’d nearly forgotten how fond dwarves were of contracts. They lost the better part of the morning arguing over clauses as he drew one up. Naturally, their points of disagreement had been entirely cultural. He wanted to guarantee her a day off every week in writing. She thought more than a line spent on that was a waste of ink, but wanted to spend four inches carefully detailing that she would be allowed to take breaks for eating and sleeping, as well as the times of day that she would be allowed to eat and sleep. She even wanted it in writing that she should be allowed to relieve herself. As though Bilbo would ever deny anyone the basic right to a nice luncheon and a little private time. However, they were able to reach consensus in most places, and Bilbo was able to crib a few things like funeral arrangements should she die in his service directly from his own contract with Thorin’s Company. Of course she thought those passages were very appropriate and perfectly phrased.

After a break for lunch, they signed the contract, Bilbo received one gold coin from his new apprentice, and they finally got down to the important work of stringing mushrooms to dry. It was time consuming, but most things worth doing were.

Chapter Text

Having an apprentice was very pleasant. Simple things like going to the great market for wax paper, parchment, and glue were made fun when they would have once been a chore. This was because Lea knew the going rate for those things and was much better at argumentative dwarvish haggling than Bilbo, who would have paid far more without her. She was also very efficient and careful with the trilbies. So much so, that Bilbo soon trusted her to cut and string them for drying without his direct supervision, which gave him more time to spend in his little mine, harvesting and seeing to the growth of the precious mushrooms.

Still, he was not so hard at work among his trilbies that he did not have time for his friends. Or perhaps it was his friends who refused to be forgotten. They seemed content to spend only one dinner cursing Bombur and congratulating Bilbo on his Mastery. For the most part Bilbo hid next to Thorin that evening. No one was ever too demonstrative in the immediate proximity of the stone-faced king. The exception to this rule proved to be Thorin himself who continued to be very friendly to Bilbo, as though making up for lost time. The hobbit was too weak to endure much of that, so he dashed off to talk with Gloin about finding flagstones to preserve the pathways in his mine. He also talked at length with Fili about how dwarves made those glowing golden lights that did not smoke and where he might find some for the parts of his chamber that were not close enough to the big doors to be illuminated by the light from the hall.

Of course Bilbo had not actually been hinting, but Gloin turned up the next day with giant slabs of beautiful green granite. Apparently he needed to get rid of them to make space in a storeroom somewhere and would be happy to sell them to Bilbo for a crown apiece. Not at all fooled, and very grateful besides, Bilbo paid his friend. Then he simply watched in awe as Gloin and Lea worked together with hammers and chisels to cut the stones into exactly the shapes Bilbo outlined. Walking softly, they placed them carefully just where Bilbo wanted them. No mushrooms were harmed by dwarven feet, and once again Bilbo marveled at the skill and strength his friends all seemed to possess.

The day after that, Fili, Kili, and Tauriel turned up with six of the big glowing lanterns to illuminate any dark corners of the little mine. “I crafted them myself,” Fili said modestly. “As I do not have my Mastery yet, they are not worth very much, but I could part with the lot for three crowns.”

Lea made an excitable noise and sat down hard. Bilbo squawked, but she had only sat upon one of the granite flagstones, and the mushrooms were all fine. Still it galled him a little that she refused to explain herself, saying only, “I no longer wonder that you do not understand the value of money if this is the sort of commerce you engage in.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes at her. “It is only a joke,” he said. “Fili likes to pretend he does not make me a gift of them.”

“I am sure that his Royal Majesty the Crown Prince may do as he likes,” Lea said quickly.

Ignoring her, Bilbo threw the coins to the grinning youth saying, “Now you are paid, so help me hang them already.”

Both princes laughed at that, and Tauriel rewarded their antics with a quiet smile. Still, it was good to have so many hands. Tauriel had a very good eye for light and saw right away the best places to hang the lanterns for maximum effect. Unfortunately, Bilbo could not allow them to set up ladders atop his mushrooms. However, given that the ceiling of the chamber was in most places only three dwarves tall, Lea was able to stand on Kili’s shoulders, hoisting Fili onto her own and positioning him well to hang the lanterns as Tauriel directed. Bilbo kept a good watch on everyone’s feet, but it was hardly necessary. Though they flipped and pranced about showing off, the dwarves did no harm to the mushrooms and a great good for Bilbo. Hobbits live in holes underground, but he did not have a dwarf’s vision in the dark. He was very grateful for the added light, and even more grateful for the friendships that brought it to him.

It was early to rise, early to work for Bilbo Baggins, owner of the Mushroom Mine. He liked having a little time to himself among the mushrooms in the morning before Lea turned up. Since she tended to report for duty around the time any respectable hobbit would be enjoying second breakfast, that meant Bilbo had very little time for the most important meal of the day. Fortunately he was hobbit enough to make the effort, often scrambling a few eggs with mushrooms and eating them on toast as he made his way down to his mine. It was not at all respectable to eat while walking, but it was rather dwarvish and Bilbo was not remotely embarrassed to be caught by Thorin leaving his little apartment with such a sandwich in hand.

“Good morning, Bilbo.”

“If I were a wizard, I would give you a hard time for that, you know,” the hobbit said, grinning at the king.

“If you were a wizard,” Thorin said, “I should not enjoy your company half as much.”

“And what gets a king out of bed before dawn on what I am sure will prove to be a very fine morning indeed?”

“I go to meet Dwalin for arms practice a few times a week. It is an indulgence, but I find it clears my mind and makes me more tolerant as the day wears on.”

“Only you could call sparring with Dwalin an indulgence. He has taken it into his head once or twice to give me lessons with Sting, and I tell you I have come away from battling orcs with fewer bruises.”

Thorin’s lips twitched in the suggestion of a smile. “Better bruises from the flat of Dwalin’s blade than cuts from the edge of an orc’s.”

“I suppose. Will you go to breakfast after? That would be second breakfast for me, but I might meet you. I am trying to introduce Lea to the concept of proper meals.”

“Lea?”

“Yes. I know she must like food, for I cannot imagine a dwarf joining the Culinary Guild and not liking food, but she eats like a chipmunk. Nibbling here, nibbling there, and then squirreling the rest away for later. I quite despair of her.”

“I regret I shall likely not have time to break my fast this morning,” the king said stiffly.

“After sparring with Dwalin? You will need to get your strength up for kinging. You cannot miss breakfast.”

“I am a son of Durin. Do not concern yourself, Master Baggins; I will endure. I often do not take a meal until the evening.”

“Do you mean to tell me that all of those days when I didn’t see you in the great hall for breakfast or lunch, you simply were not eating?”

“I suppose I do.”

“I assumed someone brought you a tray! Thorin, you must take better care of yourself.”

“I will not eat well in private when my people tighten their belts for a hard winter.” Judging by the frustrated growl that accompanied these words, Bilbo though it likely that many people had tried to bring Thorin trays and been shouted away for their trouble.

Softening a little, the hobbit said, “Thorin, it is spring now. Food is not so scarce in the mountain today as it was a month ago. Surely there is enough of it for the king to eat a little breakfast.”

Thorin gentled his voice a little as well. “Perhaps,” he said, “but there is not enough time in the king’s day for more than one indulgence. Not today, at least.”

“Poppycock!” Bilbo stepped in front of the dwarf so Thorin would have to stop walking and look at him. “You have time right now. Take mine.”

With wide eyes, Thorin accepted the sandwich Bilbo thrust into his hands. Flushing, the hobbit reminded himself that a dwarf could not be aware of the impropriety of such a gesture, giving the entirety of his own breakfast to another. Anyway, it was not nearly so inappropriate as feeding Thorin with his own fork, and Bilbo had already done that in front of a hall full of people.

“Please,” Bilbo said. “It’s the most important meal of the day, and I should feel better for you having had some.”

Slowly, Thorin raised the sandwich to his lips and took a bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he smiled a little, and then swallowed. “Thank you. It is very good. You seem to’ve put your mushrooms to use once more.”

“I have! You are acquiring a taste for them.” Getting out of the king’s way, Bilbo resumed walking at his side while Thorin continued eating.

“Indeed. One might even say I become fond of them.”

Grinning to himself, Bilbo tried to keep from skipping. “Well, little things can be like that, you know. They grow on you.”

“Overconfidence does not suit you, Master Chef. If what I understand of hobbits is correct, you shall grow no taller.”

Bilbo sniffed, but it was a feigned offense. To be teased again by Thorin felt like a great gift after so many months with only polite nods. “You are tall enough for us both, Your Highness. I think your fancy golden boots must have a heel in them, for you were never too tall for me before.”

Chuckling, Thorin said, “I find myself well warned. Fear not, my friend, I will take care not to grow so high I cannot be reached by your kindness.”

That was quite a promise. Bilbo was so pleased by it, and by the fact that Thorin ate the whole sandwich as they walked, that he followed the king for much too long in entirely the wrong direction. It was only when they arrived at the armory where Dwalin waited that Bilbo realized it. Cursing, he hugged Thorin quickly goodbye and raced away while Dwalin laughed at him.

While it might not have been in keeping with his schedule, costing him time he would have liked to spend alone with his mushrooms, the interlude gave Bilbo a wonderful idea. The very next morning he woke even earlier, made appropriate preparations, and went to knock at Thorin’s door. The king’s chambers were very near to Bilbo’s little apartment in the royal wing, but he had never been inside. When Thorin called out for him to enter, Bilbo paused for a moment to appreciate the opulence of the first part of the king’s rooms.

Golden light shone on mosaics of polished stone depicting the defeat Smaug and the reclamation of Erebor in a lovely sitting room. There were comfortable looking couches, a nice stone dining table, and a roaring fire, which quite appropriately seemed to come from the throat of the dying dragon in the mosaic. Surrounding the fell beast in the depiction were the mighty deeds of the dwarves in the Battle of Five Armies. Naturally, Thorin was shown slaying Azog in gruesome detail while other members of the company fought other foes in the background. Dain was there, his face clearly rendered with more detail than others, seated astride his war pig. Also easy to pick out were Fili and Kili, both evidently responsible for the deaths of dozens of orcs, according to the mosaic. Bilbo was a little surprised to see that Bard was depicted with just as much detail, shooting the arrow that killed the dragon from a bell tower clearly meant to represent Dale. Most surprising of all, however, was Bilbo himself. Looking at the Bilbo made of tiles was like looking at a sketch, even the curling hair on his toes seemed to be accurately represented, and the figure was extremely prominent, standing calmly in his mithril shirt while chaos raged all around him. Strangely, he wasn’t saving Fili’s life or heroically stabbing some orc in the back. He was holding the Arkenstone.

“Bilbo!”

Feeling like a thief caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Bilbo whirled around to face the king. “Sorry! I did not mean to intrude. Only you did say enter. Well, I say you said, but really you bellowed it. That is, I did not mean to spy.”

Thorin smiled and quickly finished twisting a bead over one of his braids. The other was already done, and the king appeared to be dressed for the day despite the early hour. “Do not apologize. You are welcome here. I am only surprised to see you, for the hour is early even for hobbits.”

“Ah, yes. I wondered if I might have ten minutes of your time. No more, I swear. I know you are busy.”

Thorin’s face grew very serious. “I am never too busy for you, Bilbo. You may have as much of my time as you care to claim.”

“Excellent!” Bilbo set a plate of his soon to be famous mushroom scones on the table and followed them up with a pot of tea. “I do hope you have cups for the tea, I could not quite manage to carry mine through the corridor without being obvious.”

Laughing with delight, Thorin shook his head at the little hobbit. “Yes, you rogue. I have teacups. I will even eat your breakfast, if you accompany me.”

“Just as I planned, then,” Bilbo said happily, while Thorin fetched some extravagantly jeweled cups that did not match Bilbo’s little blue teapot at all.

It was a merry meal, if a quick one. Bilbo had brought the entire batch of scones, though he hadn’t prepared anything to go with them. His hope had been that Thorin might agree to pocket a few of them, if the king would not take time to eat right away. To sit down together at a table felt like a victory for hobbits everywhere.

“It matters so much to you that I take a morning meal?”

“Of course it does! Forgive me for saying, but you have not been looking well. I thought it was only that you were still recovering from the great injuries you took in battle, but now I learn that no one is taking care of you. You must eat a little more. You cannot very well order people about if you faint from hunger.”

“I will not faint from hunger eating one good meal a day,” Thorin growled.

“Well you certainly won't put on any weight.”

“I do not have the time to laze about at table. I have a kingdom to rebuild.”

“But you always have time for me,” Bilbo observed innocently.

Sighing in mock defeat, Thorin agreed. “Very well, Master Burglar, my thief of time, I suppose I have half an hour every morning to share your breakfast.”

“Oh good,” Bilbo said, blushing furiously. “So I shall cook you breakfast every morning.”

Thorin did not know, of course, that this was a traditional way of proposing marriage in the Shire. It was very romantic: the thought of feeding someone first thing in the morning, every day, for as long as you both should live. Bilbo’s little hobbit heart could hardly take the prospect of an intimacy so far beyond his maddest hopes.

When the dwarf frowned, Bilbo wondered if he suspected some part of what the proposition meant to the hobbit, but his words made clear that he did not. “You are a lord of Erebor. I cannot treat you like a servant. Perhaps this is not a good idea.”

“That is what makes it a perfect idea, my king, for you might send a servant away. I can make sure you eat. Anyway it is no trouble for me, as it is just as easy to make my breakfasts big enough for two, and your chambers are only just down the hall from my own.”

“If it is not inconvenient,” the king conceded.

Bilbo assumed that Thorin meant inconvenient with his own duties to the throne, as the hobbit could never find eating breakfast with his friend a hardship. Not when Thorin was so soft and warm in the mornings if they were alone together. Nor did the king rush through the meals Bilbo prepared, which grew steadily more elaborate as Bilbo realized that Thorin would tolerate even the better part of an hour spent eating and conversing over tea.

Between breakfasting with a king and teaching his apprentice to appreciate proper meals, Bilbo finally returned to eating the way a hobbit was meant to. When he started the day with perfectly poached eggs served over muffins and ham with a nice golden hollandaise sauce, then proceeded to enjoy jam on hot scones for second breakfast, nice fresh fish for elevenses, cold chicken with mushroom salad for lunch, a lovely cheese and spinach souffle for afternoon tea, mushroom pies for supper, and dinner in the great hall with all of his friends, that was a good day. No hobbit would dare call it anything else. And as spring wore on, he started to see nothing but good days ahead of him.

Of course it was not all teaching Lea to turn out fluffy souffles and enjoy proper eating habits. There was work to be done as well. Packaging his dried trilbies in little wax paper bags, eleven mushrooms to the packet, he labeled them for sale. After thinking long and hard about the labels, he settled on a little sketch of Erebor with the words “Bilbo Baggins’ Mushroom Mine: Black Trilbies” clearly inked and “Ten per Bag” in smaller letters below. He also stamped each one with the Culinary Guild mark Bombur had given him when he’d made Master personally.

“Why write ten when you include eleven?” Lea asked, dutifully bagging dried mushrooms though she already knew how to count and was not learning anything from the task.

“Better to get a reputation for including a little extra than to accidentally short someone and have every gossip from Bree to Bywater calling you cheap,” Bilbo said absently, gluing the bags carefully shut with the labels.

Convincing a caravan headed to the Blue Mountains to bring two heavy barrels full of the little packets all the way to the Shire for sale was not easy. Bilbo expected he should never have been able to manage it if he were not a lord, land owner, local hero, and favorite of the king besides. Fortunately Garag, the merchant he spoke to, seemed honest. Most importantly, he agreed to sell the packages one at a time for whatever he could get for them instead of dumping the barrels wholesale to another merchant. With that and the promise of splitting any profit equally between them, Bilbo was well pleased. The kind dwarf even agreed to carry a short note to the Thain, since Bilbo did not anticipate returning to his homeland for some years at the earliest.

So that was Bilbo’s future wealth assured, though the merchant who would share the windfall did not know it, but he would have been happier if the mushrooms sold in Erebor as well. Only Bombur and other members of the Culinary Guild bought them. A few were taken by food merchants to sell in the market, but Bilbo always wound up buying any of the fresh ones back just as they were about to spoil. Lea laughed at him, but there was no sense letting Black Trilbies go rotten on a shelf.

She also explained it to him. “People don’t know what to do with them. Few dwarves want to take time to cook, and those that learn tend to be the ones who cannot afford to do otherwise. I ate a mushroom once. It was white and it looked just like other mushrooms I had seen Men eating. Perhaps it was foolish, but I was hungry. I was sick for seven days.”

Filled with pity, Bilbo tried to keep his expression neutral. “We’ll work on recognizing good and bad wild mushrooms if you like, and other things. I’m not the expert Bombur is, but I managed to forage a few mouthfuls when we lost all our supplies on the journey.”

Lea smiled. “I have not been hungry since I came to Erebor.”

“Well. I shall remember to thank Thorin for that later. So the problem is that people do not trust my mushrooms?”

“Not at all! You are the Master Burglar and the hero of Erebor. A friend of mine bought a package to set in crystal and keep as an heirloom.”

“What?” If Bilbo lived for a thousand years, he would never understand dwarves. “Not to cook them?”

“No, because she doesn’t know how to cook them. Dried mushrooms are not a common ingredient in our food, even among the dwarves that should like to cook for themselves. I have seen a few people try to eat them plain. They are not very good plain, when dried.”

That was a very serious problem, but fortunately Bilbo had a solution. Well, he had two, but writing a cookbook would take a very long time. For the immediate future, he created new packages.

There was an old Shire tradition of which he was very fond that involved putting all of the dried ingredients for a soup into a mason jar. It was perfect for late autumn and early winter birthday presents, provided one had a good recipe. Packaging his dried Black Trilbies with powdered garlic and a few other dried herbs, he was able to write three short lines instructing the purchaser on how to turn the mix into mushroom stew with a few vegetables and boiling water.

Merchants couldn’t keep it in stock. Demand quickly outraced any possibility of Bilbo meeting the need with his supply, and a number of other mixes were soon put on the market by other members of the Culinary Guild. Perhaps the idea was not wholly original, but success was very gratifying. Slowly dwarves started buying the fresh ones as well, and Bilbo stopped despairing of them entirely.

Indeed, between the guild, his mushrooms, teaching Lea, eating breakfast with Thorin, and making merry with all of his friends, Bilbo thought his life had finally returned to a good and stable equilibrium. If it was more of an adventure, if there were more joys and frustrations than there had been in Bag End, that was all for the better. This time, at least, no one was likely to turn up at his door and throw everything into chaos.

Of course he had thought such things before and been quite incorrect.

Chapter Text

“It was risky for her to barge so much of their equipment up the Celduin, but I cannot fault her for her eagerness,” Thorin said, sipping at his tea.

“No indeed,” Bilbo agreed, helping himself to another scone. “Is the River Running very dangerous in late spring? We are nearly in summer now. There cannot be much melting snow from the mountains.”

“Floods come with the rain in any season. Indeed, I have heard tell that a summer storm on the Sea of Rhun can make that river deadly all along its courses, though the people upon it will be much too far away to see the lightning or hear the thunder that heralds their doom.”

“Well that’s a cheery thought at breakfast time,” Bilbo chided.

Taking a conciliatory bite of his own scone, Thorin said, “The cheery thought is that they will arrive in at this side of the Long Lake by nightfall. Nearly two thousand of my people return home after their long and weary exile in the Ered Luin. I expect my sister and a few of the most eager will not rest patiently there, though they have been very responsible on the road thus far. Still, though she does not write so, she will likely press on to Dale tomorrow.”

“Can I ride out with you to meet her, or is it a family affair? I should not like to intrude.”

Looking curiously at Bilbo, Thorin tilted his head to one side. “I did not say I would ride out to meet her.”

“You have spent breakfast every day for the last two weeks recounting every step of your sister’s progress to me. Do you honestly intend to wait a full three days more for her to present herself in your throne room like a supplicant?”

Chuckling, Thorin turned back to his bacon. “That would be more of my stuffy dwarven nonsense, I take it?”

“That would be denying yourself a simple pleasure for no sensible reason.”

“Much like failing to share breakfast with your good self?”

“Exactly like that, I should say.”

“We ride out tomorrow morning, just the Company.” Only Thorin Oakenshield could manage to look that pleased with himself while putting a whole fried egg into his mouth. “I convinced Gloin and Bombur to wait and make a spectacle of it. They both wanted to leave days ago to meet their families.”

Laughing, Bilbo cried, “And you did not think to mention it in all this time!”

“I planned to ask you to join us tomorrow at breakfast.”

“So that I should have no notice at all?” That seemed strange to Bilbo. After all, he had no friends among the travellers. Why should plans for their arrival be kept a secret from him?

“So that you would not overthink what I now ask of you.” Thorin took a deep drink from his teacup and did not look at Bilbo. “The rest of us will go armed and armored in our best. Naturally you must outfit yourself as you feel comfortable doing, but I pray you would consider all that is in your possession, and only that it is in your possession. Any meaning or symbolism that could be attached to such items has long been washed away by blood and battle. I would never insist. I do not insist. I would not even mention the item. It is only that I promised Balin I would explain as much to you, in case you did not understand—”

“Thorin! I have never in my life heard you babble so. Of course I will wear my mithril shirt to meet your sister, if you wish it.”

Thorin’s blue eyes snapped up to meet Bilbo’s. Other than that, the dwarf was perfectly still. He did not seem to even breathe.

“That is what you are asking me to do, isn’t it?” Bilbo did not know why it should be so important to Thorin, though he suspected it had something to do with how shabby Bilbo’s own wardrobe was when compared with the rest of the company. While his thriving new business had allowed for the purchase of several well tailored new waistcoats, Bilbo certainly did not go about decked in gold and jewels as the others did.

“Yes.” It sounded as though his throat was full of gravel.

“There is not some hidden dwarvish meaning to me doing so now?” Bilbo asked suspiciously. Thorin was behaving in a manner entirely contrary to his character, and the hobbit did not know why.

“No, I swear it,” Thorin said, frowning and forcefully stabbing a piece of bacon with his fork.

“Only that is the best thing I own and you want me to be presentable when I meet your sister for the first time?” Bilbo pressed. He did not at all like being kept in ignorance.

The frown about Thorin’s face softened, and his eyes were warm when they met Bilbo’s again. “You do look very well in it.”

Blushing, it was the hobbit’s turn to distract himself by eating a few bites of his own egg. Certainly Thorin had not said he found Bilbo handsome or anything silly, only that Bilbo looked most presentable in his eyes when decked out in valuable metals. Which was very dwarvish and definitely not intended to make a hobbit’s heart beat faster.

It did, though.

Riding out in state was an experience. Largely because Bilbo thought there would be ponies, which he was nearly accustomed to after the long road to Erebor. He had not been expecting to be seated on a giant silver war goat with curling golden horns longer than his own arms. Fortunately, his steed seemed to know what it was doing and stayed with the rest of their little flock, following close behind Thorin’s own great black buck.

Balin nudged up beside Bilbo on a creature with wool as white and fluffy as the elderly dwarf’s own beard. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. I forgot you’d never ridden a goat before. It’s just the same as a pony really, and Pebble is a sweet nanny.”

Jerking up and down with the bouncing cantor of the daring creature, Bilbo huffed. “Yes, it is rather like my first time on a pony.”

Fili laughed. “Keep your knees loose,” he advised. “Move with her, or she’ll get annoyed and throw you to the ground.” Fili’s beast had a light golden coat that matched his princely features very well.

“All of this so that we should look a very impressive war party,” Bilbo griped, trying to lever his body up and down in time with the creature. “But if we do encounter any trouble, I hope one of you will help me off her back. Otherwise I shall surely fall off and crack my head open.”

“Your head will be fine,” Fili laughed. Then he shared a sly look with his brother, whose goat was a chestnut brown that matched the dark color of the younger prince’s chainmail very well. “But I will agree that you look quite the warrior in your armor.”

Usually Bilbo was quite capable of subtlety, but bouncing up and down with every prancing step of the giant goat had put him in a bad mood. “Is there some meaning to my wearing it? Thorin promised there wasn’t, but he was very strange about it.”

“There is not,” Balin said with unexpected force. “The mail has been touched by your blood and the blood of your enemies. It is yours to wear whenever you will.”

Which Bilbo took to mean that there was some strange point of dwarvish etiquette that he was missing. Pebble chose that moment to give his hindquarters a truly forceful jolt, completely out of the rhythm they’d agreed upon, and Bilbo nearly slipped from the saddle. “A plague on all dwarves and their secrets!” he cried. “If you are my friends then speak plainly, or I shall throw the confounded shirt by the side of the road and have done with it.”

“I am sorry,” Fili said, looking truly contrite. “The armor is your own, and I know it better than most. Please, Bilbo, I was only teasing.”

“Forgive him” Kili said, pushing his own mount between Fili and Bilbo so that the hobbit could feel its shaggy wool against his leg. “We tease because we still hope, well.” The prince looked at his uncle’s back. Obviously Thorin must have heard some of their talk, but his back was as straight as a pike and his face turned firmly toward the road before them. With Gloin on his left and Dwalin on his right, he would have had excuse enough to turn a little and look back at his ridiculous following, but he did not. Probably he did not care about their antics at all.

“We tease because we know we surely should have to help you down from Pebble’s back if there were any fighting to be done,” Fili said, smiling apologetically from behind his brother.

Bilbo forgave them at once. It was impossible to stay angry with the good natured lads, and the hobbit was glad enough to drop the subject. Clearly it had something to do with the days of Thorin’s madness and Bilbo’s betrayal. As such he could not blame them all for walking on eggshells. “So long as you promise to do it,” he grumbled.

“We shall keep your tender head intact.” Grinning, Kili reached over and grabbed Bilbo by the shoulders, off balancing his awkward riding even more than the goat’s own gait did. The dwarf prince pressed their heads together with a happy nuzzle, and no matter how he struggled the hobbit could not squirm away until Kili released him. When the lad did let go, Bilbo nearly fell off in the other direction, but Balin was there with a firm hand to right him.

“Leave Bilbo alone while he’s riding,” the old dwarf scolded. Then he kindly showed Bilbo the trick to properly holding his reins, which were a little different than the sort one might use for a pony.

Fortunately, the distance from the Gates of Erebor to Dale was but a few miles. The company arrived within the hour to great fanfares of ringing bells. Bard himself met them. This of course meant that Thorin had to get off his mount to be polite, for he could not remain astride while Bard bowed before him without looking like a lord greeting his vassal. That meant Bilbo was allowed to get down as well and stretch his legs, though the others laughed at him for doing it. At least Bard was sympathetic to the hobbit’s complaints and offered him a pony for their further journey. Reluctantly, Bilbo declined the offer. He would not spoil the picture Thorin wanted to paint for his sister for his own comfort.

“Change mounts if you care to,” Thorin practically ordered, but Bilbo obstinately clambered back into Pebble’s saddle.

Aside from the question of a pony, Bard was able to tender the valuable intelligence that Lady Dis had in fact set out from the dwarven camp on the near edge of the Long Lake before dawn that morning. She was accompanied by a small party, both walking and riding. Apparently she was hoping to surprise her brother with an early arrival. Exchanging grins, the Company hurried back along their road.

It seemed the little distance to Dale was enough time for Bilbo to get accustomed to the bouncing walk of his goat, because the Company decided to try a gallop. Eating up miles of the smooth, recently paved road leading out of Dale was more important than Bilbo’s tortured behind. Painful or not, it was exciting to go so fast. Bilbo doubted that even the famous horses of Rohan could match the dwarven war goats. Around him the landscape looked like a blur of rock, earth, and the new green plants gently reclaiming the land now that the evil of the dragon did not force it barren.

Happily to Bilbo’s mind, the goats could not keep the pace for more than an hour or so before needing a rest. Of course there was no actual stopping, only walking along next to the goats for a few minutes, but even that was fine by Bilbo. Just having the chance to stretch his cramped legs and ease his aching back was a gift.

A gift that could not last. Soon enough they were back astride, once more trotting gently along the path. As the sun reached its zenith, Bilbo realized they were nearly halfway to the Long Lake. Somehow, as if the mere knowledge called them forth, at that moment he spotted the group of dwarves approaching around a distant bend in the road.

“I see them,” he cried in excitement.

Kili squinted. “I see them too!” The prince hopped his goat into a gallop and the rest of the Company did the same. Although he struggled to keep up, Bilbo did not regret his exclamation.

Out in front of the group of walking dwarves there was a single runner, outracing even the few ponies on their side. They looked small, almost hobbit sized, and their hair flamed as red as dragonfire in the noon sun. Bilbo began to suspect the child’s name when he heard the cry of “Adad! Adad!”

When Gloin leapt from the back of his goat, rolling on the ground, bouncing to his feet and sprinting to meet the lad, lifting him into the air joyfully, there could be no doubt of the boy’s identity.

“Gimli! Inùdoy!” Spinning the boy around and around, Gloin began to laugh and cry at the same time, squeezing the boy and pressing their heads together.

Within seconds, Bombur was on the ground being tackled by his own children. Bifur and Bofur joined their brother embracing their nieces and nephews with exuberance, gleeful hugs, and little presents for each of them, distracting the children so that Bombur could greet his wife.

When Bilbo turned from that scene, he saw that Nori’s wife had somehow found her way up onto the back of the back of his steed and taken hold of his braided beard to kiss him senseless. Bilbo was a little shocked to notice that she was removing quite a bit of his friend’s clothing. Then he was surprised to see that one of her legs was actually made of finely crafted steel, not simply clad in a heavy boot of the sort dwarves often wore. Immediately, he scolded himself to mind his own business. They were only removing a few clothes after all, and he’d learned long ago not to attribute hobbit sensibilities to dwarves. However, he was not the only one to think the display too much of an exhibition. Dori plucked the dwarrowdam from her husband’s arms, greeted her happily as his sister in law, and asked her to button her dress back up.

The line of Durin managed a little more dignity. Thorin edged his great black billy goat forward a few more steps and Fili and Kili pranced up to flank him on either side. Together they approached the most elegant dwarrowdam Bilbo had ever seen. Her beard was full and black as midnight, braided in dozens of long, loose strands that were bound together with silver ribbons and beads, as was the thick hair of her head. Dressed in a deep blue that complemented eyes as sky-bright as her brother’s, she was seated nobly atop a white pony.

“Hail Thorin,” she said gravely, “King Under the Mountain.”

“Welcome home namad,” he said, just as solemnly.

Fili and Kili slipped from their mounts in tandem and walked forward, bowing together as though they had practiced the move a thousand times. “Welcome mother,” Fili said.

“We’ve reclaimed the mountain for you,” Kili added cheekily.

“Oh!” Dis slipped from the back of her pony instantly, rushing forward to grab both of her sons at once. “My boys! Mizimith! Well done, both of you. I am so proud, so very proud. There are no words.” She pulled them forward crushing their heads together, as though she wanted to push her feelings into their minds so that they might understand.

When Thorin dismounted, she finally released the princes, stepping forward to slam her head hard against her brother’s. It was a gesture he met with equal force, and Bilbo was almost as shocked as he had been seeing Dwalin and Balin do the same thing in Bag End so very long ago.

Still, it warmed his heart to see so many families reuniting. Even those like Balin and Dwalin who did not have anyone special to meet were happily greeting the princess’s guards, apparently old friends. The hobbit himself was very happy to meet Gloin’s family, of whom he had heard many stories, and Bombur’s children, who he knew by name, and Nori’s wife, who Dori was physically restraining from climbing back into her husband’s lap.

“Come, Bilbo,” Thorin called, beckoning him to join the little knot of royalty at the center of everything. “I would introduce you to my sister. Sister, this is Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit I have mentioned in my letters.”

Stepping forward smartly, Bilbo bowed low before Lady Dis. “It is my very great honor to meet you, Princess of the house of Durin.” He kept his face turned carefully toward the tops of his own feet until she spoke, which was after a long pause.

“You are Bilbo?” She stepped closer to him. At once he was painfully aware that, mithril armor or no, he did not look very much like someone able to do any of the things Thorin might have found worthy of including in a letter.

Incredible pain blossomed in his skull. For a bizarre second, Bilbo saw blood in the center of the princess’s forehead and was very confused, but then the world went mercifully black.

Chapter Text

Blinking his eyes in the harsh noon sun, Bilbo saw Thorin shouting at his sister in Khuzdul. She threw her hands in the air looking unhappy and shouted back. Kili was crouched on the ground at Bilbo’s side, and Fili was bellowing for Oin. Apparently someone was hurt. Judging by the pain in his head, it was probably Bilbo. Oh dear. It was no good upsetting everyone.

“It’s okay,” he said, gratified to see Thorin’s attention snap to him immediately. “I’m fine.” Dusting himself off, Bilbo got to his feet.

Only somehow it didn’t go quite the way he planned, and he slipped back down. It might have been a hard landing, but Kili caught him, easing the fall.

“What happened?”

“You bumped heads with my mother.” Kili smiled as though this was meant to be funny, but Bilbo was appalled. What an awful way to introduce himself to someone he’d hoped to impress!

“Please allow me to apologize, Lady Dis. Truly is it said that you are the Dûshin-Mizim, the dark jewel of Durin’s Folk. I can only hope that rumors of your kind and forgiving nature are equally accurate. Oh dear! You are bleeding! Oin, you must see to the princess first.”

Lady Dis touched a hand hesitantly to her forehead and lowered it slowly, examining the red on her fingers. “It is not my blood,” she said quietly. “You do not owe me an apology.”

She seemed very subdued, and Oin was very demanding, so Bilbo obediently looked in various directions, letting the healer poke at his poor head. He truthfully answered questions about being a bit dizzy, though of course he was not nauseous. The very idea! A hobbit would never!

“We have to get him back to Dale or somewhere he can rest,” Oin said, bandaging his head. “He shouldn’t ride, though. His brain is rattled. Hobbit heads are soft. More like Men than dwarves, really.”

The woman next to Thorin cursed in Khuzdul. Bilbo recognized it as one of the very bad ones that Ori refused to translate. She was obviously a very fine lady, and she looked so very like Thorin. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said. “You would not happen to be the Princess Dis, would you?”

“I am,” she said, looking very alarmed.

“You are distraught. If I can be of any service, pray say the word.”

“No, Master Burglar. I thank you, but I am well.”

Thorin’s face was like stone, and gave no clue at all, but Kili looked as upset as his mother. Clearly something was very wrong.

“It’s too soon to worry,” Oin said gruffly. “Head wounds always bleed this much and rattling can often seem worse than it is.”

“Surely it would be best for Bilbo to ride with me,” Thorin said reasonably. “I can get him back to the mountain quickly.”

Bilbo found he quite liked the idea of riding with Thorin. Perhaps he would be seated at Thorin’s back and should have to hold on to the king’s waist for purchase. Perhaps he would be seated in front of Thorin, with Thorin’s arms around him and that solid presence at his own back. Either prospect would be highly enjoyable.

“He cannot take the rattling. Even a pony would be too much. It is a risk. Safest thing would be to put him into a bed right now for a week, but there are no beds in the desolation.” Oin seemed upset, looking around at the empty countryside.

“There are creeping thistles right over there,” Bilbo pointed out. “You can have them in salads, and they make excellent pickles.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s eyes were tight in his otherwise expressionless face. That only happened when he was very, very worried.

“It’s not a desolation anymore,” Bilbo said. “The plants are coming back.”

Thorin’s face relaxed minutely. “So they are.”

The darked haired woman next to him sighed. “Bilbo Baggins. I have heard much of the greatness of your heart.”

“As have I heard of your beauty. May I presume by the raven-feather glory of your magnificent beard that I am honored enough to present myself to the Lady Dis.”

She startled like a woodland doe, her eyes wide. “I am Dis.”

If Bilbo hoped a little poetry would soften her to him, it did not. She continued to look alarmed and unhappy.

“I will carry him,” Dori said, coming out of the crowd to stand next to Bilbo.

“That is the first sensible thing anyone has said,” Fili cried. For some reason, he seemed very unhappy, but since he liked Dori’s suggestion it must be a good one.

“You are a true friend, Dori,” Bilbo said as the mighty little dwarf lifted him gently. “I think you have carried me over more distance all told than poor Myrtle ever did.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend,” Dori said, smiling pleasantly. “You do not weigh very much at all, and I hope I am a smoother ride than any pony.”

Bilbo laughed, but that jarred his head awfully. Closing his eyes, however, was a wondrous boon, like a gift from the Valar themselves.

“Do not fall asleep,” a lady said in a sharp, commanding tone. Bilbo opened his eyes to see the spitting image of Thorin, if he had a longer beard and liked to wear his hair in dozens of braids instead of only two, and was a dwarrowdam.

“Lady Dis,” he said, “I am at your service!”

“You know me?” she asked, looking pleased.

“I recognize you by your great beauty,” he said at once.

She frowned regally, looking more like Thorin than ever. “Why do you persist in calling me beautiful?”

“Because it is the truth.” Bilbo thought a little flattery would not go amiss. After all, so much hinged on their first meeting going well, and here he was wounded and burdening Dori.

“That’s enough out of you,” Bofur said, coming between Bilbo and the Dis with a cheerful smile. “You’re babbling poetry, Bilbo! Usually we have to down a fair few pints before you resort to that.”

“Were we drinking? I have a pain in my head like you would not believe my friend.”

“We were not drinking. We are going back to the mountain. Dori is carrying you because you hit your head.”

“Oh. Thank you Dori, you are a true friend. I think you have carried me over half of Middle Earth by now.”

Dori smiled kindly. “Any time Bilbo.”

“And what am I,” Bofur asked jovially. “An enemy?”

“You are a clown, though you look very lordly in your war helm, I must say.”

“Why thank you, my friend.”

“Now it comes to it, Bofur I could use your help.”

“At your service, of course,” the dwarf said with a friendly smile.

“I am trying to think of the name of that beautiful black rock you used to make my lovely sign.”

Bofur’s smile froze a little and faded at the corners. “Obsidian,” he said, very quietly.

“That’s what I thought it was. Do you think it’s forcing the point to rhyme it with dwarrowdam?”

Bofur tilted his head to the side. “What would you want to go and do that for?”

“Well, I thought a little poetry might not be amiss when one is to meet a great lady for the first time. I’ve been composing for days, only it’s all doggerel.”

“Why?” Kili cried, startling Bilbo very badly. “Why would you recite poetry about how beautiful my mother is?”

Bilbo blinked at him. “Because she’s your mother? I should like to make a good impression, and I will not have the option of slaying an orc for her.”

“And flattery is the way to do that?” a cool feminine voice asked. Bilbo looked over to see the Lady Dis standing next to Thorin.

“You could be kinder,” Thorin growled, looking murderous.

“Yes,” Bilbo squeaked. “Yes, I certainly could. I’m sorry. Is it considered unkind among dwarves to call someone beautiful? Only I hear it all the time in Erebor. Is it that you are a princess?”

“He was talking to me,” Dis said plainly, “and I will be kind the next time around. The halfling will not remember this.”

“I will not?” Bilbo’s head felt like it would break apart. The sun was too bright and his stomach swirled unpleasantly. “Never could I forget your lofty bearing, nor the way you move with such poise, my lady.” Closing his eyes, Bilbo tried to will the pain away.

“Never could you speak a word of truth,” Dis grumbled.

When Bilbo opened his eyes, he saw the elaborate braids on Dori’s kind face. His head hurt quite badly and he had the vague feeling that he was letting down his end of a conversation. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What I was I talking about?”

“How beautiful our mother is,” Kili said, sounding utterly appalled.

“What a true friend Bofur is,” Fili said, kicking his brother.

Putting a hand to his temple to try to ease the pain, Bilbo considered this. As he had never seen the Lady Dis, Fili’s information seemed more reliable.

“You are the truest of friends, Bofur,” Bilbo said, turning a little in Dori’s arms to better see the dwarf at his side. “Not because you made me a sign, or because you so often make me laugh, but because you have always made me feel like I have a place among you. Even when that place is the butt of your joke, I am welcome. And you taught me that hilarious song the other night. How did it go? Durin’s lads have mighty fine hammers—”

“Bilbo!” Bofur looked shocked. “Not in front of the children. And the princess!”

“Princess?” Bilbo asked.

“That would be me,” a laughing woman said. She had Fili’s cheerful bearing and Kili’s friendly face. Bilbo knew her at once.

“But that would make you Thorin’s sister,” he observed happily. “I’m Bilbo. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance,” she said with a friendly smile.

It was absolutely perfect. Better than Bilbo could have hoped, really, except for the part where he was hurt somehow and being carried by Dori. Still, she was smiling and seemed to like him. And, oh dear. His stomach lurched. Oh dear. “Dori,” Bilbo said urgently. “You must put me down. Right now.”

With obvious concern the fastidious dwarf lowered Bilbo to the ground so that the hobbit could sprint away from the road. So dizzy he could barely keep his feet, Bilbo just made it to a rocky outcropping a little distance from his friends before the bile filled his mouth. He had no choice. It came spewing forth entirely against his will. Burning up his throat like dragon fire. His chest heaved. His stomach quaked. Deep within his throat a muscle seized over and over without his consent, dredging up everything he had eaten that day and spewing it forth upon the ground.

When he looked up from the puddle of his own vomit through the tears in his eyes he saw Dwalin’s stoic face. A deep shudder of shame wracked Bilbo’s small body to know that a friend had witnessed him in such a state.

“You could have done that closer to the road,” the warrior said. “There was no need to run all this way.”

Shutting his eyes and breathing through the pain that hammered upon his skull, Bilbo whispered, “Then we are not near a road? No one else saw?”

Dwalin hesitated. “You have a wound upon your head and your brain is rattled. Can you walk? Will you let me carry you from this place?”

Opening his eyes again, Bilbo saw the vomit. He could taste the bile in his mouth and even in his nose. “I have lost my lunch,” he said unhappily. “I ought to fast six days in shame.”

“You ought to clear your mouth,” Dwalin said, handing him a water skin. “It happens so with head wounds sometimes. It is no weakness of yours.”

Bilbo took the water gratefully, swirling the clean liquid through his mouth and spitting it out. He repeated this three times for luck before finding a handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers to wipe his nose and face. “Thank you Dwalin. You are a true friend. You will not tell anyone of this? Please.”

“Never will I speak of it, under sky or under stone,” Dwalin vowed, picking Bilbo up as though he weighed nothing at all. “I did not know hobbits were shamed by such things.”

“We aren’t so proud as dwarves,” Bilbo admitted, “but a hobbit ought not be wasteful. Once, when I had just turned twenty, Merimac Brandybuck and I got into his father’s best spirits. Oh, it was awful. My father had never raised a hand to me once in my entire life, but I got a hiding for that, I tell you. A hiding like you would not believe. Of course I quite deserved it. Imagine: a Baggins being sick all over the carpet. Sicking up the 2780 vintage, as well. Stealing it was one thing, but spoiling it—wasting it—no, I quite deserved what I got.”

They lapsed into silence for a little while then. Dwalin was not much for small talk, and the sun was so bright it boiled Bilbo’s brain to have his eyes open. The aching throb in his head was intolerable. He was wearing his mithril armor, but there was quite a bit of blood on it. Sting was at his side. Dwalin was carrying him swiftly toward Erebor, through the once desolate wilderness. Bilbo thought he understood what was happening.

“Dwalin, I am fine,” Bilbo said firmly.

“That’s good,” the dwarf said. He even sounded like he meant it.

“So you should leave me here. I can make my way back to the mountain easily enough. After all, I can always hide.” His heart was racing, as it had when he’d crept from the mountain to give the Arkenstone to Thorin’s enemies. He knew this was the right choice, but so many things could go wrong. Likely, he would not survive to apologize this time.

Dwalin looked at Bilbo like he’d gone insane. “Why would I leave you?”

“Thorin needs you far more than I do.” It was only conjecture, but Bilbo couldn’t think of anything else that would have them so far from home, armed and armored, covered in blood.

Dwalin looked back over his shoulder and like magic Thorin appeared.

“I am well.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, collapsing against Dwalin, overcome with relief. “Good. Did everyone else survive the attack?”

Thorin’s face contorted strangely before it smoothed out into his usual placid, stony expression. “The company is well. Only you are injured.”

Bilbo let his eyes close. “That’s good. My head hurts. I should not have liked walking home alone.” When he opened his eyes again, Dwalin was carrying him in the midst of the company. All of their friends were walking along with them, leading great goats upon which sat children and dwarrow unfamiliar to Bilbo.

Oin appeared at Dwalin’s side, insisting that Bilbo turn his eyes in various directions and answer a whole host of bizarre questions. “He needs medicine, to ease his suffering,” the healer said. “One of you lot might make yourselves useful and ride back to the mountain for some potions.”

Fili and Kili both leapt onto their goats and galloped off. Hopefully they heard Oin calling “Any of my apprentices can give you the ones you need,” if they were going to get whatever it was Oin wanted.

"I will take him now," Thorin said, and Bilbo was passed like a parcel from Dwalin to Thorin. That wasn't so bad. Thorin's beard was shorter, so it did not get in the hobbit's face. Soft fur from the king's magnificent cape brushed over Bilbo's feet. Shining armor felt cool and nice against his throbbing temple. Best of all, Thorin always smelled so good. Bilbo shifted a little to be closer. He was in Thorin's arms. There could be no better fate than that.

Bilbo honestly had no idea what was happening, but his head hurt. Just this once, he would let his friends sort the matter out without him. If they needed his help, they would ask.

Chapter Text

The first time Bilbo Baggins remembered meeting Lady Dis, he thought she was a nurse. To be fair, he opened his eyes in a clean sickroom with white linen sheets. He knew he was in Dale because the morning sun was shining on a bell tower clearly visible from his window. It was a little cloudy, but otherwise a nice enough day. The mystery was why Bilbo would be in a sickroom in Dale at all.

Bustling quietly about the room was a dwarven woman in a light blue dress. Rolling bandages, folding blankets, straightening bottles on the end table, and doing a number of other small tasks, she paced around the outer edge of the room, never glancing at Bilbo. After a few minutes of this, he gave a polite cough.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea?”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Master Baggins, you’re awake.”

“Indeed, my good woman, and incidentally quite ravenous. Did I miss breakfast?”

Cocking her head to one side she said, “I’m sure something could be arranged.”

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, just remembering to call a thank you after her as she went to fetch him something.

In a few minutes he had a lovely hot cup of tea and a bowl of porridge with chopped mushrooms and cream. Once again he thanked her kindly before tucking in. “Do feel free to sit down and have a little something yourself,” he added with a friendly wink. “I shan’t tell anyone.”

Her mouth quirked a little in amusement beneath her intricately braided beard, but she did take a seat and a cup of tea. Very politely, she let him enjoy his porridge in quiet for several minutes, only sipping at her own tea as they both took in the sunshine and the fresh air from the window. “Master Baggins, I must ask,” she said eventually, “do you know where you are?”

“Dale, of course,” he said. “The bell towers are a bit of a giveaway. I suppose I was injured and couldn’t be moved, but Thorin wouldn’t trust a human healer.”

Arching a thick black eyebrow, the dwarrowdam said, “An accurate supposition.”

“I have a bit of an advantage when it comes to guessing,” he confided. “My head feels like it was hit by a boulder.”

“Not a boulder,” she said. “You took a blow to the skull yesterday afternoon, and it was determined that you should convalesce in the closest available bed, which was here in Dale.”

“Yesterday! It must have been some blow.”

“It was.” Her mouth set in a firm, thin line. Without knowing her well, Bilbo couldn’t be sure, but he thought she looked upset.

“You must be quite the healer, if Oin entrusted my care to you,” he said, trying to cheer her. “I am terribly sorry for not asking sooner, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Dis,” she said.

Bilbo started from the bed as though a troop of goblins had broken through the door, but she caught him about the shoulders and pressed him back with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in alarm.

“I was attempting to bow,” he said uncertainly.

“Do not.” Her voice was a low growl, and her hands upon Bilbo’s shoulders seemed very strong to the little hobbit. Once he relaxed obediently back into the bed she released him.

“I am the biggest fool in the world.” Bilbo sighed, staring up at the ceiling after her face vanished from his view.

“You have moved more and suffered few ill effects,” she admitted grudgingly. “But it would be best to lie still. You must not get up without reason.”

“Without reason!” He turned to face her. “I ordered you to fetch me tea like a servant! I thought you were a nurse. You!”

The grin that split her face was vicious and victorious. It made Bilbo wonder miserably how he had failed to realize she was Thorin’s sister at once. “You remember that.” Even her voice sounded like his, that low rumble he gave when he was pleasantly surprised, though hers was scaled an octave or two higher.

“Of course I remember that.” Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back to the pillows miserably. “I am not likely to ever forget it.”

“You might be surprised. What’s the last thing you remember before waking up this morning?”

That was a fair enough question, the sort healers always asked when someone took a head wound, so Bilbo sat up to meet her eyes and answered honestly. “I suppose it must have been yesterday morning. We were all riding out to surprise you on the road from Esgaroth. Having never ridden a goat before, I was making quite a fool of myself. Bard offered me a pony, but in my pride I refused it. Ridiculous as it may seem, I rather intended to impress you with how dwarvish I could be. I did so hope we might be friends. I suppose Pebble threw me?”

Watching those icy blue eyes soften into warmth only to harden again into a stoic distance reminded Bilbo uncomfortably of Thorin. This time the resemblance was less pleasant. “The goat did not throw you,” Lady Dis said harshly. “Your injury was my doing and no other’s. I struck you.”

The world swirled around Bilbo in dizzying confusion before coalescing into sense once more. “If I offended you, my lady,” he began slowly.

“You did not.”

Bilbo blinked. “Then I must admit I am at a loss to understand the situation you describe.”

“I have had letters,” she said, then halted.

“Yes,” Bilbo said encouragingly. “I know Fili and Kili have sent you ravens faithfully, Balin keeps a regular correspondence regarding the journey of your people, and Thorin dashes off the occasional missive. All of them have kept me apprised of your welfare.”

“As they have written me about you,” Dis said before stopping abruptly again. This time, Bilbo waited to see if she would speak further. Eventually she did. “Kili wrote that I must not judge you by your size, but by your heart. That you were a true warrior, unafraid to face a dragon, an army, or a mad king. My older son gave you even greater praise, naming you his savior and a deadly fighter. What Balin wrote to me is known to all of the wandering children of Erebor. That twice you put your own body between the Pale Orc and my brother, shielding Thorin when nothing else could. As for Thorin, he practically begged me to greet you as I would a dwarrow of high standing. Reminding me in letter after letter that he had granted you land within Erebor and a title of lordship. It was clear, very clear, how much you meant to all of them.”

When she said nothing further Bilbo fidgeted a bit with his bed linen, smoothing the wrinkled places. “Well, I will not complain if you were disappointed by the reality after they said such things of me. I am only quite a little fellow, after all.”

“Lord Baggins I was not disappointed by your aspect. I simply—rashly—decided to greet you as family.”

Bilbo felt his chest puff up importantly, the way it did when Thorin asked for his opinion or Bombur gave him some little task for the promotion of their guild. “I shall endeavor to prove worthy of such regard, my lady, and hope that in the future you may see fit to do so once again.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “That greeting clearly injured you more than I thought.”

Understanding rose within Bilbo’s mind like the dawn. “Do you mean to say you knocked heads with me as Balin and Dwalin do?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am quite lucky you did not bash my brains in!” Bilbo laughed in relief. “How strange that we should both have been so anxious to meet one another!”

After a few seconds, the princess started laughing as well, a deep, rich chuckle that filled the room. “You would have me do it again?”

“Oh!” Bilbo giggled. “It is my honor to be struck by a member of the House of Durin.” Then he laughed until his belly ached and the pain in his head became too much. Slowly, Dis calmed down as well. At least enough to answer.

“Shall I tell you how many times you offered me such honors,” she snickered.

“Whatever do you mean?” Bilbo sighed, one last little titter escaping his amused grin.

“You did not remember,” the princess said. Her face was serious and expressionless once more, but her eyes were gentle where they had once been brittle. “You were alert, which we all knew to be a good thing, and you knew yourself, which was even better, but you were confused in your mind. You did not recall what was happening from one moment to the next.”

“Oh dear,” Bilbo said, feeling another laugh coming on. “How many times did I introduce myself to you?”

“I quite lost count,” Dis admitted. “If you are wondering how best to introduce yourself in the future, the poetry amused me. Once I realized that you must have written it all based on Thorin’s appearance since you had never seen my likeness.”

Flushing crimson, Bilbo felt as though she’d yanked the bedsheets away to reveal he was completely nude. “I do not—that is to say Balin told me you shared features, but it isn’t as though I sit around thinking up ways to describe Thorin’s eyes.”

Smirking with evident amusement, Dis said, “One would think such an unrepentant flatterer would be a better liar.”

“Then it is a good thing I am neither.” Bilbo sniffed. “It is not a lie to express oneself with a little flair.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Dis said in a soothing, motherly tone. “As I said, I quite liked your poetry. Tell me, though, what color is heather? I confess, I do not know much of gardening.”

Blood rushed away from Bilbo’s face and he felt himself grow very pale. “I never said that one aloud.”

It was utterly mortifying, badly written drivel. The chorus of a ridiculous ode to Thorin that Bilbo would never, under any circumstances speak aloud, no matter how damaged his brain had been. For pity’s sake, the concluding verse was about their breakfasts together. The meaning he found in those morning meals was even more private than his lurid admiration for the dwarf’s long tresses.

“Please, I beg of you, tell me that I did not sing it.”

Clearly there was a cruelty in Dis that had not passed to her children, for she laughed and did not answer Bilbo at all for a full minute. “Nay,” she said at last. “I did not know it was a song at all. Or that you wrote ballads for my brother.”

“I do not write love ballads to anyone!” Bilbo shrieked frantically.

Shushing him gently so that he would not endanger his healing, she promised to keep any suppositions she may have made about poetry or songs of every kind to herself.

“I may, on occasion, put together a lyric or two describing my friends,” he admitted eventually, once he had her sworn to secrecy. “Someday, I will write a book about my adventures, and I expect your brother may feature in it.”

“I expect quite heavily,” she said knowingly.

Rushing to change the subject, Bilbo asked where Thorin and the rest of the company were, if they had gone back to Erebor, and if the other dwarrow who had traveled with Dis intended to make their way there soon. He left the question of why none of his friends had stayed in place of a woman he did not recognize unasked.

Somehow, Dis knew the answer he really sought, because she gave it to him first. “It hurt them all too much to stay,” she said quietly. “They smiled for you so that you would not be upset, but every time it was clear you did not know one moment from the next, their hearts broke with fear and worry. Even Oin, who has seen many more serious injuries, could not bear to speak with you for long. So I vowed to remain in Dale until you were well enough to return to the mountain.”

“That was very kind of you, but now that I am better, you needn’t be literal about it. You have waited long to see your home again. Go now, I will be well looked after, and join you soon enough.”

“I will return to Erebor,” Dis said regally, “when the injury I did to you, savior of my eldest son, has healed.” She said it with such an air of finality that Bilbo knew. If he had not woken from his confusion, she would not have walked the halls of her longed for home. Stupidly noble dwarves always managed to break his heart a little. She was so very like her brother. He resolved to heal as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

“Still, I must ask.” Bilbo rather thought Dis needn’t ask, actually, especially since the sparkle in her blue eyes told him quite clearly that she was laughing at him again. They might have simply enjoyed a nice afternoon tea, conversing about the weather. Instead she opened with, “If you did spend your days like an elven maiden composing poetry about the eyes of a stubborn, notoriously ugly fool, why would you refuse seven gifts from him?”

With a deep breath, Bilbo calmed himself, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. It was a very dwarvish question. Moreover, it was a question he knew bothered Thorin and the others, though none of them had ever asked for an explanation for those first refusals. In a way, he welcomed the blunt inquiry, though he was certainly not going to admit to any poetic tendencies regarding Thorin’s eyes.

“I did not refuse seven gifts from Thorin,” Bilbo said firmly. “I refused six offers of a reward for my services, and I only did that because I rather misunderstood the intent behind the gesture.”

“That much I know. Common gossip would tell that you thought the reward a gift, and refused to accept such from one who nearly murdered you in his madness.”

Shocked, Bilbo could say nothing at all. “That is absurd. None of that was his fault. It was the dragon’s curse, and he overthrew the madness with pure will. Who says such things?”

Dis’s smile was small and bitter. “When a king is publicly refused so many times by one whose loyalty he values, many people say many things.”

“I’m sorry.” Bilbo felt awful. No one had explained it to him that way. Of course, they probably thought him bright enough to draw a simple conclusion. “I didn’t think of it so at the time. But he would keep making it public. I should have been much happier to refuse him privately.”

Dis laughed sharply, but it did not have the same joy of their earlier, shared amusement. “Tell me why.”

Bilbo shrugged uncomfortably. “I thought he meant to offer me a going away present. Something for the road. Don’t let the gates hit my bum on the way out. And I did not want to leave.”

“I see.” Reading her expression was suddenly very difficult. It wasn’t the stone mask that Thorin so often wore as a king, but Bilbo didn’t know her well enough to understand what he was seeing. She looked like someone tasting pickled ginger for the first time trying to decide if they liked it or not.

“I asked Balin to make him stop, but Balin just kept telling me it wasn’t a gift so I should take what was being offered. And I couldn’t talk to Thorin because he was so upset with me, only now I think on it, that was probably just as much about me embarrassing him publicly as it was about the arkenstone and everything.” Bilbo stopped babbling. He wasn’t sure how the conversation had taken such a bad turn, and he certainly didn’t know how to get it back to the point where they were laughing together. His head hurt.

“Do you know, Mister Baggins, I have just realized something important that I believe has entirely escaped the notice of the great minds of Erebor?”

“That I’m a bit of an idiot?” Bilbo asked morosely.

Dis laughed happily. “That you are not a dwarf.”

“I do believe they know that. Your brother for one called me halfling for about half our journey, though I am not half of anything.”

“So then they told you plainly, knowing our ways were not your ways, that dwarves do not, as a rule, give gifts?”

“What?”

“Oh, there are exceptions, of course. Courting gifts, which are given to initiate a romance. Fealty gifts, which a lord or landowner may give to those who serve well. Apprentices receive gifts from their masters. Children receive gifts from their parents. And other family members. I cannot tell you how Thorin spoiled Kili as a child. When we had less than nothing, still Thorin would forego his own food or sleep to craft baubles for my youngest.”

Bilbo knew that he should take advantage of the lesson in dwarven culture. At the very least, it explained why his friends were always asking for pocket change whenever they gave him a present. Even after so long living among them, and finally being permitted to learn Khuzdul, there were many secrets that were simply not spoken of. But his head hurt, so he indulged himself with the question he truly wanted an answer to. “What sort of things did he make?”

“Oh, toys for the most part. Wooden swords, clockwork birds, dolls, soldiers, small animals, and suchlike. Thorin wanted so desperately for both of my sons to have a happy childhood, though he could not give that as easily as a little wagon with real wheels.”

As his heart broke a little, Bilbo looked out the window, straining to see Erebor behind the towers of Dale. “Well he has given them a home now, and they shall have happy lives.”

“Yes, they will,” Dis said. “He has given a home to all of his people, and that is appropriate. A king may give a gift.”

“So when I was declining Thorin’s rewards, it was like saying in public that he wasn’t my king.”

Dis smiled. “Very good.”

“Why wouldn’t Balin have simply told me that?”

“I expect,” Dis said carefully, “That he thought you might be under the impression that it was another type of gift.”

“What do you mean?”

“Traditionally, a dwarf will give a gift to begin a courtship.”

Forcing a laugh, Bilbo said, “I cannot see how that might apply to the chest of jewels Thorin was trying to give me.”

“No, that would be ridiculous, but he might have thought you received an incomplete explanation of the custom. Perhaps someone mentioned it when speaking around the campfire, as adventurers do. Or maybe later, when you reached the treasure rooms of Erebor?”

Clearly Dis was hinting at something, but Bilbo had no idea what it might be. “Not that I recall. Gloin mentioned courting his wife on occasion, but it was only the usual. That she was a famous beauty, that he was lucky she chose him, that he loved her far more than gold: the type of thing any hobbit might say. Though perhaps we’d make comparison to chocolates or tea cakes.”

Dis nodded. “I thought as much. You know nothing at all.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m generally considered to be quite clever enough around these parts. I won a riddle contest for my life underneath the Misty Mountains, I broke the company out of Thranduil’s inescapable dungeon, I—”

“Know nothing of dwarven courtship.”

“Well,” Bilbo said uncomfortably, “I suppose I can’t say I’ve courted or been courted by anyone, no.”

“Have you heard that dwarves love only once?”

“Yes! Yes, I have. Bofur told me when we were out dancing.” In point of fact, Bilbo had asked, and for reasons he would not speak of in the presence of a lady he had only just met. He’d been a bit too shy to speak of it with Bofur directly either. At the time, he’d only mentioned obliquely about the sort of thing that might go on between two adults in the know after a birthday party or a high spirited night at the pub. He would not like to lead anyone on, or offer insult if customs were different in Erebor. Bofur had nodded in understanding, but informed him that such things never happened among dwarves. Not because it was shocking or improper, but because it was a risk. Dwarves only loved once. Go about courting in the wrong way and you could salt the only land that would ever be yours to garden.

“Then you know that our love is a gift from Mahal. The One we love is not. They are their own person, and there is no guarantee that just because a dwarf has a love they are loved in return. The One who is loved may love another. The One who is loved may never love. It is a great burden, to be someone’s best chance for happiness. A dwarf with any sense of nobility or honor would never simply speak words of love.”

“So instead you give gifts? That seems terribly circuitous to me. Wouldn’t the person receiving a courting gift know anyway?”

Dis shook her head. “There are reasons to court other than love. Dwarrow might marry for alliance, security, progeny, or any number of other reasons. I might have done so myself even if my heart had not been touched. Thorin was too shamed by defeat and too driven by the crown to continue our line. I wanted children. Yet I was lucky enough to have love as well, for a time.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“It was long ago.”

For a little while there was silence, the wind blowing the soft noises of the streets of Dale up as a gentle counterpoint to their lapsed conversation. Eventually, Dis spoke again.

“Whether a dwarf loves their One, or simply wishes to court a particular person, they must begin with a gift. They present the object of their courtship with a token of great value, generally crafted by their own hand, and bid them accept it as a gift. If the one being courted isn’t interested, they simply give it back. The giver will not approach them again for a year and a day. One who does wish to be courted would wear the token publicly, indicating that they welcome, or at least will permit, being spoken to of love.”

“So the token is something that is worn?”

Smiling, Dis removed a ring from the first finger of her right hand. “It ought to be. The best tokens are personal, unique to the one who crafts it and the one who it is crafted for. This was the courting gift my father gave to my mother when he was Crown Prince of Erebor.”

The ring was a heavy golden thing shaped like two ravens meeting in flight, their swooping wings forming the back of the band and their beaks holding a great blue sapphire encircled by seven smaller diamonds.

“The seven stars are a symbol of the House of Durin, which he was offering her, the ravens were for Erebor, and the sapphire because her eyes were blue. He did not know her well when they began to court, though he loved her. I like his wedding gift to her much better, for that was a drafting desk of gold with pens and brushes of all shapes and sizes. Making pictures was her passion, as scribing was her craft, and he came to love her drawings as he did her.”

“That’s charming,” Bilbo agreed, handing the ring back to her.

“My Vili, on the other hand,” Dis said, removing another ring from her left hand, “he knew me well before offering me a courting gift.”

This ring was light. Bilbo might have thought it a particularly bright sort of silver if he wasn’t so familiar with mithril. Crafted of two thin bands, the silver-steel seemed to wind together around a pale blue stone. One band was inscribed with the runes for Dis, and was shaped like a dwarven war axe upon closer inspection. The other band had the name Vili, and was shaped like a stretched out fiddle. Inside the ring, the two bands were inscribed with what looked like Khuzdul poetry. “Some sort of opal makes heart’s music?”

“Lightning opals inspire heartfelt songs,” Dis corrected, smiling softly. “The blue jewel you see there is such an opal. They are quite rare, and I do not doubt that Vili must have tightened his belt for a full year to afford one. Though the mithril was likely a contribution from Thorin in the crafting. There was a bead he used to wear in his hair of about this weight that mysteriously vanished a few weeks before Vili approached me.”

“Thorin made this?”

“Yes, though he will never admit to it under sky or stone. It is a polite fiction that all dwarves craft their own courting gifts, unless an heirloom is given instead. Of course if Vili had given me a ring of whittled wood I would have worn it with a glad heart, but he wanted to give me something worthy of the House of Durin. Knowing he was my One, Thorin helped him.”

“It’s very beautiful.”

“The design is Vili’s. He had a good eye for beauty, if not the skill to craft it from metal.”

“If you separate the bands, do the words change meaning?”

“You have a quick eye as well, Master Baggins. Yes, the lightning opals retain love, but if the fiddle stands alone the music wants for inspiration. Vili’s true gift was language. Once I put this ring on, he courted me with such music.”

“I imagine you miss him very much.”

“I do. Dwarrow love once, and I will not love again. He would not wish me to weep, though. All he ever did was try to make me laugh. Now my sons do a good job of that in his stead, and I have friends enough for company.”

“Perhaps you would be willing to add another to that number?” Bilbo tried for his most charming grin, and Dis returned the smile. “I am very much in your debt for the cultural lesson.”

“Oh, Bilbo Baggins! If there is debt between us, none of it will ever be on your side. But yes, I should like to call you friend.”

Leaning back against his pillows, the hobbit closed his eyes to rest his throbbing head. “That is very kind of you,” he said, feeling how true this was. Somehow, he kept getting lucky when it came to royalty. If he took an injury on their behalf, they seemed to welcome being friends with a silly little hobbit. It was quite convenient, really. For all that his head ached, he would have things unfold in the exact same way, even if he might go back and live the meeting a second time.

Chapter Text

Upon returning to Erebor, Bilbo and Dis were greeted with fanfare and celebration the likes of which could hardly be believed. Feasting, music, and elaborate displays of welcome could be found everywhere. Dis was hailed by all as the one who had led the exiles in the Blue Mountains during Thorin’s long absence. Meanwhile, Bilbo was very happily welcomed home by all of his friends.

Apparently Dis had not been exaggerating how much they worried for him. Everyone crowded around him at dinner to ask him silly questions and tease him for his earlier confusion. There were any number of jokes about soft headed hobbits, and every single member of the Company found a reason over the course of the night to very gently press their foreheads to his own. Bilbo thought it was half display, that his friends were demonstrating the proper way to touch heads with a hobbit, but it was also clearly a heartfelt gesture.

Even better than all of the celebration was the chance to meet the families of his friends. Gloin’s wife was as beautiful as promised, and his son Gimli was just as clever as his father. Bombur’s numerous children were all delightful little dwarrow, and his wife was a plump, jolly woman who had a Mastery in the Artisan’s Guild with Bofur. Bilbo found a willing audience for his stories among the children and happily joined their little dances. What’s more, Nori’s wife Sani proved a delightful surprise. Sneaky as her husband, she tried to burgle from the Burglar and quite succeeded in taking his coin purse. After huffing indignantly, Bilbo paid her back by lifting a small broach from the front of her dress when her husband had her thoroughly distracted, and they became fast friends.

There could be no question that what Bilbo missed most of all during his week recuperating in Dale was breakfasting with Thorin, though, and he was pleased to resume the custom on his first morning back inside the mountain. If the conversation was a little stilted, Bilbo blamed it on Thorin’s concern for his injuries and did not think much of it.

“Dis spoke to me at length last night,” the king said, apparently paying very close attention to the amount and thickness of the butter he was spreading on his muffin.

“I’m glad,” Bilbo said. “She missed you all terribly while we were in Dale, only an hour away. I felt very guilty for keeping her to myself, but of course she would not hear a word about returning to the mountain while I was anything less than fully recovered.”

“No,” Thorin agreed, still buttering his muffin. “I imagine she would not as a matter of honor. She did mention that you spoke often while convalescing.”

“Oh yes. I don’t mean to say I’m not grateful. My head hurt far too much for reading, and I should have been bored to tears without her.”

“Yes.” Thorin was still spreading the butter on his muffin, though Bilbo did not see how it could possibly get any smoother than it was. Dwarven perfectionism was often quite beyond the hobbit’s sensibilities. “She mentioned in passing that the topic of courting gifts came up.”

“Indeed it did. Is it true that you made that lovely mithril ring she wears? It’s very beautiful.”

Finally putting his butter knife down, Thorin looked up at Bilbo to smile. “Vili designed his courting gift for Dis, as is proper.”

“Yes, she said you wouldn’t admit to it. Still I had no idea you could craft something so beautiful. I mean,” he added very quickly, “I knew you were a Master Smith. I just thought that meant you made swords and things. Not that the swords you make aren’t very beautiful, I’m sure. I—oh dear.”

If anything, Bilbo’s babbling only made Thorin’s smile broader. At least he did not seem overly offended. “I am glad she thought to tell you of our ways in this.” Thorin’s voice was warm and his eyes were very soft indeed. The return of his sister to their true home obviously made him happy, and that filled Bilbo’s heart with joy for them both.

“As am I! It seems every time I turn around there is something new to learn about dwarven customs. Do you know I had seriously considered throwing myself a birthday party in the hobbit fashion come September? Imagine, me giving presents to everyone and offending all of my guests!”

“Hobbits give gifts so freely?”

“Of course. Hobbits love getting presents, and the best way to go about it is to make plenty of excuses to give them.”

“I would never have guessed.”

Like a flash, Bilbo realized why the king had been so stiff about broaching this particular subject. Immediately he said, “I never apologized, did I? I am so terribly sorry for refusing all of those rewards you were trying to give me. Please believe that if I had any idea it embarrassed you, I would have been more circumspect. Truly, I did not understand.”

Turning back to his breakfast, Thorin kindly said, “Think nothing of it. We should not have assumed that you would, nor judged your actions by our standards. Dis mentioned that among your people, such items as I offered would have been an indication that you ought to leave Erebor.”

“Not that we have great crates of jewels lying about the Shire, but that is how it seemed to me.”

“Then I am glad you refused them,” Thorin said forcefully.

Bilbo was so pleased to hear it that he could say nothing at all in response. Instead he ate a little ham and tried not to blush. Of course Thorin wanted him to stay in Erebor. The king had said as much before. It wasn’t news. Getting twitterpated by having the sentiment repeated was ridiculous.

If Dis had not been so busy with her own affairs, Bilbo might have sought her out for advice on her brother’s strange behavior over the next week. Letting his chair at the dinner table sit empty, the king only ever appeared at breakfast in his own rooms. Even then, he often seemed exhausted, as though he had not slept at all and was merely stopping by for a bath or a change of clothes. He smiled much more than was usual, but he spoke little. Bilbo was worried. However, as Thorin was still eating whatever Bilbo put in front of him for breakfast, Bilbo did not disturb Dis or Balin about the matter. Thorin’s business was his own. Besides, Balin would just badger Bilbo about attending dreadfully dull meetings of Lords, and Dis had other concerns.

As it turned out, Dis was very concerned about her younger son’s relationship with one of the oath breaking, tree fucking, leaf eating elves that had left her and her people to starve, wandering the wilderness as soon as Erebor could no longer pay for a friendly alliance. Aside from the occasional mention that Tauriel was a very brave warrior who had definitely saved Kili’s life, Bilbo tried to stay out of what was obviously a family affair. It wasn’t his business. He had mushrooms to grow, an apprentice to feed, and he really didn’t understand why the enmity between elves and dwarves could not be left in the past.

Things between Dis and Tauriel were always worst at dinner, and perhaps that was why Thorin had been giving the meal a miss. Dis would speak loudly about how wonderful it was that the bounty of Erebor could be open enough and charitable enough to feed even an elf. She would hold forth truly appalling opinions about Tauriel’s person, bearing, sense of dress, ability, character, desires, and motivations. Bearing all of this stoically, Tauriel ate her meals unflinchingly and did not respond. Whenever Bilbo tried to speak up for Tauriel, Dis praised his kindness before railing about how little Tauriel deserved it. It was even worse when Kili endeavored to do the same.

One night, after some particularly vicious insults, Kili caught Tauriel by the hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and promised that things would not be like this forever. This was the sort of gesture that Thorin often pretended he could not see, though it was also the reason he had forbidden the young lovers to sit next to one another at table. Dis did not pretend to ignore it.

Turning like a viper, she moved to slap Kili furiously across his cheek. Lightning quick, Tauriel caught the hand. For the first time in days she met the princess’s eyes. “You may strike me, if you like,” the elf said in an even tone that nevertheless conveyed a wealth of emotion.

“May I?” Dis roared. “Yet you do not have permission to lay hands upon my person! I am a princess of the House of Durin. You are elvish filth!”

Releasing the dwarrowdam’s hand, Tauriel broke eye contact. Folding her hands behind her back and looking straight ahead like the soldier she was, the elf said placidly, “Then you may have me flogged for the affront.”

“You do not tell me what may and may not be,” Dis howled. She looked as mad as Thorin ever had in the grip of his gold lust, and it was not a family resemblance that cheered Bilbo at all. “I will not have you whipped, I will have your head!” The princess then barked something in Khuzdul that Bilbo could not translate.

Kili went as pale as he had when struck by a morgul shaft. Fili and the other dwarves standing around Dis gasped. In contrast, Tauriel simply inclined her head, meeting Dis’s eyes once more. “I accept,” she said.

“No!” Kili cried, grasping Tauriel’s arm desperately. “No, she does not accept.”

Calmly, rationally, Fili put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Do not do this. Please.”

Without paying the least attention to the princes, the two women turned from each other and left the hall. Kili followed Tauriel, clutching at her coattails and pleading with her to change her mind. Most of the rest of the Company went with Dis. Bilbo could hear Fili asking his mother to rescind her words in his gentle, reasonable way. It was Balin, sinking back down into a seat at the dinner table as though his old bones could not take the weight of such a life, who explained it all to Bilbo. Apparently, they were going to fight to the death.

At breakfast the following morning, Thorin was serious and focused. Which was very good, as Bilbo intended for him to put a stop to all of this fighting to the death nonsense. Unfortunately, Thorin was not as cooperative as he ought to have been.

“What good is being a king if you cannot prevent people killing one another?”

“It is a challenge of honor. I cannot forbid it, and I do not believe you would want me to stop it,” Thorin said gruffly, stabbing his knife through the paper thin crepe rolled gently around roast beef and mushrooms.

“Yes,” Bilbo said firmly. “I rather do want you to stop it.”

“Tauriel laid hands upon my sister. All saw it. If Dis claims it as a personal affront instead of an insult to Erebor, I cannot prohibit her taking personal retribution. I could exile Tauriel to save her life, but Kili would go with her. We would never see him again.”

“He will never forgive any of you if Dis kills her!”

“Dis will not win,” Thorin said. “She is a Master with the ax, but it has been too long since she last fought a serious opponent. I like this thin bread you have made. It has a pleasing texture.”

“Thank you, I’m glad you enjoy it. I will make you crepes every day for a month if you put a stop to this fight, though I would not think you of all people would need incentive to stop an elf from killing your own sister!”

Thorin sighed. “Tauriel will not kill Dis. If she does, she will have to kill me next. But I do not think that threat necessary. Kili would not forgive even his One for murdering his mother.”

“If neither of them are going to kill the other, then why are they fighting to the death?” Bilbo asked snidely.

“Oh, I have no doubt that Dis intends to kill Tauriel if she can. Please, my burglar, try to understand. Dis was not even of age when the dragon came. When we made our long trek burned and bleeding to any place that we might call safety, the elves of Mirkwood turned us away. She, a child, witnessed that. Many died of burns that might have been salved with poultices from that forest. Those who died of hunger were fewer, for Durin’s folk are a hearty people, but that is worse. Even a little relief from those thrice-damned elves might have saved them. Even a crust or a bone to gnaw like a dog! But there was nothing. It was long ago by the count of your people, and Tauriel was young—is still young—by the count of hers, but Dis cannot forget it. I cannot forget it.”

Not knowing what to say, Bilbo put some of his own breakfast into his mouth. It tasted like ashes. “She saved Kili’s life,” he said finally. “Four times.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed. “It is in part thanks to her that Erebor is strong once more. That the line of Durin is secure. So I have allowed her into the mountain, but that is as far as my gratitude extends. She must make her own peace with Dis. She must prove herself still further, if she wishes to marry into my house.”

“A fight to the death seems like a very poor beginning to me,” Bilbo said.

“Does it? Tauriel has much to gain if she holds Dis’s life in her hands and then publicly returns it.”

Chapter Text

Of course Erebor had a great stadium for people to fight to the death in. Naturally fighting to the death in front of a great host of spectators, practically the whole mountain, was an important dwarvish tradition. Who wouldn’t want to watch two good women try to kill each other? As was customary, they could all gather together, enjoy a lovely murder, and then eat hot sausages.

“Peace,” Thorin grumbled. “It is an opera hall for theatricals, music, juggling, storytelling, and the like. You have only not seen it used as such because the upper tiers were unsound, and repairing them has not been a priority. Still, all who would witness this must be allowed to do so. Balin set crews to it during the night and the infrastructure should be safe enough now.”

Knowing that the place was not meant only for fighting did change Bilbo’s opinion of the arena itself. The center staging area where the action would take place was quite large, nearly half the size of his mine, but it was nothing compared to the great steps surrounding it. Around three sides of this stage were immense stone steps with long benches going nearly up to the vaulted ceiling. Thousands of dwarves could easily see the fight, though Bilbo noted that many who sat in the upper levels had spyglasses and other contraptions to help them see detail at a distance. Behind the stage on the fourth side was an immense stone statue of Mahal, the creator of the dwarves. It seemed that he would witness the bloodshed as well, but Bilbo liked to think of him watching juggling and music in better days during times past. He looked to be a kindly Valar with a noble face. His enormous eyes seemed gently amused by all that passed below.

Bilbo was glad to sit next to Thorin on the very first level with only a low stone wall separating him from the floor where Tauriel and Dis would fight. Watching the two women prepare for battle, he tried to think of anything that he could do or say to stop it. If only the fight had been over treasure or land perhaps he might have, just as he had once stopped their respective nations from warring. Unfortunately, this time the Arkenstone was Kili, and the lad had a mind of his own.

The young prince was standing with Tauriel, making his allegiance quite clear as he tied one of her leather bracers with his small, nimble hands. Her armor was well maintained, but it was only elvish leather. Tauriel was equipped much as Bilbo had seen her when she and Kili went hunting. She wore a sleeveless leather doublet, bracers, and tall boots, but long portions of her oversized limbs were protected only by thin green cloth. What made her seem even more vulnerable was the lack of a bow. An archer had an unfair advantage over a hand to hand fighter, so apparently Tauriel would only be fighting with her two long knives.

At the other side of the arena, Dis looked entirely ready for war. The princess wore full dwarven plate mail. It covered every inch of her body from her toes to the tips of her gauntleted fingers. No knife was sharp enough to slip between the well crafted seams, and no elf would be strong enough to dent it. In her hands, she held a war ax nearly half her own size, sharp as a razor and twice as deadly. Fili lowered a helm onto her head like a crown, and Bilbo could see him murmuring something to her, likely a final plea to forgo this desperate action. Dis shook her head, and pounded the helmet to be sure it was in place.

It was almost time.

Bending a little to press her forehead to Kili’s for good luck, Tauriel seemed surprised when the dwarf tilted up to kiss her lips. Surprised, but not displeased. She returned the kiss with a deep affection, and without any concern for the thousands who watched in disapproval. Bilbo thought it was very sweet, though he would have thought them sweeter if they had simply run away together. They might live quite happily in Rivendell, Minas Tirith, Bree, or any number of other places where no one wanted to kill either of them.

Thorin put a heavy hand on Bilbo’s thigh to stop his leg from shaking. That was actually a very effective distraction. The hand being quite warm. And on Bilbo’s thigh. And belonging to Thorin. Bilbo wondered if he might not someday offer Thorin a ring himself. The king would never accept, of course. But his hand was on Bilbo’s thigh. So perhaps it would not hurt very much to try.

Given the heat of Thorin’s hand and its proximity to Bilbo’s—well, to his person, Bilbo could hardly be expected to pay attention to the goings on in the center of the arena. The hobbit was barely able to take note of the way Fili fetched his brother from Tauriel’s side, or the lingering touch of the lovers hands as they were pulled apart. He was being very competently diverted.

Even Thorin’s hand moving wasn’t enough to distract Bilbo when the princes came to sit beside the king and the two fighters bowed before him, though. Thorin nodded once gravely, and that was all it took.

With a great clash the fighters joined. Tauriel was like a dragonfly, slipping around Dis almost too fast for the eye to follow, her knives flashing fiercely in the glittering light of dwarvish lanterns. Dis was like a force of nature, utterly unaffected by Tauriel’s attack, swatting away blows as she would a gnat. When the dwarf swung her mighty ax, Tauriel had no choice but to leap and dodge away. A single blow from that weapon would likely seal her fate.

After the first exchange, Tauriel seemed to realize that her knives could do nothing against Dis, and she took up a more defensive posture. Bilbo didn’t see how that could serve her particularly well in the end, but he was happy enough to watch her focus on staying away from the crushing blows that cracked the stone floor wide open.

“Oh,” he realized softly, when he noticed the pattern to her footwork.

“That ax will not be blunted by stone no matter how many times it hits the ground,” Thorin said, as if warning Bilbo not to get his hopes up.

“She’s not looking to blunt the ax,” Kili said, and Bilbo could hear a smile in his voice, though he did not dare look away from the fighting to see it.

“Of course she isn’t,” Bilbo agreed happily. “That wouldn’t do much good at all.”

Moments later, it happened. Dis struck hard and buried her ax in a place of Tauriel’s choosing where the stone had already been cracked by a previous blow. Leaping high, Tauriel knocked some of the large stones against the side of the ax blade, making it more difficult for Dis to pull loose. Then, with all of her weight, the elf landed on the blunt edge of the ax, jerking it free of the dwarf’s grip, and for good measure she brought the hilt of both of her knives crashing down on the top of Dis’s helmet.

For a breath, Bilbo thought that must be it. Dis was unarmed, and Tauriel had made a graceful ending. He should have known better. He, of all people, knew how hard the head of the Lady Dis could be.

Without hesitation, Dis slammed her armored first into Tauriel’s cheek. The steel points Bilbo had thought decorative gouged long bloody lines across the elf maiden’s beautiful face. Tauriel fell backward, looking horribly still as Dis kicked her gut with a heavy boot. As the slender elf lay bleeding on the stone, Dis bent once more to pick up her ax.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see Kili standing at the low wall between the first row of spectators and the fighters. Barely restrained by his brother's arms, he was screaming for Tauriel to get up. Bilbo did not turn to look at him or give him comfort. All his attention was on the still form sprawled against the stone as Dis raised her ax.

Kicking up, both of Tauriel’s boots connected with the underside of Dis’s helmet. As the elf flew into the air, vaulting over the dwarf, the war helm was knocked loose and clattered to the ground.

Once again, Tauriel flew at Dis like a mosquito, raining a thousand little blows against the armor that she could not dent. Only this time that armor had a vital weak point. It was not enough. Dis was not as fast as Tauriel, but she kept her ax up and protected her head. If she struck out less than before, there was still no substantial change. A single good blow would be enough to fell the elf, while Tauriel could land many to no effect.

Yet something about the situation seemed to be infuriating Dis. She roared and cursed, trying to shake the elf loose with powerful, angry swings that seemed far less efficient than her formerly precise strikes. It took an especially obvious smack from one of Tauriel’s knives for Bilbo to realize what it was.

“She’s hitting her with the flat of the blade,” he whispered.

“Only when she strikes her face,” Thorin said immediately, sounding defensive. Then, “It is very foolish. Tauriel will die if she does not at least strike to wound.”

Thorin was wrong. In her rage, Dis swung out too far. Somehow, Tauriel caught her by the arm and rolled her to the ground. They went careening and bouncing together across the stone floor, carried by the weight of the armor and the momentum of Tauriel’s pull. When they came to a stop, Tauriel was straddling Dis’s chest elegantly with one of her knives pointed at the underside of the dwarf’s chin. Though blood streamed from the cuts on her cheek and she was breathing hard, her victory was clear.

Spitting a stream of rapid fire curses in Khuzdul up at her, Dis finally said, “I will not yield. If you will not leave my son alone elf, you will suffer and die for it. Though I must die first by your hand, I shall still count it a victory. For my family will be your doom.”

“Yes,” Tauriel said in a clear voice that seemed to ring from the vaulted ceiling to the statue of the valar where he stood watching over them all. “That is the way of my kind, should we love a mortal. When the love is gone I will fade. I will die for Kili. If that day be today, then let it be today, for it is my choice and I do not regret it. I do not ask for your forgiveness; I know there can be no forgiveness for what happened between our peoples. I only ask for clemency.”

She looked over to where Kili stood in his brother’s arms. “He may yet live two hundred years more. Let us have that chance. For two hundred years of dwarvish fire, I will give all the ages of starlight that were mine by right of birth. Even then you, Lady Dis, will have crafted my destruction. Can that not be enough? Is there no room in your heart for such a mercy?”

Bilbo could not see Dis’s face. Nor could he hear what she said next, so quietly that he thought Tauriel alone understood it. However, she must have yielded, because Tauriel stood and offered her a graceful hand up. Shoving the hand roughly away, Dis said loudly. “I do not give you leave to wed; however, so long as you make him happy I will grant this stay of execution.”

“We are already wed by the traditions of my people,” Tauriel said, and Bilbo could have cursed her for saying something so provocative. Fortunately, Dis did not leap to strike her dead for the affront. “But elvish weddings are simple things that need trouble no one else. I know dwarrow value effort, and happily will I prove my faith for a hundred years if that is what it takes to earn your blessing.”

Dis frowned. Then she nodded once, picked up her ax, and strode from the arena.

That seemed to be it. The spectators all rose from their seats, politely exiting. There were no speeches of conclusion, no declarations of valor. The matter was simply ended. Leaping over the wall as he had been trying to do since the first time Tauriel was injured, Kili rushed to the elf’s side. Smiling with delight, she bent to kiss him, but he only pecked her lips, his fingers scrambling to undo the laces of her doublet.

Blushing furiously, Bilbo turned around, nearly falling backward over the low wall himself. Catching him around the waist, Thorin righted the hobbit easily. “Whatever do you think my nephew is doing?” Thorin’s laugh was a warm rumble in the shell of Bilbo’s ear, and Bilbo thought again that it might be worth a little awkwardness at breakfast one morning to offer him a ring. Just to see if he was open to the idea of being courted by the most ridiculous person in his kingdom.

Behind him, Bilbo heard Tauriel protesting. “I am fine.”

“You are not fine,” Kili insisted. “You have two broken ribs at least from that kick. Or will you tell me that you haven’t been favoring your left side?”

“Bruises only,” she promised. “I no longer even feel them now that my doublet does not press upon them so.”

Turning back, Bilbo saw the young couple curved quite sweetly toward each other so that their foreheads were only just touching. “I would not ever have you take a hurt for me,” Kili confessed, gently touching the deep gouges on her cheek.

“Yet gladly would I suffer the tortures of Mordor for a thousand years if it meant I could be rewarded with the touch of your hand for five minutes.” Smiling as though she did not feel the pain of her wounds, Tauriel pressed another gentle kiss to Kili’s mouth.

Bilbo thought their love was a noble one. Triumphing in the face of adversity, with all the joys and sorrows of a great and beautiful hope, sacrificing an immortal life for mortal happiness. That was the sort of love one would expect for princes and kings. It was so much more than a hobbit’s love, which could only ever be quiet breakfasts, mushroom farms, and other unworthy things. There were tears in his eyes, and he was really very happy for them both.

Chapter Text

When Thorin confirmed three times during breakfast that Bilbo would be joining the dancing in the Hall of Kings after dinner to celebrate the opening of a new shaft in Bofur’s mine, the hobbit was more than suspicious. Dwarves were not a subtle people as a rule. However, with no reason to suspect ill from his friends, and no desire to spoil whatever joke they wanted to play, he went along with a willing heart.

Anyway, he loved dancing. Dwarven dancing was more about showing off than the merry jigging of a hobbit dance. Precisely tossing Bilbo’s dishes about at Bag End had only been the smallest demonstration of what they enjoyed. In their own halls they stomped, twirled, tossed each other about, juggled knives, and made many wonderful shows of strength and skill. After learning early on which songs it was best to stand to one side and observe, one of Bilbo’s greatest joys in Erebor was to join the fun. Often this led to him being tossed about by his friends like a ceramic plate, but they always caught him and made him look a proper tumbler when they did.

Thorin, however, did not often attend dances. He said it was because he did not like to make his people self conscious in the presence of their king, and because he was too busy. Secretly Bilbo suspected the dwarf might simply be afraid to appear foolish. That night he attended, though. That night he danced.

Leaning against the statue of some king he could not name, trying catch his breath after a particularly intricate square dance, Bilbo heard the opening chords of one of the songs he knew well to avoid. In the center of the golden dance floor, he saw two dwarrow with flowing dark hair rushing toward one another. As they raced past each other, they locked elbows and fell to the ground, the force of the collision stopping them. Then together they rose from the gold. What followed was one of the most impressive displays of athleticism and strength Bilbo had ever seen. In perfect time with the music, they flipped, fought, and lifted one another up. It was only when one dwarf was upside down, her body perfectly straight and supported by one open palm as the dwarf beneath her danced a complicated jig while holding the full weight of her pose in a single hand, that Bilbo saw their faces. Thorin was dancing a jig, supporting his sister with a single hand held just above his shoulder. Dis was doing that amazing handstand, staying perfectly steady as the one beneath her bounced in time with the music.

Watching the royal siblings dance was incredible. Beyond the feat of skill and strength, Bilbo was suddenly struck by the fact that they were siblings. They must have danced together often long ago, before the Hall of Kings had a golden floor. Before they assumed the responsibility of leading a destitute people to hope, they must have spent hours practicing together. It filled his heart with gladness to see them dance so freely, and he was not alone. The cheers that came after their display were deafening.

Yet the incredible dancing of Thorin and Dis was soon surpassed by another dance. In a quiet moment as some of the musicians seemed to rest, a single flute took up a lofty melody that reminded Bilbo very much of Elrond’s house in Rivendell. Looking among the musicians, he saw Bofur playing it. Apparently others did as well. Upon remembering that the night was Bofur’s celebration, no one grumbled. That may only have been because no one knew what was happening until Tauriel started to dance.

The elf still had a large bandage on her face from the fight with Dis, but she was no less beautiful for that when she started to move. Her dance was slow, like no dance Bilbo had ever seen before among hobbits or dwarves. There was power in her movements, as she leapt higher than any dwarf might dream of doing and held poses that would quite topple Bilbo if he tried them, but beyond that there was poise. She seemed to drift and flow in the steps of her dance, moved by the music of the flute, alone and above all the world around her.

Then there was a violin. It joined the gentle song so softly and slowly that Bilbo only noticed it when Kili made his bow. For a little while, the elf and the dwarf danced around each other. Perhaps it ought to have looked like a mockery. Kili made the same sort of movements as Tauriel, but in his compact, muscular form they did not look half as graceful. Yet there was a grace to him, for he turned ever toward his love, like a flower turning toward the sun.

As their dance continued, Bilbo began to notice something dwarvish about the way they lifted one another into the air. Tauriel was always an elf in her posing, but Kili’s movements began to look much more like what Bilbo was used to seeing when dwarves showed off in their dancing. They complimented one another beautifully, and neither of them looked lonely any longer. Slowly other instruments joined the song, and the melody changed. The couple changed their dance to match, and Bilbo realized with a laugh that it was a traditional circle dance. He knew it well, for the reel was played almost every time dwarves got together. But as Tauriel and Kili clapped hands, spun around their partner, and kicked their feet in time, no one else joined in. Bilbo looked for Fili, but he was the one playing the violin. It seemed like all of the couple’s allies had been carefully placed among the musicians, and there was no one to support the dancing.

Well, there was only one thing for it. Catching Thorin by the hand, Bilbo tried to pull him to the dance floor.

“I will not join this dance,” the king said, and tugging his hand was like trying to pull a brick wall.

“Oh, do come!” Bilbo could go alone, of course, or ask another member of the Company to join him, but Thorin would be best. “You only stand in the way of Kili’s happiness when you stand to the side like a great lump. Dis told me herself, he will not love again.”

“She can not be his One,” Thorin said obstinately. “Mahal did not make her for him.”

“Oh.” Bilbo felt very strange suddenly. Much more like sitting than dancing in fact, though he would not abandon Kili. “Then you do not think a dwarf can fall in love with someone who is not a dwarf?”

Thorin went very still at that, though Bilbo barely noticed. Of course Thorin would never fall in love with anyone who was not a very impressive dwarf. That was not new information, and there was no reason for it to make Bilbo’s chest clench so.

Setting his mouth in a thin line, Thorin pulled Bilbo by the hand, stomping out to the floor and lining up across from Bilbo to join the dance.

Once they were out next to the grinning couple, there was no time to be depressed. Bilbo watched Thorin’s head bounce a little, counting time, and he clapped hands just as the music hit the right note. Where Thorin went, others followed. By the time the reel came around again, dozens of couples had joined the floor, dancing merrily all together. Even Dis joined the fun, partnered by Balin.

Bilbo had such a good time dancing, that he quite forgot Thorin had some joke planned for him until late in the evening when the trap was sprung. The little hobbit was resting his legs on a bench, sipping from a water goblet and wondering if it might be time to toddle home to bed, when Thorin sat down beside him. Looking up, Bilbo saw that all his friends were gathered around. Quite subtly so for dwarves. Nori and his wife seemed to be having an entirely unrelated conversation with Dori a little distance off. Dwalin was sharpening a knife. Dis and Balin were comparing different ales. Fili, Kili, Tauriel, and Bofur were examining Bofur’s flute. Overall, it was only Gloin, Oin, Bifur, Bombur, and Ori who were staring directly at Bilbo and Thorin while grinning.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, smiling rather a lot himself. “I would like to give you a gift, crafted by my own hand.”

With great will, Bilbo did not laugh aloud. Of course! Dis had said it: a king may give a gift. Not two weeks before, Bilbo had confessed that he was used to getting at least a present a week in Hobbiton, and it would be reasonable for Thorin to conclude that he’d missed such things. It was very kind of his friends to think to do this. Bilbo accepted the golden box Thorin handed him with a cheerful smile, though it was so heavy it nearly crushed his legs when he rested it in his lap.

Even if he had not been very conscious of the effort his friends were making to embrace his customs, Bilbo would not have flinched to receive the gift. As a Baggins of Bag End, he had learned how to politely accept a mathom by the age of ten.

“How lovely!” he cried, lifting the heavy golden chain from the box with no little effort. “Look at all those gleaming gemstones! However did you get them to do that? It still bends so easily!” The necklace was clearly very valuable. Every thick, gold link of the chain was set with a different sparkling stone. Bilbo recognized diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and many other jewels besides, each one as big as his thumbnail. As a display of dwarven opulence, you could not ask for better than that chain, which would have looked utterly ridiculous around any hobbit’s neck.

Not that he could ever wear it about his neck, for the weight of the pendant would surely choke him. It was the size of a salad plate, and nearly a handbreadth thick. Bilbo recognized the style of sculpting from the doors of the Culinary Guild hall, a scene depicted in raised sculpture from a flat backing. He had to admit that it looked very well on doors, but he thought the technique was not quite as suited to crafting things a hobbit would be expected to lift. His biceps strained just levering it up from the box, though he still let the lower edge balance on the lid, supporting some of the weight with his knees. Still, he admired it dutifully.

“Oh, what a beautiful scene!” he exclaimed. “I can hardly believe you crafted this yourself, Thorin. See, Ori, come and have a look. There is Erebor, and Esgaroth, and Mirkwood, and the Misty Mountains. I swear you can even see the Shire in this corner over here! It is all the distance that we traveled together. Isn’t that a lovely picture? Why I swear the trees look real enough to climb! And of course I am right here. Armored quite fiercely, if I do say so myself, with Sting in one hand and—oh.”

Looking up, Bilbo saw Thorin’s smile grow so that it showed all of his perfect teeth. The king was as proud of himself as if he’d pulled a rabbit from a hat. “It is my acorn,” Bilbo said softly. “The one I took from Beorn’s house.”

“Yes,” Thorin said. “I thought it fitting.”

“Oh. That is very nice of you, to include my acorn.” Bilbo looked down at the enormous medallion shyly. Tracing the small golden seed with his fingers, the hobbit said, “I was thinking I might plant it in autumn. Here. Somewhere on the mountain side.”

“Nothing would please me more.” Thorin was so warm, his voice so deep, and Bilbo was so worked up from dancing. If all of their closest friends had not been gathered around watching, Bilbo might have done something very foolish indeed. Like offer Thorin the little golden ring in his pocket. Or worse, offer the sorts of things two hobbits might enjoy after a friendly night dancing. Bilbo’s fingers returned to the little carving of the acorn.

“Why not try it on?” Dis said, breaking his reverie.

“Er, excuse me?” Bilbo could not very well say, ‘because I expect it would break my neck,’ so he needed time to think of a good reason. Pretending not to hear was a little obvious, but it did the job.

“Dis.” Balin’s scowl was extremely disapproving, but the princess ignored him.

“It would be perfectly appropriate for you to put that on now,” she pressed, gesturing to the medallion. “There is no need to wait to wear it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Bilbo said quickly. “It would never do. In this waistcoat? It’s not nearly nice enough to match. I shall have to try it on another day, when I am fancy enough not to look like a wren wearing peacock feathers.”

Dis frowned. Quite a lot of the smiles around Bilbo flattened or turned down at the corners, which was the exact opposite of what the little hobbit wanted. Perhaps he ought to simply put the chain on. If he held the medallion in his hands, he did not think it really would choke him. Of course, it would be obvious at once that he could not wear the thing, and that would likely hurt Thorin’s feelings even more.

“Do you want to give it back to him?” Bofur asked, very gently. “No one will be angry if you don’t keep it, Bilbo.”

Perhaps Thorin wouldn’t be angry, but he would most definitely be hurt. Bilbo resigned himself to a show of hobbit weakness. Fortunately, as he had so many times before, Thorin saved him. Closing the box deftly, Thorin moved Bilbo’s hands so that they rested on the lid. “You will keep it,” he said, and it was not quite a question. His smile was small, but it was still a smile.

Bilbo nodded.

“He will wear it another day,” Thorin announced. Standing up abruptly, the king smiled tightly at everyone and then quickly walked away. Bilbo felt awful for spoiling their plan. Dis looked rightfully upset with him, Fili looked confused, and Tauriel looked very thoughtful. The rest of his friends simply looked awkward, and they wandered away slowly as though not sure what to say.

Only Bofur remained, taking Thorin’s seat on the bench next to Bilbo. After a long silence where two different songs played through for the dancers, Bofur finally spoke. “A dam back in the Blue Mountains, a good friend of mine, once tried to give me a ring.”

“Really? A courting gift, you mean?” That was interesting enough that Bilbo stopped wishing Bofur would go away so that no one would be around when Bilbo struggled to get up holding his present.

“Yes. It was a lovely thing. Ruby as big as your eye set in sterling silver with masterful etchings. As she was a lovely dam. With a beard like a waterfall and eyes like caverns unknowable. She was quick, and she was kind, and I did not love her. Oh how it terrified me! I thought I must be her One, you see. The responsibility of that, Bilbo, the weight, was something awful. Knowing that I was her best chance for happiness in this world, even if she was not mine. Well, I could have married her anyway, you know. She wanted children and so did I. I still do, as a matter of fact.”

“You would make a good father,” Bilbo agreed. “You didn’t accept her?”

“No. Too scared. I handed the ring right back to her. It was a gift, and you never have to accept a gift.”

“You don’t regret rejecting her?”

Bofur watched the dancers seriously for a long time. “Perhaps I regret not letting her speak. Turned out in the end, I was an idiot. She married elsewhere a year later. I spent a whole year thinking I was breaking her heart, when it turned out she just wanted children and knew I did too. If I’d accepted the gift, we might have at least talked about it. Accepting a gift isn’t accepting a proposal, it’s just allowing yourself to be courted.”

“Would you have married her if you’d known that you weren’t her One?”

Bofur grinned brightly. “I’d have been a fool to do it. The fellow she married was Bombur. He’s her One. They both knew it the minute I introduced them. Might have been a bit awkward if I was married to her at the time.”

Laughing in surprise, Bilbo slapped Bofur on the arm. “Sounds to me like she chose the better brother, anyway!”

Chuckling, Bofur agreed. “Certainly chose the fatter one.”

“Well, maybe now that you are a great lord in Erebor, you can fatten up a little and find a wife of your own.”

“Aye,” Bofur said. “Maybe I can, but that is not the path to happiness for everyone. If you ever want to talk, Bilbo, I’m here. And I am on your side, if you ever need someone to be. Never doubt it.”

Bilbo grinned. “I never have.”

Chapter Text

Eventually, Bofur went back to dancing with the still merry group at the center of the golden dance floor in the Hall of Kings. Left alone on the stone bench near the wall, Bilbo sighed in relief and put a hand in his pocket. He was very glad to have brought his little ring along to the party. At the start of the evening, he’d thought precautions were needed in case his friends had a joke that went too far. Didn’t it just figure that he should need the ring to save their feelings instead of his own. Still, he would do a lot more than turn invisible to protect Thorin Oakenshield from harm. Even just a little harm to his pride.

Putting on the ring was always a strain. When he was wearing it the world turned so washed out and colorless. Yet using the ring was thrilling, in its own way. Once he was invisible, he could do anything he liked. Anything at all.

Finally, he was able to set the gold box down on the stone bench and rub his poor thighs. They felt practically bruised from bearing the heavy weight of Thorin’s gift for so long. He stretched, shook out his hands, and took long slow breaths to rest from the strain.

Of course it had been very kind of Thorin to give Bilbo a present. Knowing that hobbits liked gifts, and that under dwarven custom only a king could give one without all sorts of meaning attached, Thorin had chosen to do something nice for his friend. However, Bilbo wouldn’t have minded something a lot smaller. Perhaps even something hobbit sized. Clearly that would have been asking too much.

Focusing on how kind it was for Thorin to think of him, Bilbo put his back into it and picked up the box with the enormous gold necklace inside. He managed to make it out of the Hall of Kings and halfway down the corridor to the great forges before needing to stop and take a rest, panting invisibly against the wall. At such a speed, he might make it to the royal wing by breakfast time. Provided, of course, that he did not rest as much as he wanted, only as much as he needed.

There was no help for it. He would have to borrow a wheelbarrow from the forges and hope that no one noticed or told his friends about it. That was a fool’s hope, of course. Dwarves tended to gossip more than drunken Brandybucks at a wedding, but maybe no one would tell Thorin. The king didn’t exactly chat over drinks at his guild hall in the evenings. Bilbo sighed and hefted the box once more. This time, he managed to make it nearly a hundred paces before he had to set it down again. Despairing, he sat down on top of the box, gasping for breath.

Hope came unlooked for in the form of a lone dwarf walking swiftly from the Hall of Kings.

“Fili!” Bilbo said happily, not taking off his ring.

Looking around with wide eyes, Fili said, “Bilbo? Are you following me? I did not leave them alone on purpose!”

Bilbo blinked, then laughed. How strange that they should both be doing something clandestine when they encountered one another. “I do not care if Kili and Tauriel are alone together. You mistake me for your uncle.”

Narrowing his eyes in Bilbo’s general direction, Fili asked, “Then why are you following me about in secret?”

“As it happens, I do have a secret, though I am not following you at all. I simply need your help. Only you must swear on your honor to tell no one. Please. I cannot manage on my own.”

At once, Fili’s face settled into a noble countenance that Bilbo thought quite princely. “I so swear it. If it is in my power to help you, I will always do so, Bilbo. You know that.”

“Yes I do,” Bilbo said, grinning ruefully and taking off his little ring. “And it is not so serious as all of that. Only can you please help me carry this box back to my rooms? My arms are likely to fall off in protest if I try to lift it again.”

Blinking in confusion, Fili stared at the hobbit. Then the heir to the throne of Erebor bent over and lifted the box easily with one hand. Bilbo might have hated him for that, but Fili seemed to weigh the gift in his palm, moving his elbow up and down. Finally, he said, “This is heavy.”

“Give the dwarf a prize!” Bilbo cried, as though he was hosting a booth at a spring fair. Feeling immediately guilty for this rudeness, he apologized. “I am sorry, Fili. Yes. To me, it is very heavy. Very heavy indeed.”

“Because it is solid gold,” Fili said, as though testing the words. “It must weigh half again as much as you do. A hobbit cannot lift it.”

“I can lift it well enough,” Bilbo snapped. Of course, then he needed to apologize again. “Only I cannot carry it very far. I am not a dwarf.”

“No,” Fili said, and the pity in his face seemed far more than the situation warranted. “You are not a dwarf.”

“Look,” Bilbo said, “I am not upset. I know very well that I am not a dwarf. I was not made of stone by the mighty Mahal, but that does not make me any less than any of you. It is not as though I am not very happy with my hobbitishness. There are many things that I can do that a dwarf cannot, in point of fact, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

“Uncle should have remembered it,” Fili said, his eyes hardening.

“Oh dear. There’s no use in you getting upset about it, either. I’m very happy he gave me a present, even if it is one like as not to break my neck if I ever wear it. If you could just help me get it back to my room, we can say no more about how dreadfully heavy gold is.”

“He embarrassed you. Publicly.”

“No,” Bilbo said quickly. “Not at all. If you did not notice I could barely hold it, I doubt anyone else did either. As we say in the Shire, it is the thought that counts. Your uncle thought to give me a great gift of gold.”

“That is a good saying. Yours are a wise people, Bilbo, and I think your solution to the problem a fine one. I will help you carry it back to your chambers and display it prominently. Somewhere my uncle cannot fail to notice it if he visits.”

“Precisely!” Bilbo was relieved that Fili seemed to agree that this was the most polite course of action, because the young prince’s face was still twisted in an angry scowl.

Fili’s was a kind nature, though, and it was very easy to cheer him up as they walked along. Pressing him for details about Kili and Tauriel’s plan for the dance was very effective. As was asking about his own progress in mastering the noble art of smithing metal. The prince was beyond happy to talk about Tauriel’s serious dedication to being accepted by Kili’s family. In him the elf had a willing brother, even if the rest of the house of Durin was less eager to welcome her into their line. Both of them smiled to talk about the young lovers. Just knowing them gave one the feeling of being inside a very noble story, like that of Beren and Luthien, though Fili certainly didn’t think of his brother as a great hero. The smithing was a trickier subject, for Fili detailed some process for setting light into crystals that sounded rather a lot like magic to Bilbo.

“As the way you make those windowed cookies with the sugar clear as glass shall ever be opaque to me,” Fili laughed. “But that is because I do not care to learn, not because I think it unnatural.”

True to his word, Fili helped Bilbo display his new mathom proudly at the center of his bookshelf. It was the work of a moment for the dwarf to prop the box so that it stayed open while magnificently displaying the medallion inside. He even laid out the chain in such a way that it looked like Bilbo might have only just taken it off and set it down. That was an excellent touch, in the hobbit’s opinion, and one he might not have thought of himself. Best of all, before leaving Fili repeated his promise not to speak a word of their conspiracy to anyone, not even Kili. There would be no need to hurt Thorin’s feelings.

This was a very good thing because over the weeks that followed, whatever had been troubling the king seemed to get worse. He spoke to Bilbo at breakfast even less than he had before, and his smile seemed tighter somehow. It was certainly more rare. He did come to the hall for dinner, but he said nothing at all there and scowled at everyone constantly.

Whenever Bilbo asked what the trouble was, Thorin would huff and say there was no trouble. Which was about as convincing as a fauntling covered in frosting saying he did not know where the cake had gone. Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing Bilbo could do, and the king’s mood grew steadily more disagreeable.

Chapter Text

Though it might surprise the dwarves of Erebor who knew their burglar through lists of his deeds and not personally, Bilbo’s nature really was a retiring one. He had no desire to do great things or make a mark upon the world. Mostly, he wanted to grow his mushrooms, read the whole of Erebor’s library, and perhaps contribute of few of his own little scribblings in the form of a memoir to that great collection. However, when one’s dear friend was a king under enormous amounts of pressure, one was occasionally required to put oneself forward.

So it came to pass that Bilbo finally started attending the regular meetings of the Council of Lords in Erebor which Balin had been troubling him to join since Thorin first granted him the Mushroom Mine. This was a small governing body made up of the twenty one landed nobles within the mountain, meant to advise the king and enact his law. Theoretically, landowners within the mountain were responsible for governing their own mines and seeing to it that the king’s decrees were carried out in their areas of responsibility. In exchange for this service, the king took their advice most seriously. Of course, Bilbo’s land was an acre of mushrooms and even he didn’t live there. Since no law breaking could possibly go on in one small cave chamber, Bilbo mostly figured he didn’t have to waste time at the long weekly meeting of the lords.

He had been right to avoid the chore. Though Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Dori, and Balin all attended, the meetings were every bit as dull as anticipated. Spending hours discussing mining, plumbing, public works, road construction, guild petitions, and taxes was not Bilbo’s idea of a good time. Often he spent the hours dozing or composing little poems while pretending to take notes, then just voted whichever way Balin voted. This seemed to work well enough for the most part, and he was occasionally glad of the effort, if only to have one more voice opposing Doron’s ridiculousness.

For Doron son of Foron often brought matters to the small body of lords that were not about civic improvements or trade. His proposals were that the lords petition the king to forbid Men of Dale and other folk from entering the mountain, that they resolve for Tauriel in particular to be exiled, and a lot of rubbish about a standing army. Bilbo spoke infrequently, but he had a lot to say after Doron gave one of his rants about elves. Soon he was Tauriel’s staunchest supporter in the mountain aside from Kili, though he hardly knew the lass at all. Still, he wasn’t going to stand by and let people make awful remarks about knife ears. For one thing, a hobbit’s ears were also a little more leaf shaped than the average dwarf’s. More importantly, Tauriel was a hero of the great battle and she deserved to be in Erebor as much as anyone else. By killing Bolg, she had not only saved Kili’s life. She’d helped the dwarves win back their mountain. It seemed fair to Bilbo that she be allowed to call it home as well.

Thorin, of course, only grunted as Bilbo recounted these arguments at the breakfast table. His mood had very briefly softened when Bilbo started joining the Council of Lords. The king had even deigned to remark that it was a lot of responsibility and that Bilbo was good to take it on. At first, Bilbo found this sentiment highly encouraging. Unfortunately, he soon realized that Thorin agreed with Doron more often than not when it came to Tauriel and Bilbo’s strident defense of her only seemed to make Thorin more cantankerous.

Indeed as the summer went on the king’s irascible mood became downright disagreeable. Though he continued to have breakfast with Bilbo, he often said things that would have made Doron crow with approval. It seemed to be more than simply not liking Tauriel or not thinking she was the one love of Kili’s young life. Rather, she was an easy target for the king to grumble about. So it seemed Bilbo could either spend his morning arguing about crude remarks or babbling to fill silence while Thorin sat brooding. Trying to weather the storm of Thorin’s ill temper was like walking along the edge of a knife, and Bilbo made every effort to control his own so as not to make things worse. Unfortunately, Bilbo had a willful streak himself, and some of the things Thorin said were too rude for a simple scolding.

Matters came to a head one day when Bilbo brought Lea back to his apartment for tea. Usually they took their meals in the Guild Hall, as it was closer to the mine and the kitchens were larger, giving Lea more space to practice. On this occasion, however, Bilbo had been telling her of the wonders that a little sumac could do for a salad dressing, only to discover that there was none to be had in the Culinary Guild’s cabinets. That would not do at all, so they had gone together to his own properly maintained spice rack.

Or they had intended to. Certainly the guards made no quarrel about a guest of Bilbo’s entering the royal wing with him, but when they happened across the king in the hallway, he threw an absolute fit. Railing on about security, privacy, trust, and gullibility, Thorin insisted that Lea leave the area at once. Lea flinched awfully under the verbal assault. That had been too much for Bilbo to bear.

“Stop right there,” he cried, poking the king in his massive chest with an angry finger of his own. “You have been in a dreadful mood for weeks, but you will not take it out on poor Lea. She has done nothing to you. You do not even know her name.”

“How could I fail to know her name when you do nothing but talk about her?” Thorin thundered. “I know that she prefers honey cake to spice. I know that she never finishes her meals, even when they are small. I know that she laughs at bad jokes and only smiles for the ones she likes. I know more than enough to say that she is not welcome in my wing!”

Bilbo had not realized that Thorin paid such close attention to what had essentially become the hobbit’s morning monologue. Under other circumstances, he might have been pleased to know that the king still listened, even if he did not speak. As the matter stood, Bilbo was furious enough not to care. Slamming open the door to his little apartment, he shouted, “Is this my home or not?”

The bookshelf where Thorin’s necklace was prominently displayed was clearly visible from the door. Upon seeing it, the king seemed to recollect himself, though his eyes lingered on it strangely. Almost hungrily. For the first time, it occurred to Bilbo that it might not be the pressures of the crown or some personal problem which troubled his friend. Terrible as it would be, perhaps that draconic need for gold had returned.

Snapping his eyes back to Bilbo’s face, Thorin said quite calmly, “It is your home. You may, of course, have what visitors you like without concern for my opinion.” Bowing deeply to Lea, he added, “My apologies, Lea daughter of Thea. Master Baggins is right, my temper ought be directed at nothing but my own failure. It was unjust to subject you to it. I beg your pardon.”

Since anything more than a nod from Thorin was a show of great humility, Lea naturally accepted this with a shocked stutter, but she eventually managed a very respectable, “Think nothing of it, Your Majesty. I am honored to meet you in person.”

“Excellent,” Bilbo said. He was painfully curious about the king’s reference to a personal failure. “Why not join us for tea, Thorin? Lea is going to make a lovely lemon and oil salad dressing.”

Closing his eyes in something that looked almost like pain Thorin said, “I would not intrude.” Nodding stiffly to them both, he turned to go.

That might have been the end of it if Fili and Kili had not sprung up behind him like snowdrops in a February thaw. Bilbo wondered if they had come running when they heard Thorin’s shouts. He wondered if they knew something he did not about the king’s troubles.

“We’ll intrude,” Fili said. “Can we join you?”

“I missed lunch entirely, Bilbo,” Kili said. “Will you not take pity on me?”

Smiling at them both, Bilbo made an elaborate bow, gesturing them into his small apartment. “My larder is your larder, so long as you promise not to blunt the knives.”

Laughing and taking their uncle by either arm, the princes pulled him along with them into Bilbo’s rooms. Four dwarves was just the number of guests Bilbo’s cozy apartments could accommodate, provided Thorin sat in his armchair and Kili took the ottoman, but it was a cheerful enough gathering for tea. Lea was quite equal to the task of whipping up a few mushroom canapes under Bilbo’s watchful eye while he dressed some fresh summer melon in mint and wrapped it in prosciutto for a little tidbit. Naturally they accompanied this with the intended salad, which was the whole point of taking tea in Bilbo’s room, and several lovely pots of tea. Bilbo also had a few tea cakes if anyone wanted a little something sweet.

Lea was terrifically shy in front of the royalty, which was only to be expected after Thorin had been so horrid to her, but no one could fail to be charmed by Fili and Kili when they were pulling their double act. With juggling and jokes the princes held court, and even Thorin wound up softening a little.

The king himself was scrupulously polite, though he did not speak much, and he ate next to nothing. Once or twice, Bilbo caught him looking at the gold medallion on the bookcase. Though Thorin always looked away again quickly, this only served to compound Bilbo’s worry. The hobbit took to offering him canapes and other tidbits directly, because that at least got a bit of food in him. Also, if Bilbo was honest with himself, he did it because of the way Thorin’s lips would brush against his thumb. Because of the way the king’s eyes widened just a little when he tasted something nice. And because of the rich smell that came from his warm skin. However, Bilbo was still put out and worried by the earlier display, so mostly he didn’t think about any of that.

The important thing was that amends were made to Lea for the appalling way she’d been treated, and that everyone ate a very reasonable tea. It was only when the clock on the wall chimed five that Bilbo realized how long they’d been lingering.

“But Lea and I have to go!” he exclaimed, startled. “You have to make tarts enough for the King’s Table tonight. We promised Bombur, and I shall not help you with the crust, you know. You need the practice.”

“I know,” Lea said, but then she politely waited to be dismissed from the royal presence as though they were not in a dreadful hurry.

In the end, the rushing was not necessary. Lea was very quick in the kitchen—though Bilbo did sneak a little and help her with the pastry—and they finished in plenty of time for dinner. Unfortunately, dinner still proved to be a bit of a disaster.

Bilbo was seated between Bofur and Bifur, and so couldn’t do anything except watch as Thorin sat regally on his big chair and didn’t eat a bite. On the king’s left, Dwalin of course would do nothing at all, but Bilbo had higher hopes of Lady Dis, seated to Thorin’s right. Yet she also failed to make Thorin eat. Though she tried once or twice to engage the king in conversation, Thorin remained still and distracted throughout the meal. He sat in his great chair at the head table surrounded by his friends and his people, but he was not present.

It was only when dessert came out that the king seemed to notice the world around him. Looking down at the tarts as though he had never seen one before, he proceeded to eat six of them. Shoving one after the other into his mouth, he ate without pause. The act did not seem to give him any pleasure. Indeed, he still did not seem to show any emotion. Rather he ate as though it was an unpleasant duty. Which was not at all fair to Lea’s tarts, for they were quite good.

Bilbo did not know what ailed his friend so, but he would find out. He would find a way to help Thorin. Even if gold was once more weaving its terrible spell on the king’s mind.

Chapter Text

The first thing Bilbo needed to do was determine whether or not it was really gold that troubled Thorin’s mind. It would be quite silly to try to save the king from madness only to learn that Thorin was simply worried about some bit of kingly business like a trade agreement with Mirkwood. So, because he was a straightforward and sensible hobbit, he asked.

Thorin, as always, said there was nothing troubling him when Bilbo asked him at breakfast. This, of course, was a blatant lie. Proven by the fact that Thorin said barely anything else at all during the meal and only started to eat after Bilbo pressed a bit of honeyed toast to his lips.

Despite how worried Bilbo was for his friend, that nearly undid him. Of course he ought to have offered a spoonful of mushroom porridge, but the honey was sweet and he thought it would encourage Thorin’s appetite to taste it. Which had worked. And if Thorin’s tongue slid briefly over the pad of Bilbo’s thumb when the king accepted the morsel, it was not intentional. If Bilbo then put the finger to his own mouth, it was only because it was sticky from the honey. Anyway, Thorin did not notice, and he did start eating his porridge after tasting the toast, so it was fine.

Honey did not matter; Thorin’s state of mind did. To test the theory of whether or not the gold sickness lay once again on the king, Bilbo had purchased a small gold lapel pin in the market. His mushroom stew mixes were doing well enough that he could afford a bit of extravagance, and he liked it. The pin was cleverly crafted to look like one of his favorite flowers, celandine. It reminded him of the sprig in his buttonhole which he might have worn when out about in the Shire at that time of year. Dropping it on the table was easy enough and did not attract Thorin’s notice. The king’s eyes did not seem drawn to the gold the way they had been when Erebor had been retaken. As Bilbo gathered his pan and the leftover food to return to his own apartment, he left the pin behind on the table.

Thorin caught him at the door. “You dropped this.” His voice was flat and his eyes were on Bilbo, not the gold.

“Oh, thank you,” Bilbo said, then frowned. He hadn’t thought his plan through sufficiently and his hands were quite full. “Just put it in the bread basket, if you will.”

Thorin made no move to do so. “Was it a gift?” he asked.

Bilbo blinked. “Dwarves don’t give gifts,” he said slowly, wondering if Thorin was even more unwell than he’d suspected. “I bought it at Kundar and Sons, the jeweler with the new stained glass storefront in the market.”

Something changed in Thorin’s face, and he looked suddenly much more relaxed, though he did not quite smile. “Yes, I know the place. Kundar has done well with it. Indeed, it is almost exactly as his father’s shop—Gandar and Sons—looked before the fall.”

“How wonderful,” Bilbo said, feeling monumentally encouraged that Thorin was making conversation, even if it was while he was holding his heavy cast iron pan and on his way out the door. “If they have equalled the old store with only a year of work, I can only imagine what they will do in ten years time.”

Unfortunately Thorin did not meet Bilbo’s smile or join in the happy expectations of future glory. Instead he frowned at the golden pin in his hand. “You do not wear much jewelry, except your magic ring.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, searching frantically for an explanation that had nothing to do with testing Thorin by exposing him to small amounts of gold, “This is celandine.”

“Celandine?”

“The flower, it’s called celandine. In the Shire it means ‘joys in the day to come,’ and it’s considered lucky to wear a sprig of it on your person if you find one blooming.”

Nodding gravely, Thorin stepped close and pinned the little flower to Bilbo’s waistcoat. “Then I wish you joy in your day, and in all future days.”

Flustered by the proximity and Thorin’s hands on his person, Bilbo only just managed to repeat the well wishing before taking his leave. The gold had not distracted Thorin, at least not as Bilbo had feared it might. Which was good to know, but did not help with the underlying problem. Because Bilbo still had no idea what troubled Thorin so.

After Thorin, Bilbo approached Balin. Balin was the busiest of Bilbo’s friends, for he was Thorin’s closest advisor and did much of the work involved in ruling Erebor, but he always made time for the hobbit’s questions. Still, he did not have a satisfactory answer to this one.

“It is true that Thorin has been less circumspect about his unhappiness than one would desire a king to be,” Balin said, sounding terribly unsympathetic, “but there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Well you needn’t trouble yourself if you do not like to,” Bilbo said coldly. “I am sure I would not wish to inconvenience you. But do you not know why he is unhappy?”

At that, Balin looked sharply at Bilbo, searching his face. For a moment, the hobbit hoped that Balin would say something helpful. Unfortunately, the only wisdom the old dwarf had to offer was, “Look to your own happiness, Lord Baggins. You can take no responsibility for another’s.”

This was entirely unsatisfactory, of course, but there was no helping it. Bilbo could get nothing more from Balin. So he went elsewhere for advice.

Although taking tea with Lady Dis was always a pleasure, she proved no more helpful than Balin had. While she had quite a number of thoughts on his new muffin recipe, the quality of the tea, the work Dale was doing to reclaim the desolation, the foolishness of Doron’s political faction within the Merchant Guild, and the unacceptable hours Tauriel kept Kili out hunting, she would not speak of her brother. The most Bilbo got from her was a tentative confirmation that the king was unhappy.

Not mad. Only unhappy according to those who knew him best. Bilbo lay down on the green granite path in the middle of his mushrooms and sighed for the relief of it. The conclusion fit well enough with Bilbo’s own observations. Even though the king had raged at Lea, he’d apologized immediately. There was probably no danger to anyone else, if Thorin was only unhappy, but it was still a dreadful situation. Balin could say what he liked, but Bilbo was sure there must be something he could do to cheer up his friend. Naturally, he turned next to the two people most likely to make Thorin smile.

Kili was worse than useless. Apparently, he and Tauriel had defeated a whole troupe of orcs on their most recent hunting trip. The prince thought this should lead to some pleasant recognition of Tauriel, and blamed his uncle’s unhappiness for the fact that it had not. Indeed, the young lover repeated many times that though he did not blame anyone in particular for the king’s bad mood, it was clearly a problem for everyone in the mountain. He said this so plaintively that Bilbo quite despaired of any help from that quarter. Some people would rather complain about a problem than fix it, though Bilbo had never thought any member of the Company to be of that ilk.

Fortunately, Fili was willing to take the matter more seriously than his brother. He nodded seriously when Bilbo haltingly explained how unhappy Thorin had been. When Bilbo asked if the prince had any ideas on how they might cheer up the king, Fili grinned.

“I wondered if our brilliant burglar would be able to work his way through this particular problem on his own, when only pride was at stake.”

Confused, Bilbo said, “I am sure I am not too proud to ask for help where Thorin’s happiness is concerned.”

“No.” Fili laughed. “Not too proud for that. As it happens, I thought of a solution to the issue over a week ago. Uncle’s misery is so obvious that it quite softened my heart.”

“And you have been letting him languish when you might have cheered him up! Fie and for shame, you selfish boy.”

Frowning, Fili said, “Now that is harsh. As you well know, I could not act on my own in this.”

Swallowing his demand for an explanation, which would probably have something to do with secretive dwarven ridiculousness, Bilbo decided that the best thing to do would be to move forward. “Well, then tell me what can be done and I will do it gladly. At this point I would give my right hand just to see him smile.”

“Nothing so dramatic or complicated,” Fili promised. “Just come to my forge with us tomorrow morning. Uncle is teaching me to set brighter lights in white crystal, so you shall have the opportunity to see that it is not magic. Between the two of us, we can make him smile again.”

Bilbo hoped that there was more to Fili’s plan than he outlined, but since it was better than nothing he readily agreed. Still, at breakfast the following morning, he double checked with Thorin. It would do no good to upset the king too much while attempting to cheer him. Making scones with clotted cream, hot sausages, fried eggs, and a side of trilbies in savory sauce probably helped to put the monarch in a good mood. Thorin ate without Bilbo’s direct prompting, anyway.

“Fili invited me to join the two of you at his forge today, to see how you put light into crystals.” There was no point in beating around the bush, and Thorin didn’t seem upset by the abrupt way Bilbo broached the subject. He paused in his eating, but only very briefly.

“It is a sight worth seeing,” the king said, “but you will have to promise to take care. The light we use can burn even hotter than the molten metals.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said quickly. “I’ll stay out of the way. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Thorin frowned. “I did not mean to say you would be unwelcome. Indeed, as a Master of another guild, you honor us by taking time away from your own craft to view our work.”

“Oh!” Grinning into his mushrooms, Bilbo said, “Well, I am not so lofty as that, Thorin, nor so busy. Lea can handle drying the trilbies on her own this morning, and we shall do something nice in the afternoon to make up for my taking time away.”

The frown smoothed away from Thorin’s face, and the king put on that horrid, expressionless demeanor that hid all of his thoughts as opaquely as a stone wall. “She manages your affairs well, then?”

“I trust her with the mushrooms, if that is what you mean. Though I still hoard the harvesting for myself. I’ve taught her how, of course, but she doesn’t get the same pleasure from growing things as she does from cooking them. So there is no reason for me to share if I do not care to.”

“Have you given her a gift yet?” Thorin’s eyes were on his plate, but he had stopped eating.

For a moment, Bilbo was confused. Dis had been quite clear that dwarves did not give gifts as a rule with only a few exceptions. One of those had been for Thorin, who might give gifts as a king. Another had been for courting, which obviously did not apply to Lea, who was barely out of the dwarven equivalent of her tweens. However, a third had been masters and their apprentices, hadn’t it?

“Oh dear! I haven’t at all, and I really ought to have, oughtn’t I?”

“That is at your own discretion.” Thorin hesitated. “It is always better to consider such things carefully. Not to act rashly and risk. Well. It is always best not to act rashly.”

Bilbo could have fainted with relief. “Reasonable enough,” he said. “Then you don't think I have left it beyond the bounds of propriety?”

“No,” Thorin said, very softly. “There would be no harm at all in leaving the matter alone for a few months yet. Until you are quite sure.”

“Good. What do you think I should get her?”

Paling as though Bilbo had suggested the king send his heir to face a dragon in single combat, Thorin said, “You cannot ask that of me.”

“Er. Why not?”

“Because you cannot.” Rising abruptly from the table, Thorin went over to the mosaic on the wall. He seemed to prefer talking to the Bilbo made out of tiles than the one at his breakfast table. “Ask another member of the Company.”

“Okay,” Bilbo said slowly, “but I don’t want to offend anyone else the way I have obviously offended you. Is it a guild secret or something? Would it be okay to ask Bombur as the head of my guild? As I have never had an apprentice before, I really do need guidance on what sort of gift I’m supposed to give her. No one except Dis has mentioned anything about it and—”

Thorin’s head whipped around, his hair fanning out so far that it wrapped about his throat like a scarf when he stopped to face Bilbo. “Your apprentice,” Thorin said. “Lea, your apprentice.”

“What about her?”

The smile that twitched in the corner of Thorin’s mouth was small, but it was the first Bilbo had seen in what felt like a month. Even better, the king seemed on the verge of laughter when he answered. “I cannot tell you what to give a cook, Bilbo, because I have only ever touched the tools of your craft while mending or creating them in a forge. For many years I was not a lofty king, but I was never so far from my people that I had to cook for myself.”

“Of course not,” Bilbo said, feeling his own smile rise to answer Thorin’s in relief. Really, he had been worrying too much about the king’s mental state of late if he was reading some dramatic emotion behind Thorin’s usual reluctance to admit he was not, in fact, all knowing. “Thank you for explaining. I can ask Bombur for advice on the particulars.”

“I could speak of the more general custom,” Thorin said, returning to the breakfast table and taking his seat. “If you think that would be helpful.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said, positively grinning at the warmth in the king’s voice. “Please! If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Apparently, it was not. Thorin settled in and resumed eating as he explained. “A master gives their apprentice gifts that will help the student grow in their craft. So in a sense there is no such thing as an inappropriate gift. Any gift an apprentice receives from her master is understood to be such, even if you were to give her a hand crafted ring with the seal of your family, she would simply try to understand how this was intended to forward her learning.”

“Ah! So you’re telling me that even if I make a mess of things and give an entirely inappropriate gift, I can’t get it too wrong. That’s a relief! At least I won’t have to worry about her thinking I’m trying to court her or something ridiculous.”

“No.” Thorin’s smile was big enough now that Bilbo could see his perfect white teeth. “We wouldn’t want that.” Seeming to recollect himself, the king turned back to his breakfast and seized another scone from the basket. “In any case, the general form is to give tools.”

“Tools?”

“I am not sure what the Culinary Guild deems appropriate. Probably pots and pans, that sort of thing. When I trained as a warrior, my master gave me a weapon once he deemed me proficient in it. First I received a sword, then a shield, an ax with the double blade, an ax with a single blade, a long sword, a dagger, a war hammer, a glave, a boar spear, a pike, and, suffice it to say, a fair few gifts after that.”

“Though it is, of course, beneath your dignity to boast.”

“I would not think it necessary to boast,” Thorin said, almost playfully. “My skill at arms has kept your hide whole a time or two.”

“So it has.” Bilbo laughed. “Then I should follow your master’s example exactly, for clearly that was a dwarf who knew how to train another in their craft.”

“It is what I did with Fili.” Thorin hid his smile by taking a bite of his sausage, but Bilbo knew it was still there. “I think it the right way to treat with a prince, certainly. My master and I would be working with a weapon, and at the end of our training session, he would simply tell me that it was mine to keep. Making me feel that I had earned it cemented the lessons he wished to teach me.”

That was a very good idea, especially the bit about keeping the actual giving casual. Lea allowed Bilbo to provide provender, especially when he was teaching her to make some new dish, because knowing how something was supposed to taste was a vital part of cooking. However, she could be quite stubborn about earning her way, and she still insisted on paying Bilbo instead of accepting a share in the profits of the Mushroom Mine. Still, if there was dwarven tradition to back him, Bilbo could equip her as well as any young bride in the Shire. It was a happy thought. For she was in fact a maid just starting out in life, and she had no family to look after her.

“I am curious.” Thorin’s soft voice interrupted Bilbo’s planning.

“Yes?”

“You did not file a contract of apprenticeship with the royal scribes.”

“Er. No, I drew it up myself. We each have a copy, but we decided not to file it with anyone else.” Bilbo studied Thorin’s face carefully. He was not surrounded by the usual dark cloud, so the hobbit dared to chance it. “I will tell you our secret, but you must promise not to be cross.”

Thorin pressed his lips together in a thin line, clearly hiding the smile which twinkled in his eyes. “My word of honor.”

“She wanted to pay me ten crowns a week.”

“It is kind of you to take her for so little, but I can see why you did not want it made public. The Culinary Guild is under more scrutiny than other guilds. Bofur, for instance, recently took a talented young miner under his wing for only five. Unfortunately, what you do from such charity of your heart others might see as weakness in your guild.”

Bilbo coughed. “Quite. Especially since I managed to talk her down to one.”

After a long moment Thorin said, “Of course you did. I’m surprised you did not insist on paying her.”

“I did try,” Bilbo offered. “She looked like she was about to cry, though, so we compromised.”

Shaking his head, Thorin said, “I do not know if she is lucky or cursed to have a master such as you, my burglar. An apprentice should not need to be the one to insist on doing things properly.”

The clock built into the stone mosaic on Thorin’s wall rang a soft musical bell, indicating the hour. “Enough about my apprentice,” Bilbo cried. “We have to hurry or we will be late to meet yours.”

“Fili is a full craftsman,” Thorin corrected, though he obligingly finished the last few bites on his plate.

“He is a friend doing me a kindness,” Bilbo said, clearing the dishes. “I should like to go at once.”

And so they did.

Chapter Text

Fili’s forge was magnificent, as befit both a prince and a reward for facing down a dragon. There were great fires, smelting furnaces, molten metals, wide anvils, mighty hammers, long tubs of water, and many, many things that Bilbo could not put a name to, since he had no context for metalwork. However, he was curious and game to learn. Not to mention the thrill that came from once again actually making conversation with Thorin instead of having his every question met with distance and unhappy silence. Clearly Thorin loved his nephew a great deal and made an effort to be present during their time together. Perhaps the excitement was too much for Bilbo, however. He may have gone overboard on the questioning.

“They are called tongs, Master Hobbit.” Thorin looked at him suspiciously. “I have seen you use them in your own fireplace more than once.”

“Ah, of course.” Bilbo coughed. “Thank you. My apologies, Thorin. I’m simply excited to see some dwarvish magic.”

“It is not magic,” Fili said, with the tone of one repeating an admonition for the twentieth time. “You will understand when you see. Uncle, I believe I’ve set up the mirrors correctly, but if you would care to double check my placement before we get started?”

Thorin’s eyes went to the polished mirror on the ceiling. Angled slightly as it was, Bilbo could see another mirror in its reflective surface. That mirror seemed to reflect another mirror at the base of a shaft along the southern wall of the forge. Beyond that, there seemed to be more mirrors. The chain must have led all the way out of the mountain, for Thorin said, “If you could calculate well enough to catch the position of the moon, I will trust you to have found the sun at noon.”

Puffing up at this pronouncement as though it was finer praise than he ever thought to hear from his uncle, Fili began fiddling with an enormous set of important looking glass lenses. “These should be ready as well,” he said. “I have spent the morning cleaning them with acid and polishing them with my prepared sunstone powder.”

“Good.” Thorin inspected a lense the size of a dinner plate very carefully. Whatever he found seemed to be fine, because he said nothing further, simply set it down and watched as Fili attached it to the large metal bar that held the lenses in a long line.

“They’ll focus the light,” Fili explained to Bilbo as he worked. “If I am going to catch sunlight in a stone, I want it to be good, strong sunlight. Otherwise I might as well just trap moonlight or starlight. That is tricky enough, but at least never shatters the crystal or explodes in the forge.”

“Explodes?” Bilbo trusted Fili and Thorin, but that did not sound entirely safe.

“If a crystal is improperly prepared to contain the light,” Thorin said, “it will shatter under the pressure. If the smith is unable to gauge the amount of light the crystal can contain, it will explode. Fili has shattered ninety four crystals, but he has only exploded three.”

Alarmed at this report, Bilbo took a moment to consider it as a dwarf would, in light of his own craft. Surely he had seen over a hundred souffles flop before figuring out how to get them to the table perfectly fluffed every time. This prospective failure only seemed dramatic because it involved very hot, possibly sharp things flying about the room at high speeds.

“Perhaps I ought to stand behind one of the anvils,” Bilbo suggested. “When the time comes.”

Laughing, Fili agreed. “Perhaps.” Ruffling Bilbo’s hair as he passed, the young dwarf went to pick up a large yellow crystal with two hands. Presenting it to his uncle with a little bow, he said, “This I readied last night.”

For the first time, Thorin seemed to disapprove of something he saw. “Is this ready, my nephew?”

“Ready enough,” Fili said, sounding confused. Accepting the return of the stone, he held it up to his ear for a long moment, then ran his hands over it. He didn’t seem to find whatever fault Thorin did. “The grain is right,” he murmured, “there are no flaws.” Fili kept mumbling to himself, slipping into Khuzdul as he inspected the big crystal.

“Fili.” Thorin sounded exasperated, as though the lad was missing something very obvious.

Fili looked up at his uncle. Then he blinked. “Oh! No uncle, I thought Bilbo would want to watch me draw the runes. We have a few hours yet until noon, so there is time.”

“Ah.” Smiling warmly, Thorin looked sideways at the hobbit. “Yes. There is time enough for you to fail at least twice.”

“Why I never!” Bilbo stared at the king for a moment before turning to Fili. “I am quite certain that you will not fail at all, my prince, and I wish you luck in the attempt.”

With another laugh, Fili gave Bilbo to understand that expecting failure was a way for a dwarven master to relieve some of the pressure on a pupil. Being given time to fail meant being given time to get it right. “Besides, I probably will fail at least once. Runes are not easy.”

Apparently, this was a drastic understatement. Fili painted the runes on the surface of the crystal with molten gold and some sort of stone etching tool. When a phrase was exactly right, it would flash and mirror the image deep within the heart of the crystal. Bilbo refrained from asking how exactly this was not magic, because it was an incredible sight to witness and he did not want to distract his friend.

Dwarven craftsmanship often overwhelmed Bilbo with its scale. The great aqueducts that sent water both hot and cold to every home in the mountain humbled the copper pipes back at Bag End. Massive statues and stone work on such a scale that it had dwarfed Smaug and made giants of dwarves were visible in nearly every hall within the mountain. They even had lifting systems, whole rooms that went up and down mine shafts so one didn’t need to climb stairs and ladders every time. All of it was brilliant, impressive, and grand. Yet Bilbo rarely took the time to appreciate the work involved.

He knew how hard the dwarves had worked on the plumbing and the sanitation systems, because a team of twenty had spent three days hammering nonstop in the royal wing to ready those apartments for use. He rarely took the time to appreciate that every hair in the braided beards of those massive dwarven kings was shown to be as real as life. Even the lifts, marvelous as they were, he dismissed as part magic, part pulleys and weights. He never looked closer.

Bilbo had never noticed that for each and every golden light shining in the halls of Erebor, a patient dwarf had to sit for hours, carefully inscribing runes of molten gold in every single facet of a crystal. Fili was right. It was fascinating to watch.

When the prince finally sat back with a sigh and gestured for his uncle to look at the finished product, Bilbo held his breath. Looking over the crystal, Thorin traced the runes with his fingers, carefully inspecting each once. The care he took in this could not be overstated. As always, Bilbo admired the king’s focus. When Thorin Oakenshield brought the full power of his attention upon an object, that object was laid bare before him.

Bilbo was not jealous of Fili’s magic crystal. That would be ridiculous.

He was impressed when Thorin handed the big crystal back to his nephew with a nod.

“No mistakes?” Fili asked hopefully.

“Not to my eye.” Thorin gave the lad a rare smile. “Keep the brush. I have another.”

Fili’s hand tightened around the stone tool in his hand, and his face lit with a grin so broad it lifted the ends of his braided mustache to be level with his chin. “Thank you uncle.”

Not wanting to interrupt the moment, Bilbo waited until Fili finally tamed his smile and turned back to fiddling with the crystal, setting it up on what looked like a white marble anvil underneath the many focusing lenses and mirrors. Then he asked quietly, “So that is how one gives such a gift? But I thought Fili was a craftsman, not an apprentice.”

“It is and he is,” Thorin agreed amiably. “A master would not give him gifts anymore, not even one tutoring him in the finer points of his craft, but I am his uncle.”

Fili looked up at Bilbo, his smile still bright in the firelit forge. “My uncle takes great pleasure in giving gifts. Particularly, I think, since he need not fear my rejecting anything he chooses to give me.”

At Bilbo’s side, Thorin stiffened. “Perhaps I have spoiled you, if you have grown into a dwarf who can speak so discourteously.”

Fili seemed to ignore him, humming a little as he focused his lenses by tightening various screws. In response to this, Thorin’s temper seemed to grow. Bilbo wondered if Fili had forgotten the original purpose of this outing in his excitement at being praised. The whole point of Bilbo coming to the forge had been to cheer Thorin up. Fili annoying the king was not part of their plan.

“Two minutes!” Fili cried, shifting the crystal a few degrees on its white anvil. “If you are to hide yourself, Bilbo, now would be the time. Although you must be sure to keep a good view. The light will be bright, but it shall not blind you.”

Looking about, Bilbo didn’t see anything that seemed both sturdy enough to shield him and small enough that he could still see everything while standing behind it. Fortunately, Thorin put an arm around the hobbit’s shoulders. “Stay by my side,” the king said. “If ought goes ill, I will keep you safe.”

Leaning against the king was the easiest thing Bilbo had ever done. Even before Bilbo had found his own courage on their quest, he had always trusted Thorin to keep him safe if he could. Thorin would stand between his company and ravaging wargs, would leap from a mountain side to pluck a dangling hobbit, and he would always do what was in his power to keep others from harm. If Thorin, who knew the risks of what Fili attempted far better than Bilbo ever could, said that he would keep the hobbit whole, then that was more than good enough. Bilbo was as safe in the forge as he was in his own bed.

Not to mention the warm, sturdy strength that radiated from Thorin’s body like heat from the smithy fires. Nor the fact that, possibly in deference to the heat of the forge, Thorin wore only a thin silk shirt. Bilbo could feel hard muscle underneath, and he could not resist pressing himself just a little more securely against his friend. Let Thorin think him afraid. If Bilbo was a burglar, there was no harm in stealing a short embrace.

Then Fili pulled a lever on the floor and light flooded the room, chasing out every possibility of a shadow, and Bilbo was astounded by its beauty. The beam that passed between mirrors and poured through Fili’s lenses was so bright it looked like a physical thing. Like Bilbo could reach out and touch it. As it traveled from lense to lense, it seemed to get brighter and thinner, until it hit the crystal with a point as sharp as an icepick and a light as bright as the sun. Thorin’s arm tightened around the hobbit, and neither of them moved.

Slowly, the crystal began to glow. Then all at once it lit up from within like the flare of a match. Fili cried out in delight and pushed his lever the other way, cutting off the stream of sunlight. Frantically, the prince danced about his crystal, tapping it with strange tools, muttering Khuzdul words, and shoving the lenses out of the way.

“Quickly, Bilbo!” Fili called out, not sparing the hobbit a single glance, but gesturing to a workbench close to him. “Bring me that golden stand. I want to set this as a table lamp.”

Dashing over to the disc Fili indicated, Bilbo noticed that it was a little bigger than the unfortunate golden medallion Thorin had given him. Not by much. Just the length of his thumb in one direction, and maybe thicker by about the same amount. Regrettably, a single straw could overload a mule. No matter how he pulled, Bilbo could not budge the thing.

“Now, Bilbo! Please! Or the day will be for naught!”

With incredible strain, the hobbit managed to slide it toward himself. Just a fraction. Not nearly enough to bring it even to the edge of the table, let alone to Fili who needed it. Finally Bilbo’s brain caught up with his panicked desire to save the project. “Thorin! Help! I cannot lift it alone.”

“It is not so urgent as my nephew claims,” Thorin said, walking over to the hobbit casually. “The crystal is set. It will not explode, nor will the light be lost. Once again, my jester prince is having fun at your expense.”

Hurt, Bilbo looked at Fili, who had the temerity to wink. Really. The hobbit was perfectly happy to be part of a joke, of course, but the prince was only amusing himself. Their plan had been to find a way to amuse Thorin. At least Thorin didn’t seem to be upset by the teasing. Lifting the gold lamp base easily with one hand, the king brought it over to Fili. Bilbo couldn’t quite see what passed between the two of them, but it must have been a very stern look indeed.

Grinning cheerfully, Fili said, “Of course Uncle. My apologies, Master Burglar. I should have known that a hobbit could never lift such a great lump of gold and refrained from embarrassing you publicly. Pray forgive me.”

Bilbo would have happily denied any embarrassment or need for forgiveness, except Thorin’s eyes were wide. Bilbo could not read his expression. He looked. Surprised? Upset? Certainly he was upset. The king glanced from the gold in his hands to Bilbo and back again. The hobbit had known that Thorin would take the news that his mathom was less than perfect personally, but he hadn’t expected the king to look so shockingly vulnerable. The expression made Bilbo feel quite disappointed in Fili.

“I would have thought honor among princes a more trustworthy commodity,” Bilbo said, his voice very cold indeed.

“Bilbo.” Fili’s voice was warm and cajoling, but the hobbit would not be won over.

“No, my prince. I shall not hear a word of it. In the very hour of my need I relied upon your repeated assurances of discretion, and here I find you making sport of my weakness.”

Thorin set the gold aside and caught Bilbo’s hand gently with both of his. His hands were so calloused that it was surprising how light his touch could be. He was so close. Bilbo quite lost his train of thought, having Thorin standing so close. Holding his hand so gently.

“Please,” the king said. He did not look upset any longer, but he still looked strangely young. His eyes were still so very blue. “My nephew did not mean to injure your pride or make a mockery of you. It is only that you are so very strong—scolding royalty, killing orcs, and facing down my sister. We forget sometimes you are not a dwarf. We think that you should be able to greet with the butt of a head, lift gold easily with one hand, or ride war goats like ponies. It is not right that you should need to keep reminding us. You do not need to forgive us. Please, though, know that we are sorry for it. We will do better given the opportunity, and if there is any amends that can be made you have but to name them. We do not wish to hurt you.”

“Oh. That is not. My pride is not injured at all. Of course I forgive you. Fili, I mean. I’m the one who’s sorry, really. If I were not so stubborn, I would simply admit my failings right away.”

The smile that broke across Thorin’s face when Bilbo said he forgave the thoughtlessness was far brighter than Fili’s crystal. Even before the hobbit finished stammering out his own apology, Thorin enveloped him in one of those tremendous embraces where the king seemed to surround Bilbo completely with the cloak of his presence. Enfolded in Thorin’s arms, Bilbo found himself forgiving Fili’s little trick completely. Especially when the king shifted and Bilbo felt the gentle scratch of dwarven beard against his neck. Swelling with love, the hobbit imagined he could even feel Thorin’s lips brush against his skin. Not a kiss, surely, but something closer to it than Bilbo had ever thought to receive from the tall, handsome hero.

“Thank you,” Thorin murmured against the shell of Bilbo’s ear, as though Bilbo had been the one to give him a gift. Once again, the hobbit consider the prospect of doing so. Some risks were worth taking. He could try to give Thorin a gift in the dwarven custom. The worst that could happen would be rejection. And if Thorin did accept a ring from Bilbo. If the king was willing to hear Bilbo’s words. Perhaps he could be tempted into a real kiss. Perhaps Bilbo could taste something so much better than Black Trilbies. Maybe even more. It just might be that Bilbo could offer something of great enough value to entice even a king into a courtship.

He didn’t have much, but he did have one very precious ring.

Chapter Text

Whether or not Fili’s silly little prank in his forge had helped improve the king’s mood, and Bilbo rather thought it had already been on the upswing that morning at breakfast, the hobbit couldn’t deny that Thorin did seem much happier in the following days. He didn’t go about whistling in the corridors, of course, but smiles and conversation magically reappeared at the breakfast table. Bilbo thought perhaps the king’s unhappiness might have been worry over the approaching Rohan delegation. In part because Thorin actually admitted to being worried about the visit.

“In my grandfather’s time, our trade caravans were allowed to pass through the Gap of Rohan without tariff. Even as refugees, we were treated fairly passing through. Exchanging labor for coin without paying a duty or toll for residing on their land as others forced us to do. It was not charity, but most who would die for the lack of that passed long before we reached Edoras. I shod more horses in that land than I had ever before seen in my life. Yet it was. Not a bad time for our people.”

“Then I am sure this meeting will go well,” Bilbo said. In truth he was already looking forward to meeting the famous Horse Lords, having heard tales of the wonderful beasts that so far surpassed any other steed.

“I would like it to.” Sighing, Thorin gazed off at empty space for a little time. Bilbo let him think, content to admire the king’s noble profile. “The lives of men are so short. The king who treated me well enough as a young prince was the great grandfather of the man who now sits on the throne in Edoras. It worries me.”

“Why?”

“They have forgotten the old friendship. They almost did not send an ambassador at all, and the one they send is a child. Theodwyn, daughter of the king, sister to the heir apparent. Well do I remember that they do not value their daughters as highly as their sons in Rohan, so perhaps they offer us insult. Yet I want to believe that they do not, and that might be more dangerous still.”

“Believing the best of a new friend isn’t dangerous, Thorin.”

“It is for a king.”

Placing a gentle hand on Thorin’s arm was a bold move, but not nearly as bold as what Bilbo said next. “Do you ever regret thinking so little of me when we first met?”

Thorin’s mouth fell open in shock for half a second. Twisting his face into a scowl, he said, “You know I do.”

“I don’t regret that you did,” Bilbo said cheerfully, surprising the grim look right off the king’s face.

“You don’t?” Thorin looked bemused, but he brought a hand up to cover Bilbo’s, keeping the hobbit close.

“Winning your approval, earning your good opinion, was—” Bilbo paused, suddenly aware that what he had been about to say would be appallingly rude by dwarven standards. Dwarrow did not speak of love until after a ring had been given and accepted. Yet words of love would spring to a hobbit’s mind over a leisurely breakfast, and there was nothing Bilbo could do about that except try to tamp them down. “Well, it made me feel very proud. Accomplished even. If you’ll take my advice, don’t worry so much about first impressions. She’s staying until the Durin’s Day celebrations, right?”

Thorin nodded soberly.

“Then you have nearly two months by the Shire reckoning to get to know one another. That is enough time for a misconception or two, a pipe or twenty, and a few nice dinners. Why if you aren’t fast friends at the end of it, then she isn’t someone you want to be friends with.”

Smiling gently Thorin said, “As easily as that?”

“My friend, whatever makes you doubt yourself so?”

“You of all people know how poor my judgment can be, Master Burglar.” It seemed to Bilbo that the melancholy in the phrase went much deeper than Thorin’s smile, and so this could only be a reference to the cursed sickness that had plagued the king so long ago.

Drawing himself up sternly, Bilbo said, “I will thank you not to speak so of my king,” cool as the snow at the peak of their mountain.

Thorin blinked. Bilbo frowned. The king broke first, laughing in delight, and Bilbo followed, rocking back and forth with the force of his own mirth. Indeed, he rocked so much he almost toppled out of his chair. This sent Thorin into a roaring fit, though the dwarf also caught the hobbit and pulled him close.Thus they ended with Bilbo pressed against Thorin’s chest as the king sighed the last refrain of amusement into his friend’s hair.

“All will be well.” In fact it was quite impossible for Bilbo to imagine otherwise from the warmth of Thorin’s embrace.

“So I begin to believe,” Thorin said, winding his fingers gently in the curls at the base of Bilbo’s neck. Trembling a little, Bilbo did his best to refrain from doing anything stupid like kissing the king.

Since he had not yet given Thorin a ring, the caress must be completely innocent on the part of the dwarf. No matter that it shook Bilbo to his very core, it was not intended to do so. As a point of courtesy, he ought to have put a stop to it, really, instead of practically pushing himself into Thorin’s lap like an ill mannered cat. But Bilbo had never been particularly good at denying himself, and it was all apparently benign enough from Thorin’s perspective. For if it offended him, Bilbo did not doubt that the dwarf would simply drop him to the floor instead of slipping his thumb under the hobbit’s shirt collar to rub gently over his spine.

Such a gesture must be chaste among dwarves, for Thorin released him soon enough and bade the hobbit good day, as though nothing at all unusual had taken place. Which was apparently the case, just as it was on those mornings when Bilbo found some duplicitous way to feed Thorin from his own fork.

Once again, Bilbo seriously considered trying to give Thorin his ring and getting everything out in the open. Of course, things would change after Thorin refused him. Bilbo knew the king would be kind enough about it, but once the offer was made and rejected, enjoying intimacies such as sharing a plate would be truly unscrupulous instead of only hopelessly delusional.

Putting the matter from his mind, Bilbo set about his task. Perhaps Thorin had not intentionally given it to him, but it was obvious that the king would like additional opinions about the Rohirrim. So Bilbo set out to form one.

On the day that the horse lords were scheduled to arrive in Dale, Bilbo and his apprentice happened to be in the market exploring the many vagaries of choosing perfect eggplants. Thus it was a complete coincidence that he was holding a cucumber and joking about the weather when he was among the first to see Theodwyn of Rohan. If he had made the trip to Dale every day for three days before their arrival, and intended to keep making it every day until they came, well. Erebor was not so very far from Dale as to make such visits unusual.

Cantoring through the marketplace like traveling entertainers, the horses seemed both larger and lighter than even elvish mounts. Theodwyn rode at the center surrounded by twenty other riders in shining armor with long spears, but she wore only a simple white shift. Her hair was golden and uncovered, streaming out behind her like a banner in the wind.

It was a magnificent showing, yet Bilbo agreed with at least part of Thorin’s pessimistic concerns. Theodwyn looked very young. Around the age of Bain, Bard’s middle child, though Bilbo had no idea what that counted for in years. Of course Bain had faced a dragon steadily at his father’s side and slain orcs in battle, which many a middle aged hobbit could never do, so perhaps a count of years was not the way to judge a leader. For no one could deny that Theodwyn was a leader as she reined in her great beast and commanded the riders around her with the simplest gestures.

Arraying themselves in a single line to impressive effect, the horse lords stood to attention before the steps of Bard’s hall. Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was insult or not that they waited for the king himself to come to the door, but since Bard did so at once and sent no intermediary, there was no way to judge the Rohirrim’s intent.

Bard stood at the top of his steps, flanked by his children, all wearing crowns of Ereborian gold, but he did not speak first. Indeed, he did not need to.

“Hail King Bard, the dragonslayer!” Theodwyn cried ceremoniously.

As one, the horses in the line bowed their heads and stretched their forelegs. All of the riders removed their helmets in a single movement, bending their necks. At the same time, Theodwyn’s own golden mount knelt upon the ground and the lady slipped from its back. Standing on her feet before him, she tilted her own head in a graceful gesture of respect.

“Great are the tales of your deeds, King Bard, when they are sung in the halls of Edoras.”

Bard looked shocked by this display, but he quickly recovered. “I am honored that word of my people is considered worth telling in the Golden Halls of the House of Eorl. Please be welcome in our humble city, Lady of the Mark. What comforts my house may provide are yours and your companions’. I beg you will forgive our modest offerings and make free of anything that you desire.”

The lady smiled. It made her look even younger still. “Happily do I accept your hospitality and boldly will I make free of it at once. Not for myself, but for Sunflash and our other horses, who have carried us long on a hot day. Might there be a place with water where we can tend to our friends?”

“Of course,” Bard said warmly. “I will show you the way myself.”

One of the riders, a stout man with gray hair in his nut brown beard, coughed disapprovingly. Theodwyn scowled. “My apologies, Dragonslayer. I forget my manners.” She whistled sharply and a great chestnut stallion cantored up from the baggage train to join the line of riders. “In honor of your deeds, please accept this gift of a horse. He is Eyebright, Arod’s foal. And I am sure he is also very thirsty even though he has not been carrying anyone today.”

This last she said rather pointedly toward her advisor, and Bilbo was reminded of sneaking apples to Myrtle under the cover of darkness. The lady of Rohan was stubborn and spirited. It was no surprise at all to discover that he liked her. While Bard made speeches of thanks, surely followed by the lady’s speeches of hoped for friendship, likely followed by more speeches yet until they all finally went to water the horses, Bilbo crept away. Dashing about the market was hindered by every shopkeeper’s desire to discuss the spectacle, so he enlisted Lea’s help in finding what he needed.

An hour later, the hobbit made his way to Bard’s receiving hall where he found the lady and the king sitting and talking with other nobles and big folk. To his credit, Bard’s look of polite interest in the graying rider’s speech probably did not appear feigned to anyone who did not know him well. Still, the way he shot from his chair to welcome Bilbo likely gave the game away.

“Join us, please,” the king said, more sincerely than Bilbo might have expected. “Lady Theodwyn, allow me to present Bilbo Baggins, Lord of the Mushroom Mine, Master Burglar of Erebor, Master in the Culinary Guild, and my very good friend.”

“Well met,” the lady said with a nod.

“Well met indeed, Lady Theodwyn. I am honored to make your acquaintance. I heard your words earlier to Bard, and I was very impressed by the care you show for your horses.”

“Among the Rohirrim, we treat our horses as we would our family,” she said. “I know it is not so among the dwarves.”

“Oh, you might be surprised. Lord Dain of the Iron Hills has a war boar he loves so much that it sleeps in his room and eats at the high table when he comes to visit here in Erebor.”

She laughed. “You make it sound like a lap dog.”

“A friendly hound in fact, that would match your Sunflash for weight, and who I have seen bite the arm off an orc with no great difficulty.”

“And do all dwarves treat their war steeds so?”

“No,” Bilbo admitted. “Most of them quite reasonably allow the animals to be stabled until they are needed.”

“May I hope that while I visit here in Dale we might have an opportunity to go riding together?”

“Ah! Well, of course I am honored by the invitation. Though I pray you will understand that I am no great rider. Just now, however, I should like to give you a gift. If I am correct in supposing that your people are like to mine and will give a gift in greeting with no greater meaning attached?”

Theodwyn looked uncertain. “I was given to understand that there is always a great deal of meaning attached to the gifts of a dwarf.”

“Indeed! So it is that Bard alone among my friends indulges my penchant for such frivolities.”

“Lord Baggins is a hobbit,” Bard said. “Not a dwarf.”

“Really?” The lady seemed quite surprised at this news.

“A fine dwarf I should make,” Bilbo grumbled. “With no beard, no boots, and more common sense than stone in my head.” In point of fact, Bilbo was not even dressed in a dwarvish way on that particular day. He had on his third best waistcoat, a very respectable mustard color, with only brass buttons and no embellishment at all. His jacket was a comely Shire green. While he did have Sting on his belt, it was only because he’d promised Thorin to always go armed when he left the mountain.

“Forgive me, Lord Holbytla. The titles of Erebor led me to conclude you were a lord among the dwarves.”

“Well.” That was reasonable enough, actually. “Naturally they would. As I am the only hobbit on this side of the Misty Mountains, I suppose you would not be expecting to meet one of my kinsfolk in any event. Perhaps you have not even heard of us. Bard’s children thought I must be some sort of odd elf when first they met me.”

Shyly, Theodwyn said, “My grandmother told me tales of the Holbytla: small folk who were quieter than shrews and able to disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“As my grandmother told me tales of the Horse Lords, tall Men who lived in their saddles and could sleep astride, riding through the night.”

Theodwyn blinked, “But then when would the horses sleep?”

“And how could a hobbit disappear?” Bilbo asked in return, smiling at her.

Once again, the lady laughed, as clear a tone as any bell in Dale. “We shall have to get to know one another properly, Lord Hobbit, to tell the truth from the tale.”

“On that note.” Bowing, Bilbo presented her with the floral crown he had carefully woven only minutes before, feeling a little shy himself.

Theodwyn was no longer smiling. “Thank you.”

“Ah. I hope you do not find it lacking. I suppose as a Lord of Erebor I ought to have given you gold or similar trinkets, but among hobbits fruit and flowers are generally considered best.”

“My people give flowers as well,” Theodwyn said. “I wore many crowns like this when I was a child.” She still did not smile, and her voice sounded cool.

Bard peered over her shoulder. “It is very different from the one you made for me on my birthday,” he said casually.

Theodwyn looked at the king in surprise. “The one he made for you?”

“Men of Dale receive presents on their birthdays,” Bilbo informed her helpfully.

“Yes,” Theodwyn said slowly. “My people have a similar custom. The crown of flowers you made for him was different from mine?”

“Extremely pink.” For some reason there was a hint of a laugh in Bard’s voice.

“Well I am not going to give pink geraniums to a woman I have just met,” Bilbo said reasonably. “Begging your pardon, of course, my lady. I certainly hope that we will one day swear such friendship, but yellow roses and goldenrod seem more appropriate for a new acquaintance.”

“How so?” she asked, looking at the wreath with more interest.

“Oh!” Bilbo realized that he had been quite foolish. “Do the flowers have different meanings among your people? Of course they would, for in my own lifetime I have seen Sweet William go from being a symbol of gallantry to a very sarcastic message indeed in the Shire. Is goldenrod quite offensive? Among my people it means ‘encouragement’ as I should like to encourage your efforts at diplomacy here, but I know that it makes some big folk sneeze. It is not a wish for ill health, is it? I swear I never intended it as such. Oh dear! It is not a curse like bindii is it?”

“Peace,” Theodwyn said quickly. “You have not offended me. Different flowers have no meanings among my people, though I should very much like to know what symbolism these have to yours. You say the goldenrod here is a wish for encouragement?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, relaxing a little when she smiled. “And the yellow roses are for friendship, in a hopeful sort of way.”

“As the pink flowers you gave me were a swearing of eternal friendship.” Bard’s voice sounded strange, and his face was rather grave.

“Er. Yes. I thought you liked them? You wore them all day.”

“I did,” Bard agreed. “I wish only that I had understood their meaning. What is this greenery here? It was in my crown as well.”

“Ah, kingsfoil,” Bilbo said. “It’s a bit of a pun, really. We have no kings or queens in the Shire, but it’s usual to put in something representing the person who will wear the crown. Marigolds for a gardener, wheat for a miller, that sort of thing. And, well, you are a king so I thought kingsfoil would do well for royalty.”

Theodwyn grinned. “I begin to understand your flower language, I think. What do the Black-Eyed Susans add to the bunch, other than giving you a nice long stem to weave with?”

“Justice and good judgment,” Bilbo said promptly. “In my hope that you will deal fairly with your new acquaintances and be understanding of our flaws.”

“That is quite a message,” Theodwyn proclaimed, setting the crown upon her head. “And all in the golden colors of Erebor.”

“I suppose they are,” Bilbo said. “I confess, I thought more of the golden coat of Sunflash and your complexion, when determining which colors would suit, my lady.”

“So it is that we come to understand one another better,” she said gaily, “and I hope to proceed apace. In that light, I will confess that it is generally children who wear such things among my people, and I thought first that you meant to insult my age.”

“Age in years confuses me greatly,” Bilbo admitted. “I should much rather ignore it all together. At fifty-one, I am old for a Man, a child among dwarves, a babe to an elf, and happily in the prime of life to my own people.”

Theodwyn accepted the wisdom of this declaration and asked to learn more of flowers. From there the conversation went merrily along from horses to adventures, dragons, and long journeys. Bard was prevailed upon to provide a proper tea, and a very merry afternoon was spent in the city of Dale where flowers grew and golden bells rang out every hour.

Chapter Text

The day after Bilbo met Theodwyn for the first time happened to be the hobbit’s fifty-second birthday. As he could not celebrate in the manner of the Shire, he refrained from mentioning it to anyone. It did not seem important enough to distract from the envoys of Rohan to try for a party if he could not even give birthday presents to his friends. Since fifty-two was not a very remarkable age among hobbits, and indeed age in mixed company continued to be confusing at best, it seemed wise to simply let the day pass as any other. Still, he expected to be a little disappointed, as going the whole day without even one person wishing him many happy returns was a bit depressing.

Instead of this anticipated unhappiness, four surprisingly wonderful things occurred, none of which had been planned in the slightest. This was so marvelous that he highlighted the date in his diary and left a ribbon on the page so that he could turn back and remember it in more difficult times. There were only two other ribbons in his diary, though of course he had only been keeping it since settling in the mountain.

First, and perhaps best, Thorin refused to even try his stuffed pepper at breakfast with the usual bullheaded insistence that he did not like vegetables. Rather than argue that the king had devoured an omelet made with three of the peppers only the morning before, Bilbo simply pressed a forkful to his monarch’s lips. A Baggins of Bag End could be quite as stubborn as any dwarf, thank you very much. Thorin relented at once, and in fact enjoyed the dish immensely. While it was always satisfying—even, dare it be said, stimulating—to have the king eat from Bilbo’s fork, that was not the best part.

The best part was when Bilbo teased gently that Thorin would one day learn to trust him. In answer, Thorin had actually said, “Perhaps food simply tastes better when you feed it to me.”

Bilbo did not leap over the breakfast table to kiss the king senseless, but it was a near thing. Really, if Thorin was going to go around grumbling endearingly and complementing Bilbo so perfectly, he ought to anticipate a few kisses. Of course he couldn’t possibly know what a flirtatious remark that was from a hobbit’s perspective, so Bilbo refrained and tried not to turn completely red.

The second wonderful thing that happened that morning was nearly as gratifying as breakfast with Thorin. During their preparations for elevensies, Lea finally managed to flip a pancake perfectly without using a spatula. Flicking her wrist just right as she held the frying pan, she sent the pancake up into the air so that it turned over once and landed batter side down without so much as a splash. Squeaking with joy was inevitable. Hugging her was also impossible to resist. That she tolerated it was a testament to her own happiness at having succeeded in the challenge. Finally, Bilbo mastered himself enough to cough, straighten his waistcoat, and say, “Well my dear, you had better keep that frying pan.”

Then Lea was the excited one. She grinned, shook his hand, and then pressed their foreheads together, thanking him profusely. In fact, she almost burned the pancake by leaving it in the pan for too long while they both expressed their happiness. Fortunately, she flipped it out in time, and then proceeded to make a stack of twenty more quite perfectly. The lass learned quickly, and Bilbo was very proud to be able to observe the process. If he sneakily found an opportunity to give away a present on his birthday, then that was no terrible crime.

From an outside perspective, the third occurrence on that beautiful summer day was probably the most exciting. Bilbo’s fortune came in. The trader Garag, with whom he had made arrangements to bring a few dried Black Trilbies to the Shire, returned to Erebor. Skeptical as the dwarf had been setting out, he was exultant to continue the business. Garag had quite a lot of money for Bilbo, of course, as their agreement had been to split the profits from the sale in half. Beyond that he had letters from many of Bilbo’s friends, a few of Bilbo’s favorite books from his library, the portraits of his parents, and two whole barrels of Old Toby, which he called incentives for further business. The merchant readily admitted that he had not expected to make any profit at all on the venture, but he was now quite eager to continue working with Bilbo.

With bribes like those, the hobbit could hardly say no. Indeed, the Old Toby in particular was a welcome blessing. Dwarvish pipe weed was rather harsh for a discerning palate, and he immediately raced to find someone who could appreciate it properly. Of course Thorin was reluctant to have his kinging interrupted in the middle of the day, but eventually he laughed and agreed that half an hour with a pipe would do him no harm. Together they sat on the mountain side and blew smoke rings. Bilbo puffed out one as impressive as he could manage only to have Thorin shoot a smaller one through the center with an accuracy even Bard would be challenged to match. It was a delightful game, and if Gandalf was not there to change the smoke into strange shapes and colors, they had plenty of fun on their own.

Beyond that Bilbo was exceedingly happy to have news from the Shire. Most of the letters were from family members congratulating him on such an unprecedented and profitable adventure. It was funny to see that many of his correspondents could not believe just how profitable his adventure had been. Many hobbits wished him the joy of a whole half-acre of trilbies, and many more said they were sure that even a quarter acre was quite probably worth having to live among dwarves. Most of the letters had little bits of gossip that were equally amusing. One of his staid Baggins cousins was engaged to Prim, a dashing young Brandybuck who liked nothing better than boating, dancing, and laughing. Bilbo had a hard time imagining Drogo courting her, but he expected his own parents had been met with a similar reaction. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had apparently tried to move in to Bag End while he was gone, only to be met with news that he was in fact a successful mushroom merchant now and not dead at all. A very kind letter from the Mayor explained that Bilbo’s possessions would remain his own until he returned or made other arrangements of his choosing.

It surprised the hobbit to realize that he didn’t care much for the things that had been left behind. While it was nice to have a few familiar books and plenty of real pipeweed, he didn’t miss his armchair or his mother’s pottery. He had a very nice armchair in his little apartment and they all ate off of golden plates in Erebor. That said, he did miss his family. As he read their letters, he could almost hear the familiar voices of Tooks and Brandybucks telling their stories just the way they would have if they’d been gathered around him at his birthday party. However, when the letters were finished those voices were silent. The familiar lilt of the Shire would only ever really be heard in the mountain when Bilbo spoke. His friends would always speak with their dwarvish brogue. That was his choice. That was what he wanted. Yet he read the letters over and again until Dwalin came and got him to attend the presentation of the Rohan delegation to the king.

“You were crying,” the dwarf grunted as they hurried toward the throne room. It wasn’t a question.

“Ah, yes,” Bilbo admitted, straightening his mithril shirt and checking his pocket for a handkerchief. “I had some news from home. An uncle of mine died.” This was true, though they hadn’t been close and it wasn’t why Bilbo had been crying.

Still, Dwalin seemed to accept this as a reasonable excuse to show emotion. “Condolences,” he said, and that was that.

If Bilbo had not been so homesick and melancholy, wishing desperately that dwarves threw big birthday parties the way hobbits did, the fourth remarkable thing that happened that day would not have been nearly so wonderful. After listening to the long winded speeches of Thorin, Theodwyn, Dis, Theodwyn’s graying advisor, Balin, another of Theodwyn’s companions, Thorin again, Theodwyn again, and finally Fili, they all marched off to dinner in great state. It was very grand, like nothing in the Shire would ever be. Just then, that fact made Bilbo feel small, pathetic, and horribly out of place.

Fortunately, one of the riders beckoned him up from the train of Thorin’s companions to walk beside Theodwyn. “My Lord Hobbit,” she said, smiling much more genuinely than she had during her audience with the king. “I hoped I would see you this day. I have something for you.”

Another of her honor guard handed her two crowns of woven flowers. Bilbo recognized his own handywork from the day before on one of them which she carefully placed upon her own head. The other crown she presented to him with both hands and a slight bow.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, taking it with trembling hands. “Marigolds.”

“You said that they were for gardeners. Since you keep a farm, I thought it would be safe.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, feeling tears sting his eyes as he looked down at the well woven crown of bright flowers. “Yes, it is quite perfect. They are not only given to farmers you know. These yellow ones are for good health, the orange here is protection, and the red is a blessing for prosperity.”

“All things I am happy to wish you,” Theodwyn said. “Though I feel I must tell you that among the young girls of my homeland, making an exchange of this nature is a swearing of friendship.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said again, blinking away the tears and placing the crown quite firmly upon his head. “It is the much the same among children in the Shire.” Smiling up at her, he took her arm gallantly. “And since it is such a tradition, I think we must agree to be friends henceforth!”

Unfortunately, though Theodwyn agreed, they did not have long to seal their friendship with conversation. Just then Bofur came over and fetched Bilbo back to the ranks of the Company. Apparently he and Nori had been killing time before the lofty processional to the dinner table trying to remember a song from the Shire. Bilbo happily corrected their lyrics, though Bofur’s smile seemed tight and no one else among the dwarves smiled at all. Indeed, everyone seemed quite upset about something, Thorin most of all. Bilbo wondered if he had missed something during all of the dull speech making earlier, and he resolved to do what he could to patch things up.

His moment came quickly enough. Since he was a burglar, he stole Balin’s seat between Thorin and Theodwyn at the dinner table. It was easy to do. Bilbo simply skipped forward as everyone else walked in the stately processional and hopped into the chair. Balin raised an eyebrow, but went to sit next to his brother graciously enough. Thorin’s mouth even twitched into a smile, though there was something disapproving in his face when his gaze turned to Theodwyn.

“Your crown is very nice,” he observed impassively once they were seated and dinner began.

“Thank you.” Theodwyn piled a reasonable amount of meat onto her plate. Bilbo was pleased to note that she had a healthy appetite. Men often did not seem to eat nearly enough to sustain people of their size.

“You made it?” The king turned to Bilbo with the expressionless face that the hobbit hated.

“I did,” Bilbo agreed excitedly. “And Theodwyn made mine for me. I suppose dwarven children do not make flower crowns, but the children of Rohan do, just like hobbits!”

“Perhaps not just like hobbits,” Theodwyn said modestly. “I have not woven flowers together since I was small, and I am sure your crown is not half so well made as mine.”

“It is yellow,” the king said, “but I do not see celandine.” Thorin pronounced the name of the small flower carefully, as though he was learning for the first time in his long life that one yellow flower might be different from another. Bilbo’s heart melted a little to know that the only reason for his friend to do so was that the hobbit cared about such things.

“No celandine,” Bilbo agreed. “I couldn’t find any, though I certainly would have included it if it was available.”

“I love celandine,” Theodwyn said. “What does it mean in your flower language?”

“Joy in the day,” Thorin said quickly, before Bilbo could answer.

The lady of Rohan looked taken aback by the king’s abruptness. Then her hand flew to her mouth, covering a small, sudden giggle. “My apologies,” she said instantly, attempting to smooth her face into an expressionless mein like Thorin’s and utterly failing to hide her smile. “Obviously your knowledge of hobbits far exceeds my own, O King.”

Thorin scowled.

Bilbo felt rather like scowling as well. He did not see what had amused her so, nor why she would laugh at Thorin. “I should say he knows plenty about hobbits,” he said moodily.

“I am sure His Majesty does.” Theodwyn grinned, then tried to tamp it down again. “Though clearly I should have considered what I know of dwarrow-kind before making you such a public gift.”

“Oh.” Bilbo thought about her words for a moment. “Do not worry about that. It can hardly be a problem, for neither of us are dwarves and hobbits love nothing better than to give and receive flowers.”

“Hobbits love nothing better than breakfast,” Thorin said with the voice of authority.

Bilbo laughed. “I stand corrected. Hobbits love first breakfast, then dinner, then afternoon tea, and then receiving flowers and other presents. These are followed in order by luncheon, giving flowers and other presents, gossiping, second breakfast, smoking, supper, gardening, reading, elevenses, dancing, and music.”

“An expert indeed!” Theodwyn grinned again, but this time it did not seem to annoy Thorin, who answered her with a measured nod.

While the hobbit had little experience with lofty matters of state, he knew the start of a friendship when he saw one. Beaming at them both, he thought that there was no real need to miss the Shire or the ways he had grown up with. Not if he had friends with willing hearts and open minds. It was a lovely realization, and it was strangely amazing that those friends should be great rulers with much weightier concerns than what order of preference little hobbits gave to their daily activities.

Still, it could not be denied that they were both true friends of his. For later in the evening when he let slip that it was his birthday, everyone made an enormous fuss and insisted upon celebrating him in the dwarvish fashion of toasting repeatedly to his health. Soon after that, Thorin was so drunk that he stole Bilbo’s crown of marigolds and wore it upon his own head. Theodwyn, laughing so hard she could barely speak, offered to challenge the dwarf for Bilbo’s honor. Since they were both wearing quite real swords upon their belts, Bilbo thought it was best to allow the king to keep the flowers. Indeed, they suited him very well, for all that he was not even gardener enough to say their name properly and insisted upon calling them merry, gold blossoms. Of course, Bilbo would be very hard pressed to name something that would not suit Thorin’s handsome face. The dwarf would probably look comely in burlap.

In all, it was the best birthday of his life up to that point. When Bilbo finally recorded the events in his diary he could hardly believe that so much had happened in so little time, and he marked the page with a little sketch of Thorin in his crown of flowers so that he could always remember the way the king had smiled.

Chapter Text

Apparently Thorin took Bilbo’s little joke about liking to receive presents seriously. When the hobbit mentioned in passing that he was having trouble finding a good replacement for the frying pan he’d given Lea, since dwarves tended to make tools too heavy for Bilbo to use comfortably, the king showed up at the Culinary Guild less than an hour later. The pan he offered Bilbo was perfect in every way. More than large enough to do a proper fry up for two, it somehow weighed half of what Bilbo’s old pan had despite being sold iron. Around the outer edge there was a series of small etched acorns, and there was a beautiful grip along the handle in the same motif.

Bilbo loved it.

Drifting closer to Thorin was only natural. After all, it was such a thoughtful, romantic gift. Bilbo’s fingers traced the acorn pattern around the edge of his new pan, but his attention was entirely on the king’s clear blue eyes. Despite the great demands of ruling, Thorin had found time to go to his forge the moment Bilbo mentioned wanting something iron. Clearly the king cared for Bilbo. Bilbo thought it might be time to forget dwarven custom and try a few hobbit traditions. Namely, the time honored Shire practice of kissing someone who gave a romantic present square on the mouth and letting whatever happened next happen.

Then Bombur shoved in between Bilbo and Thorin, snatching the frying pan forcefully from the hobbit and practically throwing it at the king.

“I say!” Bilbo said scathingly.

Bombur ignored him. “You insult my guild and my friend by offering such a gift,” he snarled. Sweet, fat Bombur actually snarled. “It is not even gold.”

Peculiarly, Thorin did not seem enraged by this insolence. Instead of shouting, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “It is only a frying pan. Bilbo makes breakfast for me every morning, and he mentioned some difficulty finding one light enough for convenient use. As he shares his craft with me freely, I hoped to share mine with him. An unconventional exchange may yet be a fair one.”

Still frowning, Bombur looked back at Bilbo. “Is this true? You make breakfast for him every morning?”

The hobbit felt himself flush redder than a beetroot at the accusation. “No, no, no,” he denied quickly. Of course he should like to make Thorin breakfast every day, but obviously that was out of the question. Bombur could hardly insinuate such a thing in public when they were most certainly not married. A king would never marry someone like Bilbo. Kings married queens, or princesses at the very least. Then the hobbit remembered that Bombur was, in fact, a dwarf and would not be aware of the extreme impropriety of the breakfasts.

“Well, yes. Is it every day? That is, I make breakfast for myself every day. I simply share it with Thorin on occasion because he won’t eat otherwise. He was quite concerned at first that it was a job for some sort of servant, but I left it to the rest of you for months and none of you could make him eat properly.” Bilbo swallowed nervously in preparation for the big lie. “There is nothing unseemly about it. I am an adult, after all, and I may choose where to take my breakfast and who to eat it with.”

Bombur blinked at him. Then he said slowly, as though puzzling out the differences between hobbit customs and dwarven ways, “You would be insulted if he offered to pay you for that work.”

“Of course I would!” Bilbo drew himself up to his full height, which was not, admittedly, very impressive when he was surrounded by unnaturally tall dwarves. “I am a Baggins, not a live-in-cook. The very idea!”

Nodding, Bombur stepped aside. “Apologies my king. Craft for craft is a fair exchange. It is clear you do not mean to offer insult.”

“A natural misunderstanding,” Thorin agreed. Bilbo thought he was blushing beneath his beard, though he had no idea what about the situation would be embarrassing for the king. Perhaps the fact that if he was left to his own devices he would only eat one meal a day. That certainly ought to embarrass him.

Since the confusion was undoubtedly due to yet another dwarrow custom meant to complicate something that ought to be simple, Bilbo shoved past Bombur and took his present back from Thorin. Perhaps it was for the best that they had been interrupted before Bilbo could do anything utterly ridiculous, but he still pressed a quick kiss to Thorin’s bearded cheek.

“Thank you very much,” the hobbit said. “It’s precisely what I wanted.”

Thorin did not answer. His face seemed as red as Bilbo’s had been at the suggestion that a hobbit might marry a king. For a wild moment, Bilbo thought that perhaps his friend was affected by something as simple as a peck on the cheek. Insanely, Bilbo wondered if perhaps his feelings weren’t wholly unrequited. Then Thorin spun on his heel and stormed out of the guild hall without a word.

Bombur explained. “It isn’t appropriate to touch someone else’s beard without invitation. If another dwarf had done so, Thorin would have struck them without hesitation.”

“Oh dear! I ought to go after him and apologize.” Bilbo turned to do just that, but Bombur caught him by the shoulder.

“No, no need,” the dwarf said quickly. “He knows that you do not follow our ways or mean what a dwarrow would with such a gesture. Simply allow him some time alone now, and when you next meet it will be as though it never happened.”

This did not sound entirely honest to Bilbo, which meant that his faux pas was probably more severe than Bombur was willing to say, but the hobbit trusted that his friend would not steer him too far wrong. So he went about his usual business, tending his mushrooms and teaching his apprentice. When he saw Thorin at dinner, it seemed to be true enough that there was no lingering awkwardness or offense. While the king was more formal than usual in front of the Rohan delegation, he smiled at Bilbo and shook his head at the worst of the hobbit’s jokes.

In the end, that was all a hobbit could hope for from a king.

Time seemed to pass more quickly with the riders of Rohan in residence. Bilbo’s mornings were still given to his mushrooms and his cooking, but his afternoons were often occupied by Theodwyn and the amusements that seemed to constitute statecraft among lordly people. He was required to go riding far more frequently than he would have liked, often astride Pebble the War Goat instead of a nice gentle pony. Many superior hours were spent among the late-summer wild flowers along the slopes of Erebor. Thorin finally arranged for the great arena to show theatricals, and they attended several very interesting performances.

Unsurprisingly, Theodwyn and Tauriel became fast friends. They were often to be found in conference, sparring, or riding together. Suddenly, Bilbo found himself sharing many confidences with them both, though they were great ladies and he was only quite a little fellow. If it was strange to think of two young ladies, warriors both, confiding in a plain, middle aged gentlehobbit, perhaps it was less strange to think of the only three people who were not dwarves or guards living in Erebor keeping company. Many were the times they shared little points of confusion about dwarven culture and cheerfully misunderstood one another in turn.

It often made Bilbo laugh to think of the time Theodwyn shared a cheerful aphorism in the language of the Rohirrim, which sounded quite like a very bawdy, poorly pronounced invitation in Sindarin. Both hobbit and elf had stared at the lady in shock and discomfort for a long, embarrassed moment before it came to light that Theodwyn spoke no Elvish whatsoever.

During these times Theodwyn’s guards were not absent, but they seemed to fade into the backdrop with their horses. Even when the ladies hunted or raced their mounts, the riders did not take part, only watching and remaining alert for any possible threat to their charge. Their presence made Bilbo feel safe, but quite self conscious.

When he asked Theodwyn about it, she said, “Surely an august personage such as yourself is used to such observation.”

Bilbo laughed along with the joke until it became clear that Theodwyn had not intended it as such. “While I might admit to being robust, particularly about my middle section, no one has ever accused me of being august before.”

Then it was Tauriel’s turn to laugh, a light tinkling sound like the ringing of silver bells. “You must know by now Theodwyn, a hobbit can sit beside kings and receive honors that would fell lesser beings, while thinking no more of it than he would if a particularly fat bumblebee made a home near his garden.”

“Here now, I certainly like Thorin more than a bumblebee!” Bilbo said stingingly, for he felt that this was going a bit too far.

“I am sure you do.” Tauriel’s eyes twinkled. “However, I suspect you could do well enough without the King Under The Mountain.”

This was almost too true for Bilbo’s comfort. If Thorin were not a king, things might be quite different between the two of them. If Thorin were not a king, Bilbo might at least take the chance of giving him a ring and asking for his hand. Then again, Thorin might not care to share a home with a silly old hobbit under any circumstances. Besides, Thorin was a king. Even when he had no kingdom and only twelve loyal soldiers, his royal nature was etched in every aspect of his form and bearing. Bilbo could not imagine a Thorin who was not a king, and so Bilbo could not imagine a Thorin who might accept his suit.

As if sensing how unhappy Tauriel’s teasing had made him, Theodwyn kindly turned the conversation. “King Thorin is your own ruler, and you are a close advisor. The honor of sitting beside him should not daunt you. Most of my father’s advisors have seen far too many fits of his temper to be in awe of him. Yet I have seen you tease King Bard, and you certainly do not hesitate in his presence.”

“Well no,” Bilbo agreed, grateful to speak of someone other than Thorin, “but that is because I still have trouble thinking of him as a king. When I met him he was only a bargeman and smuggler who snuck me into Laketown through a toilet.”

“And what is your excuse for the casual way you have treated with King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm?” Tauriel asked. She was still laughing at him, but now all the laughter was in the sparkle of her eyes, so at least it was no longer aloud.

“Whatever do you mean? I certainly treated him as a king.”

“When he took his leave to return to his realm after the battle, you shook his hand and invited him to tea.”

“Well, yes. I was not raised in a barn.”

“The King of the Woodland Realm has reigned long and had many friendships with men, whose customs seem similar to those of hobbits, yet I have never heard of him shaking hands with anyone.”

“Oh. That explains why he wasn’t very good at it. It was rather like shaking hands with a gust of wind.”

Tauriel and Bilbo looked at eachother for a long moment, then burst into peals of shared laughter. Theodwyn smiled politely, but clearly did not fully understand the joke. Bilbo took it upon himself to explain.

“You have not seen him, Theodwyn, but he is very beautiful and extremely frightening. Rather like Thorin, now I come to think of it. I wonder if they test for that sort of thing before giving you a crown. Bard is never frightening, but he did kill Smaug. Perhaps they gave him a pass for that, since Smaug was quite the most frightening thing I have ever met.”

Theodwyn coughed politely and Tauriel bit her lip to hide a smile.

“What?” Bilbo asked, wanting to be let in on this joke as well.

“Nothing,” Theodwyn said quickly.

Very carefully, Tauriel said, “I might call King Thorin handsome, instead of beautiful.”

“Well I suppose he is both,” Bilbo said, “but why should that matter?”

“He is a little short for my liking,” Theodwyn said quickly. “That is all. I mean no offense.”

Which was very peculiar, as it did not matter to Bilbo if Theodwyn fancied Thorin. Though she was somewhat comely herself, and a daughter of kings, so perhaps he was glad that the king did not capture her interest. He was gladder still to change the subject.

Yet the topic continued to weigh on his mind. The following morning at breakfast, Bilbo found himself studying Thorin’s face trying to decide what the difference between handsome and beautiful might be and why Tauriel thought one but not the other applied to the king.

Most certainly he was handsome. With his thick black beard and piercing blue eyes, Thorin cut a fine figure in any cloth. Anyone who saw him must admire his profile, the way his hair fell about his shoulders, and the strength of his hands. Yes. Thorin was handsome. Yet Bilbo also thought he was beautiful. Beautiful like a sunset over the mountains when all the world seemed to catch fire in red and gold. Beautiful like breathing fresh air through the treetops of Mirkwood and seeing a thousand butterflies take wing. Those sights did not even begin to compare with the way Thorin looked striding masterfully toward battle. Thorin’s face was very beautiful, especially when the bridge of his nose wrinkled with concentration as he tackled a difficult piece on his harp. Or on those rare occasions when he smiled softly, surely his face was the definition of beauty then. Even Tauriel would have to admit that Thorin’s singing was beautiful. Indeed, his was the most moving voice Bilbo had ever heard.

“Your mind is far away this morning,” Thorin observed neutrally. “You have not eaten your breakfast.”

Bilbo flushed looking down at their respective plates. His own was still quite full, while Thorin’s was nearly clean. “Sorry.” He gave his waffles the attention they deserved. “It is only something Tauriel said,” he added, because he could not very well say he was contemplating Thorin’s beauty over the breakfast table.

The king frowned. “The elf offended you?”

“No, nothing like that,” the hobbit said quickly. She had, after all, admitted Thorin was handsome. “It is only that I think elves may have slightly different connotations for words than hobbits do, even when we are all speaking Westron. It makes me wonder how often we miss the true meaning of another’s words.”

Thorin was silent for a long moment, contemplating this. Then he said, “Perhaps we can learn to understand our friends, if we make the effort. Or perhaps we will find other ways to communicate.”

From underneath the table, he lifted a square box carved of polished oak and decorated with the intricate geometric patterns favored by dwarven artisans. There were small hinges made of gold set seamlessly into the lid, and a clever little latch fastened it securely. “I have another gift for you,” the king said, placing it gently beside Bilbo’s plate.

“Oh it is lovely!” the hobbit exclaimed. “Did you make this yourself? I did not know you were a carpenter as well.”

Thorin laughed. “As it happens, I did make the box. Though any familiar with the true art of dwarven woodworking would not call it a masterful job, I am pleased you like it. The gift is within, but I would ask you to open it later.” Shrugging casually, Thorin added, “You may wear it if it pleases you, but you needn’t give me compliments as you did with the medallion you hated.”

“I don’t hate the medallion you gave me, Thorin!”

Looking down at the wooden box, the dwarf licked his lips. “I am pleased to hear it. Even so, it is my hope that this will suit you a little better.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo was not a fauntling. He was a respectable hobbit. No matter how much he burned with curiosity, he washed the breakfast dishes and put them away before opening his present. If he rushed a bit and did only a cursory job of drying the plates, polite society would have to forgive him. They were not around to witness, anyhow.

Sitting in his cozy armchair, he took a moment to first hold the oak box in his hands, enjoying the smooth feel of the lid, the sturdy carvings beneath his fingers, and the scent of freshly varnished wood. Then he turned the latch and lifted the lid. Suddenly gasping for air, he could do nothing but stare at the thing in the box for a long minute.

It was a crown. Bilbo was not wholly shocked that Thorin would give him such an ornament as several members of the Company wore circlets on occasion, so it must not be only the province of princes. Still, to be given such a crown by the king was quite astonishing. Less surprisingly, it was a crown of mithril, jewels, precious metals, and beautiful stones. Bilbo knew that Thorin wished to give him such things. They were after all, the things Thorin valued. Yet at first glance, it was not that at all.

It was a crown of flowers.

The mithril was woven like willow branches, looking delicate, twisted, and alive, holding the flowers in place. The flowers were crafted of valuable gems and various other fruits of the mountain, yet they too looked as though they had been grown in some strange and magical garden. If Bilbo had been given a hundred years to think of what he might most like to see crafted by a dwarf, he still would not have imagined such a crown.

First and foremost, his eye was drawn to the Black Trilby. It was clearly made of jet or chalcedony, shining black, but it grew out of the mithril like impossible proof that the crown was made for Bilbo alone. No one in the Shire would ever try to weave a mushroom into a crown. It would be quite impossible to do with a fresh one, after all, and a waste of good food besides. Yet there it was, looking good enough to eat, rising from the circlet like the peak of a mountain.

To one side of the mushroom was a red rose. Bilbo had lived in Erebor long enough to recognize that the petals were made of rubies, but they did not look like stones. They looked soft, and when he dared to trace them with a finger, they were perfectly smooth to the touch. Roses were thorny, finicky, and difficult to grow. The gift of one in the Shire could only ever be a gift of love. A vibrant red rose in particular was a deeply romantic expression. Receiving such a rose from Thorin, despite the fact that the king could not possibly know the flower’s meaning, melted Bilbo’s little hobbit heart.

Left of the rose was a tiger lily, and that made Bilbo’s already soft heart race. Many gardens were graced by the occasional tiger lily in the Shire. It was, after all, a beautiful flower. Such a vibrant orange hue was always welcome in a patch of wildflowers. That said, they were not exactly proper. There was a polite fiction in Hobbiton that no one ever gave tiger lilies in a bouquet or a crown. The delicate slope of the cone, the welcoming lines of the petals, and the seductive trail of black speckles leading into the heart of the blossom all made for quite a lurid display. A tiger lily stood for passion in the language of the flowers, and Bilbo almost suspected that some part of Thorin must recognize that fact. Within the center of the bell, in a display of skill that quite amazed the hobbit, was a perfect golden honeybee. It was balanced on the long stamen looking so lifelike that Bilbo gasped again to notice the insect. Blood pulsed hot in his veins. He supposed that dwarves did not discuss matters using the metaphor of flowers and bees as young hobbits did. Even so, Bilbo blushed to think of wearing such an image in public.

Blushed, and ached to do it as well, since it came from Thorin.

Forcing himself to look away, his eyes drifted along the rainbow. As they did so, Bilbo noted that the cluster of yellow was not a single flower. Instead, there was a bright yellow daisy shining out in a promise of friendly companionship. That was safe enough, and it was wreathed by celandine, a simple wish for joy. Thorin had likely included the little flowers because Bilbo mentioned favoring them. He could not know that combining them with a yellow daisy spoke of joy in companionship, and was a promise to brighten all of someone’s days.

Beside this blatant proposal of marriage, there was a small bunch of oak leaves made of jade with a few acorns among them. A little greenery in a flower crown was always welcome. Such leaves added character, and when included in a bouquet they had meaning enough. In this case, the oak tree being the strongest and steadiest plant in any forest, it was a promise of security. Not an uncommon inclusion in a marriage bouquet, but unlike the tiger lily it was also the sort of thing you might give a child or an elderly relation. Though a fauntling would eat the acorns if they were not made of topaz.

Yet again it seemed to Bilbo as though Thorin might actually understand the meaning of the flowers he crafted with. Among the mithril branches that made the base of the crown behind the jeweled blossoms, there was another sculpture of the same shining metal. It was a miniature depiction of Orcrist, Thorin’s sword, behind the oak leaves. Naturally he must have hidden it there behind the oak-leaf shield as a sort of pun. A reminder, if Bilbo ever needed one, of who had given him this glorious gift. However, if he did understand that oak leaves were a promise of safety in the Shire, then Thorin including his sword just behind them would rather emphasize such a vow.

Bilbo could not think about such things. Would not waste time contemplating them, except that the next flower along the crown was just as dwarvish in meaning. An explosion of blue sapphires formed a brilliant cornflower. In the Shire, such flowers meant prosperity. They were a pleasant well wishing, generally given in early summer as hope for a good harvest, though occasionally one included them in a proposal bouquet. In such a place, they were a promise to provide and an assurance of comfort. If Thorin had been a hobbit giving such a crown of flowers, Bilbo would have smiled at the idea that someone else might provide for the Master of Bag End. Since he was a dwarf, giving a flower made of sapphires enough to buy and sell Bag End three times over, Bilbo smiled for other reasons. Clearly Thorin valued his friendship very highly to give him such a present, even if he did not understand the whole of it.

The final color in the rainbow, poised to the right of the beautiful Black Trilby, was lovely purple heather. Heather always had such a mass of blossoms on a single stalk that it could be quite unruly and difficult to work with. Bilbo wanted to compliment Thorin on selecting such perfect blooms and weaving them so skillfully. Heather could be very hard to incorporate into a crown with other flowers, though everyone tried because it meant both admiration and luck. Common wisdom held that giving them in a proposal bouquet was a good way to offer admiration while keeping a little luck for the hopeful suitor. In fact, since it was so difficult to work without damaging the blossoms, successfully including the blossom in a flower crown was generally considered a rather large point in the suitor’s favor. Then Bilbo remembered that Thorin had crafted the flowers himself out of amethysts and precious metals, and he was even more impressed that they seemed so alive.

The crown was a rainbow come to life, all the colors of love from the roses to the heather, and Thorin had crafted it with a perfect sort of wildness. Yet the flowers were not separated or partitioned unnaturally into their colors, for woven among them all was a unifying thread of blue. Blue was the color of the house of Durin, and perhaps that was why Thorin had chosen it. Perhaps he simply found the tiny forget-me-nots convenient to the purpose. Bilbo dared not imagine that he had included them for their meaning. But there they were. Dotted coyly around the other flowers, hidden among the celandine, popping up beside the cornflower, nestled next to the acorns, wreathing the Black Trilby, there were forget-me-nots galore.

A forget-me-not was a subtle flower. Too small to be considered the jewel of any garden. Too easily lost to be the focus of a woven crown. The little things were both prized and feared in any bouquet. This was as it should be, for they stood in place of true love. Not the base admiration of the heather, the lurid desire of the tiger lily, nor the romantic attachment of a red rose: the love of a forget-me-not was true. Small, simple, and steady, just like a hobbit’s love should be. It was incredibly bad form to give even a single one of those tiny flowers if there was even a hint of doubt within a heart. Therefore, unlike roses and tiger lilies, they could be completely trusted. There was even a saying about how obvious the meaning was in the Shire. Simple and direct the way most Shire sayings were, it went:

Bilbo touched one. Each of its perfect little petals were made from slivers of blue opal, like the lightning opal Dis had shown him in her courtship ring. They were exactly the color and shape of real forget-me-nots. They were exactly the color of Thorin’s eyes.

Bilbo touched each of the little flowers in turn, then again. He spent a long time admiring the crown, tracing every edge and line with eager fingers. It was so beautifully crafted he did not find a single sharp edge on any part of the gems or metal, not even where the petals of the cornflower came to points. He could hardly believe that Thorin had made it for him. Wondering at that simple fact, Bilbo slowly set the crown upon his head. Then he rushed over to his looking glass.

It ought to have been ridiculous: little Bilbo Baggins of Hobbiton crowned with mithril and jewels. Yet this was no dwarven ornament of heavy gold; it was a crown of flowers. Hobbits in the Shire wore forty such crowns a year for parties, fairs, and other occasions on which a fellow might want to look his best. Meaning aside, this was the finest one Bilbo had ever seen. Given that it would not wilt or fade, he could wear it every single day if he liked. He wanted to. He longed desperately to walk around wearing a tiger lily given him by Thorin Oakenshield, but obviously he could not. That would be so much worse than feeding him breakfast. After all, breakfast was private.

To wear the crown publicly would risk someone recognizing the symbols and what they meant to Bilbo. Gandalf, at least, would understand the flower language. As would any traveller who spent much time in the Shire. With so many dwarves from the Blue Mountains, surely some of them would know. What an embarrassment that could prove to be for Thorin! Dwarves were so reticent about matters of the heart that they would not even flirt until a courtship ring had been offered and accepted. What would they think of Bilbo openly wearing a marriage crown?

Of course, it might be different if Bilbo did give Thorin a ring. It was a plain little thing, but useful. Beautiful even, in its own way, and Thorin had a liking for gold. Perhaps there was even a chance that Bilbo could wear his crown honestly. For a long while he gazed into the mirror and imagined a world in which he could be that lucky.

Naturally that was the point at which he was interrupted. It seemed he blinked and there was Thorin, visible in one corner of the mirror, standing at the door to his bedroom. Bilbo had not even heard a knock at the door. Mortified to be caught staring at his own reflection like a tween primping before a party, the hobbit reached up as he turned, intending to whip the crown off his head.

Instantly Thorin crossed the room to catch his hand before his fingers did more than brush one edge of the cornflower. “Do not,” the king said in a hoarse voice. “There is nothing wrong with testing the fit in the privacy of your own chambers.”

“No.” Bilbo licked his lips. Thorin was maddeningly close. More than close enough to kiss. Bilbo relaxed his arm, enjoying the feel of a strong hand on his wrist.

Thorin relaxed as well, though he did not release Bilbo. Instead, he turned the hobbit gently by his shoulders so that they could look into the mirror together. “You look very well in it.”

Bilbo tried to make a polite noise in thanks, but the heat of Thorin at his back was very distracting. Standing so close, they looked like lovers in the mirror. With his beautiful crown, Bilbo was almost fair enough to match the king. Indeed, they very nearly complemented one another, Bilbo small and soft where Thorin was tall and strong.

In the mirror, Bilbo could see them as they might have been in some world where Thorin was not a king, wearing flower crowns on their wedding day. Thorin’s would be made of sunflowers, of course. Twelve of them: one for every month of the year in which he had Bilbo’s absolute devotion. Perhaps there would be a forget-me-not or two as well, to match his eyes and make it plain to everyone that their feelings were shared. In a world where Thorin and Bilbo were in love.

“You like it.” Bilbo could feel Thorin’s breath across the tip of his ear, warm and soft like his voice.

“Yes.” His own voice sounded high and breathless, as though he’d run a very long way instead of spending the morning admiring himself in mirrors.

“You might wear it to dinner tonight.”

“I might.” Bilbo could not resist leaning back a little into the furnace of Thorin’s body. Hobbits were not made to stand against such temptations, so Thorin would have to be strong enough for the both of them.

Apparently he was. Squeezing Bilbo’s shoulders once in parting, the king stepped away. “Good!” he looked pleased as a pup in dandelion fluff. “We will speak then.” Thorin grinned. “When you wear the crown to dinner. If you wear it. Of course it is at your discretion.”

The king’s obvious excitement was like cold water on Bilbo’s neck. He could not wear the flowers in front of half of Erebor. Not when Thorin so clearly had no idea what they signified. Bilbo would have to explain. Yet by the rules of decorum in Thorin’s culture, first he would have to give him a gift.

And so he did.

As Thorin turned to go, Bilbo called his name. Drawing the chain upon which he kept the magic ring from his pocket, the hobbit held it up so that the light from the fire and the glowing lamp could catch the gleaming gold.

“I am not a smith like you, and even if I was I could never craft anything equal to this crown. I am just a decent cook with a few mushrooms. Yet I dare hope some things of mine might have value even to a king. Will you take this ring? It is a pretty little thing, and it has gotten us out of a tight spot a time or two. Being invisible may not be particularly pleasant, but you might find it useful.”

Thorin blinked, and his eyes drifted down to the ring hanging from Bilbo’s hand. Slowly, a dark lust for it twisted his handsome face. Shadows seemed to grow in the corners of the room, gathering behind the king like a thundercloud. Yet despite the darkness, the ring shone. In fact, the darkness made the gold seem ever more glorious in the firelight.

While Bilbo spoke, the chain seemed to grow heavier. Part of him did not want to give the precious ring up, not even for a chance to court the king. It was that same greed that gave Bilbo cause for hope. Surely Thorin would not refuse. The ring was so lovely; it must tempt even the King Under the Mountain. Indeed, the dwarf clearly desired it greatly. His eyes burned with wanting. Need like madness, like gold-sickness, overcame the king’s face in a draconic expression. At his side, his strong hand twitched, almost reaching up to take the ring. Almost, however, was worth little in the end.

Curling his hand into a fist, Thorin looked up at the crown of jeweled flowers still on Bilbo’s head. “No,” he said hoarsely. “It is a gift.” Then he whirled around and stormed from the room.

Furious, Bilbo lifted the ring to his face. “What is the point of you if you cannot even tempt him?” he bellowed, hurling it into the fire. As though it was a living thing, he blamed the trinket. After all, it was much easier to blame some fault in a perfect ring than to think about the fact that Thorin did not want anything like a courtship gift from a silly little hobbit.

Later, Bilbo would feel foolish and retrieve the ring from the dying embers of the fire. He would notice some indecipherable elvish script and, worried that the magic of the ring had been damaged, copy it faithfully to show Gandalf. After all, a wizard ought to know about magic rings. Just then, however, he would not have cared two twigs if the ring melted away to nothing.

Throwing himself onto his bed, the little hobbit curled up and wept. Sobbing over his own foolishness for setting his heart on someone so much greater than himself, he cried like a tween at their first heartbreak. In fact, it was his first heartbreak, for he had never been seriously affected by such matters in his youth. Only Thorin, with his stubborn heroism, noble adventurousness, and fiery temperament, had ever inspired anything close to real passion in Bilbo’s quiet, steady soul. That made things much worse, for he had little experience with longing, and to know for certain that what he ached for could never come to pass was a heavy blow. Clutching the wreath of flowers to his chest, he lamented the wedding that would never, ever be.

He did not wear the crown to dinner. He did not go to dinner. Indeed, the hobbit did not leave his room or eat anything at all except his first, shared breakfast with Thorin. When knocking came, he did not answer and his visitors went away. It was best to be alone. After all, he was not a dwarf. He was not noble or strong or made by Mahal to be loved. He was only a little hobbit with a handful of flowers that he could never wear.

Chapter Text

One could not mope forever. The whole point of the dwarven nonsense about giving someone a ring before telling them that you loved them was to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness. Except Bilbo was not a dwarf. He was a hobbit. And he rather felt like a hobbit who had proposed and been rejected. In such a situation, the proper thing to do would be to stay away. Politeness demanded that the object of unwanted affections ought to have space to live unburdened by them. Bilbo, as a hobbit unlucky in love, wanted nothing more than to hole up in a small room until all the world went away. Unfortunately, the object of his affections was not a hobbit. Thorin was a dwarf, and a rejected dwarf pretended as though nothing of any import had happened.

Thus Bilbo felt he ought to abide by dwarvish custom and act as if all was well. As though he had not offered Thorin a ring and his heart. As though both of those had not been refused. However, such pretense seemed much easier to decree than enact. Just getting out of bed, abandoning the only sunshine in this part of the mountain, was a struggle. Bilbo did not want to face a world where he no longer had any hope. Yet that was the world in which he lived, and it was not such a bad world at that.

When he tapped lightly at the king’s door, barely touching it, Thorin was there immediately. Obviously the king had been waiting for his breakfast, and was very pleased to receive it. He complimented every part of the relatively simple meal, and drew conversation out of Bilbo like clarified butter from a pan. For his part, Bilbo did his best to smile and laugh and make a good morning of it. Admittedly, his success was limited, and he spent more time staring at his plate than actually eating.

“Bilbo.” Thorin’s voice was abruptly very serious. “You needn’t fear it will be as it was before.”

As he had clearly missed some part of the conversation in his distraction, Bilbo could only answer with a smile and a noncommittal, “I am not afraid.”

Thorin snorted and looked away. “I will prove it to you. You will see.”

That did not sound good. Slightly alarmed, Bilbo probed for more information. “There is nothing that you must prove, Thorin. I think I know your character well enough by now.”

Instantly, Thorin’s eyes were on Bilbo’s face, studying him intently. Blushing with shame, the hobbit looked away. Speaking so was not exactly pretending nothing had happened. He would have to do better. Still, when Thorin answered him there was no reproach in his voice.

“That you do. Far better than most. I am grateful.” The king paused. “I am grateful to have a friend such as you. No matter what comes to pass, I hope that we shall continue to eat breakfast together every day.”

“That is all I want.” Tears sprang to Bilbo’s eyes, threatening to fall. He was not nearly dwarvish enough to hold them in. Thorin’s brow knit unhappily.

“I have behaved badly,” he said. This wasn’t true, though possibly by dwarven standards he wasn’t supposed to reference Bilbo’s failed proposal even so obliquely as he had. Still, Bilbo couldn’t argue. He couldn’t speak at all, because when he tried to shake his head, the tears began to fall.

Thorin caught him. Thorin always caught him. It is a very strange thing to cry over a broken heart while being held in the strong, gentle arms of the one you love. To have the fellow you want most in the world stroke your hair and whisper apologies. To feel his beard on your forehead when he presses a gentle kiss to your head. Yet Bilbo found it soothing. If it meant that Thorin would still be there to comfort him as a dear friend, the hobbit could see a measure of wisdom in the dwarven custom of politely pretending that his pain had some other source.

Indeed, as the days marched on Thorin seemed determined to prove that he was the very best of friends. He made time to go riding with Bilbo, Theodwyn, and Tauriel twice. He was friendly with Theodwyn and perfectly polite to Tauriel. Moreover, he did not mock Bilbo’s seat on Pebble the way the lasses did, only brought his own goat close so that the hobbit could try to mimic him. He joined Lea and Bilbo for luncheon on several occasions, bringing Fili along to help Lea overcome her natural reticence in front of royalty. He even walked with Bilbo to the Mushroom Mine many mornings, continuing their breakfast conversations. To work with Black Trilbies in his hands and Thorin’s voice in his ears really was all Bilbo wanted.

Mostly.

If he spent his nights trying on the flower crown, stroking it gently, and dreaming of wearing it at Thorin’s side, that was nobody’s business but his own.

As the wide world continued on without much care for the broken heart of a mushroom farmer, Bilbo soon found that he was able to do the same. After all, it wasn’t as though he had ever held out much hope of Thorin selecting a hobbit for the single love of his long life, or even a few nights of fun. In the end, he had only lost a delusional daydream. He still had the real Thorin in his life and at the breakfast table. That was far more than he deserved.

Durin’s Day approached, and with it any number of good things. There was to be a great celebration, both of the dwarven new year and of the day upon which Thorin’s Company entered the mountain for the first time. At that occasion, the final treaty between Rohan and Erebor would be signed, a great statue of Bard would be erected in Dale by the dwarves in gratitude for his deed, and honors would be bestowed upon all who fought in the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo thought he might also take the opportunity to plant his acorn somewhere close to the mountain. The end of autumn was the time to plant acorns, for they wanted a nice cold winter before sprouting.

Lea was quite curious about the acorn and would not rest until she heard the whole story about how he carried it from Beorn’s garden with the intention of planting it in his own as a memento. She pointed out quite correctly that Bilbo could not plant it in the Mushroom Mine, and simply dropping it on the mountain side did not seem fitting.

Bard, upon overhearing one of their discussions, asked if Bilbo might not plant it in Dale, in lieu of the memorial statue which quite embarrassed the king. Bilbo laughed at him, but thought that Dale was much too far. He wanted to plant his acorn in his home, and that was Erebor. So he asked Balin and Dis for their opinions, and they both suggested the creation of a little public garden on the slopes of the mountain near the front gate. Theodwyn thought such a garden would be pleasant for visitors to the mountain who might not enjoy spending all of their time underground as dwarves did. Even Tauriel volunteered to help with the planting, though she had never been a very domestic sort of elf.

Certainly everyone the hobbit spoke to was wholeheartedly supportive of the idea, but no one moreso than Thorin. He leapt from the breakfast table intending to go outside the mountain and help Bilbo see it done the moment planting the acorn was mentioned. Only explaining that an acorn planted too early would risk rotting in the ground before the cold came stayed Thorin. Even then the king questioned Bilbo intensely about what the little nut might need to sprout and insisted upon surveying a likely place immediately. It was very kind of him.

If the dwarf’s solicitude came from an understanding that Bilbo wanted more of him than mushrooms and gardens, it was to his credit that he never once mentioned as much. His arm found its way across the hobbit’s small shoulders as often as it ever had, and he did not shy away from giving Bilbo all the affection he could. For his part, Bilbo was pathetically grateful that his confession had not spoiled everything. He hurried to plot out the little walking garden on the southern slope of the mountain. Thorin deemed it the best place, and a dwarf did not change his mind.

So as Bilbo and Thorin found places for tulip bulbs, Balin found honors for visiting dignitaries, Bard found room for a statue he did not want, and Theodwyn found time to kill a lone cave troll wandering the eastern marches, all of them missed how troubled Tauriel was.

Perhaps they would never have noticed, if Dis had not teasingly suggested to Bilbo one day that they ought to go riding together. “For you go often with Lady Theodwyn and the elf, but I do not think I have seen you astride your war goat since the day we met.”

After a little prodding, Bilbo agreed. “But only if Theodwyn and Tauriel will come. For who knows when we shall see Rohan horses running again after Theodwyn goes home, and they are very beautiful.”

Allowing this, though with bad grace where Tauriel was concerned, Dis accompanied Bilbo to fetch Theodwyn from her chambers. Then together they went in search of Tauriel.

Tauriel’s chambers were not in the royal wing, not even the lower portion where many members of the Company and Theodwyn were housed. Indeed, it was a bit of a walk to her quarters, but as they were on the way to the stables and the main gate it was no trouble. They were also very easy to find, as there were guards in front of them day and night. For Tauriel’s protection, of course. Once the guards informed her that Tauriel was within, Dis rather rudely entered without knocking.

Although he was appalled by the lack of manners, Bilbo did not think any of them could have anticipated the reception they received.

“Leave me!” Tauriel yelled, not looking up from the small writing desk over which she hunched. “Am I not to have even one moment of peace?”

“You may have peace when you return to your own kingdom,” Dis snarled. “While you are in my halls, I will have your respect.”

Spinning around, the elf looked at the great dwarrowdam with wide eyes. Bilbo was astounded to see tear tracks on her cheeks. At once, her face formed the blank mask that Bilbo had seen her wear so often in front of Dis, and she laced her hands behind her back. “My apologies, Lady Dis. I thought it was the guard.”

“And that is all the courtesy you show to those tasked with the unpleasant duty of protecting you?” Dis stormed over to the desk. “What is it that you hide?” she asked, snatching a large paper from behind Tauriel’s back.

Then she stopped, staring at it. Knowing how rude it was, Bilbo crept up beside her to have a look. It was a painting. Quite a good likeness, for all that Tauriel’s face had never been mottled by such bruises nor shown the same deathly pallor that it did in the painting. She was depicted in the nude, but that was almost incidental, for her abdomen had been ripped open and her entrails were splashed across the page. It was very clear that this violence had been accomplished by a dwarven sword, which was still horrifically displayed between her legs, sheathed to the hilt in her dead body. It was the most awful thing Bilbo had ever seen, and beside him Theodwyn turned to retch into a flower pot.

One corner of the painting had a title. “The Elvish Whore’s Wedding Night,” it said in clear, legible Westron.

“How came you by this?” Dis asked softly.

“I found it as you saw it, upon the table there, Lady Dis. I beg your forgiveness for my rude behavior. I make no excuse, but it was only a few moments before you arrived that I discovered this gift.”

“Your room is guarded!” Bilbo was suddenly quite frightened for his friend. Someone who could draw a portrait such as this was surely capable of greater violence. “We must ask them at once, for surely they saw something.”

Tauriel looked at him inscrutably. “I do not believe they know anything. They never have before, when I questioned them about such gifts as are left in my chambers.”

“Bribery,” Dis said. “We will find out who did this and put a stop to it.”

“Then it was not you?” Bilbo felt very strange.

Dis stared at him. “What?”

“You are not the one leaving hurtful, hateful messages for Tauriel in her bedchamber?” He did not quite know what it was that he was feeling. It was not fear, exactly, though he was dreadfully worried about Tauriel receiving threats, telling the guard, and still not being helped.

“How can you ask that of me?”

“Easily.” Oh. He was angry. Furious, in fact. More so than he had ever been in his life. “I have heard you refer to Tauriel in just such language as is written here. I saw you try to kill her with my own eyes, as did everyone else in Erebor. Clearly the guards know you would approve of this sort of thing, and that is why they ignore their duty, for you cannot think they would accept bribes to leave such presents in your own room.”

Dis blinked. “No. I cannot.” She looked at Tauriel, who was still standing stoically, awaiting judgment.

“You are a princess! The people of Erebor take their lead from you. If you are going to go around making it clear that you would still rather see Tauriel dead than married to your son, then someone is going to try to have it done. Cheese and Biscuits! What if they leave an adder next time?”

“I do not fear for my life,” Tauriel said abruptly.

“No,” Dis said again. “Bilbo is correct. One who would do this would not hesitate to do you further injury. You have not spoken to Kili of this?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not. The two of you would be halfway to Mirkwood if he knew the danger you were in.”

“I fear no danger,” Tauriel repeated placidly. Unspoken, she seemed to imply that she would much rather the dwarves in question challenge her to fight to the death as Dis had.

Dis smiled grimly. “You truly do not, do you? That is a quality to be admired in a daughter.”

That broke Tauriel’s stoic mien immediately. The elf’s breath caught and her mouth fell open. “My lady?”

“I will make it clear to the guards that this is unacceptable. Dwalin and Nori will root out whoever painted this awful thing. Do you have others?”

Tauriel shook her head gently. “I burn them.”

“Of course you do.” Dis rolled up the painting in a quick, businesslike manner. “I regret we cannot burn this one until the culprit is found and publicly shamed, but you have my word that only Nori and experts he deems needed to track down the artist will set eyes upon it.”

Tauriel took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when I have results,” Dis growled, “and not before. Bilbo is right. This is my fault.”

“I do not blame you for the actions of others.”

“Nevertheless, the blame lies where it does. I regret, Master Burglar, that I will not have time to go riding with the three of you this afternoon. Though I would take it as a kindness if you saw to it that my future daughter went anyway. A breath of fresh air might ease her troubled heart.”

Without waiting for an answer, Dis stuck the painting under one arm, marched out of the room, and seized both guards by their ears. Apparently, they were too smart to protest overmuch, and they allowed her to drag them down the corridor. Bilbo laughed in surprise at the scene. Even Tauriel smiled a little, wiping away her tears with the hobbit’s proffered handkerchief.

Thereafter Dis, Bilbo, and Theodwyn all took a more personal interest in making sure that Tauriel was well. If that meant that Bilbo spent more and more of his time in the Council of Lords shouting down Doron son of Foron as he expounded upon the wickedness of elves, it was no great loss. He did not much miss the dull civic planning, and he was proud of Dis for the efforts she made to convince her brother and the public to accept Tauriel.

Indeed, it surprised Bilbo a little that Thorin still held back his permission for Kili to marry, but perhaps it was not so strange. More of the Council took Doron’s part than Bilbo’s and apparently a year was not a very long engagement by dwarven standards. Reluctantly the hobbit decided that the marriage part of things was none of his business, so long as Tauriel was made safe from the apparently constant harassment.

For the most part, Bilbo planned the little open air garden with Thorin, tended his mushrooms, and spent time cooking with Lea. The romantic affairs of princes had nothing to do with hobbits, as Thorin had made clear when he declined Bilbo’s courtship gift. Then Gandalf showed up. The great troublemaker.

Chapter Text

Gandalf’s first words to Bilbo when they had been left alone for a few minutes over tea were, “I am astounded to find you are not yet married. Whatever are you waiting for my dear boy?”

Spluttering in outrage, Bilbo gave the wizard to understand that he had never even once in his life been in a position to seriously consider marriage, knew of no potential candidates for a spouse, and would thank interfering big people to keep their oversized noses to themselves.

Looking down at the hobbit sternly, Gandalf said, “Am I supposed to forget that I saw you feed Thorin with your own fork in front of all the mountain not six months ago?”

Defeated, Bilbo toyed with his teacup. It was unfortunately dwarvish that they were having only tea for tea. There was not even a single biscuit to grant the hobbit solace in his time of disappointment. “I offered him my magic ring. He did not want it.”

“Ah.” Gandalf looked a bit surprised at this news. “Well then I am sorry for bringing it up, Bilbo. You are quite right, it is none of my business. In light of that, are you entirely certain you care to remain in Erebor? I might have a little time to see you home after the celebrations.”

Just as Gandalf asked this question, they were joined once more by Thorin and a few others of the company. Rather than pretend politely that he had not heard, the king instantly demanded, “In what light would he wish to leave? This is his home!”

Bilbo almost laughed at the ferociousness in Thorin’s face and the utter lack of awe on Gandalf’s. Instead he said, “No light at all, Thorin. Gandalf was only checking.”

Grumbling, the king accepted the cup of tea Bilbo offered and placed himself very obviously between the wizard and the hobbit. “It would be a poor ending to our friendship, old man, if you tried to take my burglar.”

“I was not aware that he was yours to keep,” Gandalf said mildly. It caused Bilbo a little shock of pain to hear the wizard make so light of the dashing of all his hopes, but he smiled amiably in what he assumed was the dwarven custom, pretending that he had never had any such dreams at all.

Perhaps custom decreed that as the one who did the rejecting he was freer to act, because Thorin growled defensively up at the man. “Maybe not, but if you try to take him when he does not wish to go, your magic had best be enough to defeat all the armies of the dwarves and any who would call themselves my allies besides.”

“Peace.” Gandalf gave them a little smile. “I am not here for Bilbo. I wish to speak about your treaty with Rohan.”

In fact, Gandalf had a number of points about the treaty that no one had yet considered, and some very good advice for both sides. Mutual defense at such a distance had seemed untenable during the initial negotiations, but that was Gandalf. He was always thinking of defending the land against great armies of an unknown enemy. At least, the enemy was unknown to Bilbo, for surely Azog was dead and the ancient evils had passed into legend. Yet the wizard had been right to worry about orcs attempting to take Erebor, and Thorin was more willing than most to listen to his fears for the future.

Bilbo had very little to offer in such councils, but he was honored to remain and listen. “Oh no,” he said quickly, “You must not have Theodwyn stand with Sigrid and Tauriel.”

“Why not? They are friends, and will look well together being of a height.” Thorin asked.

Bilbo hesitated. The truth was that if Tauriel did not get to stand among the veterans of the battle, Kili would quite rightly pitch a fit. However, this truth was unlikely to sway Thorin. “Well, I shall need Tauriel’s help in the morning to plant my acorn. Very complicated thing, planting acorns.” Definitely more complicated than sticking it in the ground the right way up, yes sir. There was covering it with good soil as well. “It might take us a little while and then to get back to the ceremony in Dale. Best if you just leave it to us to sneak in and find a place. She’s nearly as quiet on her feet as a hobbit, so we won’t disturb anything.”

Frowning at Bilbo for a long moment, Thorin finally said, “Fine. She may stand with the princes, but in return I will be the one to go with you in the morning to plant your tree.”

Bilbo coughed. “Fair enough.”

“I trust it will not take much of my time.”

Bilbo rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Five minutes? Though, for the sake of argument, it does take the better part of an hour to walk to Dale, even if you hurry.”

Gandalf laughed at them both, then turned Thorin’s attention back to the idea of dwarven craftsmen to aid in establishing fortifications around Edoras. If the treaty was to be signed with ceremony on Durin’s Day, they had only a few hours left to amend it.

Apparently the idea of amending things at the last minute before the start of a new year was another great dwarvish tradition. Dis and Balin had both independently explained to Bilbo very carefully that the days leading up to Durin’s Day were a time of apologies. Because dwarves were stiff necked at the best of times—and never more so than when they felt they were in the wrong—such expressions of regret must be accepted with deliberate politeness.

The phrase “Think nothing of it,” which tended to be the typical Dwarven acceptance of an apology, was to be stricken from Bilbo’s vocabulary for the duration. Instead, he was to name some small sum of money that could ease the suffering caused by whatever imagined slight the dwarf was apologizing for. Five crowns seemed to be the lowest he could go without causing offense of his own, and at that rate he quickly made a great deal of coin. Most of it came from strangers apologizing for calling him a halfling months before when they did not know any better. It was very silly to charge for such an honest mistake, but if he did not accept money, it seemed they would not believe that he accepted their apology.

Still, it was not a wholly foolish custom. Knowing it was a way of truly putting things in the past gave Bilbo the impetus he needed to properly apologize for walking in on Thorin in the bath. Thorin accepted the apology readily, as he had the half dozen which Bilbo had stammered at the time, and asked for ten crowns as a way of completing the transaction. Emboldened by this success, Bilbo was able to give Balin seven crowns for missing a meeting of the Lords that he’d promised to attend. Bofur accepted five while laughing for the time Bilbo had mocked the size of his feet while they were very, very drunk. Even Dis solemnly accepted twelve crowns for the time he’d offered her tea and then hadn’t had the blend she preferred, despite the fact he’d been expecting her. These apologies were a way of proving one's consideration in a culture that did not give gifts. The hobbit found his academic interest engaged by the activity almost as much as his friendly affections were.

While he understood and even appreciated the spirit of the practice, Bilbo did not particularly care for the final stages of the tradition. It seemed that to properly observe a spirit of atonement, dwarves must be given the opportunity to see and speak with everyone equally. This was important enough that everyone of any standing in the city had to miss dinner on the last evening before Durin’s day to mill about the Hall of History talking instead of eating. It was practically an elvish custom, but even saying that to Thorin hadn’t gotten Bilbo out of attending.

“The night before Durin’s Day, all must have the opportunity to speak with all, no matter where they might be seated at a table,” Dis said, spouting egalitarian nonsense while depriving Bilbo of his basic right to have supper.

“There is food on those tables,” Tauriel added, unhelpfully.

“But I am not over there,” Bilbo groused. “I am here holding your dress.”

Deeming Tauriel’s dress unacceptably simple for the occasion, Dis had publicly rebuked her and insisted that Bilbo hold up one end of the skirt while the dwarf carefully stitched diamonds along the hem.

“Believe me, I would free you if I could my friend. Lady Dis, I ask again, may we not do this in private?”

“We may not.” Dis lowered her voice. “Your gown is a little plain, but under other circumstances I would not care. The important thing is that all see me at work, giving both diamonds and craft to you on the Day of Amending. If you cannot start the new year with my block-headed brother’s acceptance, at least you will have this, my apology for your mistreatment, before the eyes of all.”

That quite melted Tauriel’s objections, but Bilbo continued to stare longingly at the food. It seemed unfair that Thorin and Gandalf both had little plates when they ate less than anyone and only tasted good food if Bilbo brought it to their attention. Scolding himself for these uncharitable thoughts, Bilbo tried to focus on something other than his empty belly. He’d gotten too used to eating like a hobbit again if missing two meals could make him so grouchy.

“These mosaics are very nice,” he said, nodding to the beautiful images of great battles and hardworking kings on the walls. One in particular struck him as looking very like Thorin, though the dwarf on the wall was smiling so it must have been some ancestor. He had a great ax in one hand, but his other was outstretched proffering an enormous pile of gold to the viewer. “Do you know if they were done by the same artisan who decorated Thorin’s sitting room?”

Dis looked up at Bilbo curiously. Seeing that it was an honest question, she relaxed and answered. “No. These are from long ago, Thorin did not make them.”

“Oh! I had not realized that Thorin made the picture of our battle himself.”

Smiling, Dis said, “So I perceived. He works his craft as a way to clear his mind, but—though I know he would if he could—he has not time to decorate every room in Erebor on his own.”

Bilbo laughed. Thinking about the tremendously detailed depiction of the Battle of Five Armies in Thorin’s rooms, he could not recall ever having complimented the king upon the work. Clearly that was an oversight. Perhaps Bilbo ought to apologize and make amends before the new year. Perhaps that would be reason enough to let someone else hold Tauriel’s dress so that he could head over to the food tables where Thorin was.

Unfortunately, before Bilbo could try this line of argument on Dis, Thorin left his conversation with Gandalf and came over to them. “Here.” Thorin lifted a stuffed mushroom from his little plate and held it up to Bilbo’s lips. “These are good. You should eat one before they are gone.”

Time stopped. The scent of mushrooms filled the room, enriched by the subtle notes of Thorin himself. The offering fingers were thick and calloused, but all that was tender could be seen inscribed clearly within eyes as blue as a summer sky. With a gentle sigh, Bilbo’s mouth opened of its own accord. Good was not nearly accolade enough for the flavors which then exploded upon the hobbit’s tongue. Based within a smooth, gently roasted Black Trilby, the filling was savory and well salted. A crisp cap of toasted breadcrumbs trapped the delicate juices of the mushroom until they were freed by the ivory caress of a tooth.

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said when he had eaten the whole morsel. “Very good indeed.” Attempting to master himself and remember that Thorin was a dwarf and so not making a romantic overture with the gesture, he prattled on. “Was there something in particular that you wished to call my attention to? I detect a hint of cumin. If you like it, I could include it in my cooking more often.”

Thorin’s eyes were very wide. For a second they flickered back to the tables where Gandalf was standing, but then the king straightened his back. “I believe,” he said slowly, “I simply tasted it and thought you would enjoy the flavor.”

“Oh!” Bilbo could not possibly be expected to resist such a charming sentiment expressed with all the forthrightness of a dwarf. Swaying, he soon found himself clinging to Thorin’s arm as though he would fall without it. “That is very kind.” Bilbo was going to kiss him. There really was nothing else to be done in such a situation. Well, he could drop to his knees and fill his mouth that way, but they were in the middle of a party. In full view of a room full of people, Thorin had placed a mushroom in Bilbo’s mouth. That must be a sign that he would at least let the hobbit kiss his fingers a little. Surely their two cultures could not be so different that Thorin could do such a thing with only platonic intentions.

Unfortunately, they were. Dis sprang up between them, catching Thorin by the arm and pulling him away from Bilbo. “I would have words with you my king,” she growled, glaring at Bilbo for some reason before storming off with her brother in tow. They did not leave the room, only went to a corner to speak in low, angry voices, but it was very clear that Bilbo was not welcome to follow.

So he was left bereft, standing alone in a room full of dwarves, aching with the absence of what had felt so briefly like affection.

Chapter Text

The kings on the walls seemed to stare at the hobbit in disapproval. When Bilbo had first seen the intricate stone mosaics that decorated the Hall of History, he’d been impressed by their artistry. Great dwarven kings of the past with lofty faces and shining armor made fantastic showings of prowess and prosperity, seeming to offer these things to the onlooker bold enough to follow their lead. After publicly embarrassing himself, Bilbo thought the kings appeared to taunt instead. In reality the gold and jewels they gestured for visitors to take were nothing but polished stone. Of course, that was all gold and gemstones ever were. Someone who wanted warm, growing things was unlikely to find happiness with people who only ever offered cold mathoms.

He wished Thorin had not given him the mushroom. No one had ever put food into Bilbo’s mouth before. Oh, he’d had a dalliance or two in the Shire, but never in his life had he experienced something so intimate. Thorin had not even used a fork! But Bilbo knew it meant nothing. Hadn’t he taken advantage of that very fact to feed Thorin so often himself? Those wasps had come home to nest. He could not now tell the king that such an act was tantamount to stripping a hobbit naked. For in the end, were not the rules of civility just another layer of clothing between a gentlehobbit and the world?

Bilbo knew that his friends—and indeed most of the dwarves in the room—were staring at him, but he could not calm himself. Willing the red from his cheeks was impossible. Slowing his breathing seemed even less likely. All he could hope for was that further evidence of his deplorable state could not be witnessed through his thick woolen trousers.

“I do not believe that I knew before this day the form of a hobbit’s desire, but I think all of Erebor has seen it now,” Tauriel murmured, taking Bilbo gently by the arm.

“Hush,” Bilbo hissed, swallowing hard and forcing himself to meet her eyes. “It is not polite to speak that way in public.”

Tilting her head to the side made Tauriel look even more youthful than usual. “A strange day indeed, when a hobbit asks an elf to speak less plainly. As you wish.”

“Sorry.” Bilbo felt immediately guilty. “I did not mean to be so short with you. It is only that it is so very difficult for me to—oh bother. This is all rather difficult for me. Shall I make amends in the dwarvish fashion? I am quite dwarvish in my customs these days.”

“I want neither silver Shire pennies nor golden Ereborian crowns of you. If your tone offended, it is forgotten. Rather, I would have you hear me.”

“I am listening, my lady.”

“You were not in Laketown when Kili first spoke his love to me. Have I ever shown you the courting gift he gave me then?”

“No,” Bilbo said slowly. Presumably she was attempting to distract him, which was very kind. Tauriel was not the type to speak of personal matters lightly, and he was grateful to her for making the effort. “At least, I do not believe you have made a production of it. However, I have seen the archer’s ring which you wear upon your thumb many times. It is beautiful craftsmanship, mithril I believe?”

Flashing a brilliant smile, Tauriel seemed to realize something. “Ah! Rings are a very common courting gift among dwarves. Indeed, Kili was not risen from his sickbed two days before he gave me this. As craft comes from the hands, so a dwarf in love seeks to decorate the hands of his beloved One with precious things. But this was not the gift that began our courtship.”

“Oh?” Looking with interest at her elegant hands, Bilbo did not see evidence of another ring. “Do you not wear it? Did it not fit?”

There was something fiercely triumphant in Tauriel’s grin as she drew a smooth, green runestone from a pocket of her gown. “Perhaps not the most noble of gifts, nor the easiest for me to carry, but he could not wait to speak. No sooner had it touched my hand than my impetuous prince called me his love, for all who understood his tongue to hear.”

Bilbo stared at the stone. It was definitely a rock, not a ring. Trying to remember if Dis had actually said that a courtship gift was a ring proved fruitless. Bilbo’s memory for poetry was excellent, but conversational details often slipped his mind. He scratched his head. “Are you quite certain? That is, not to speak ill of Kili, whose friendship I value quite highly, but is there any chance that he acted improperly? I feel very sure that dwarven courtship gifts are always rings.”

“Indeed my friend, I tell you that is not the case. I am aware in particular of one dwarf who has recently given a mithril coat of mail, a gold medallion, a frying pan of all things, and some other secret present that is only known vaguely to Kili because my beloved is an irredeemable gossip and eavesdropper. In this case, I believe that the one to be courted already had a very valuable ring, and the giver did not wish to risk refusal by offering a lesser trinket of the same type. Many consider it offensive to make more than one offer in the space of a single year; however, the circumstances are unusual. I understand that the gift of mithril was accepted and worn, but invalidated by some trouble that followed. The other gifts were accepted, but never worn in public and so the question of whether courtship will be allowed remains unresolved.”

Bilbo stared at Tauriel. It took quite a while for her words to make sense to him, but she waited with elvish patience. Then he rushed from the room as though the flames of Smaug once again licked at his bare heels.

A wheelbarrow was easy enough to come by. There were building projects going on all over Erebor, and no one was attending any of them since it was a holiday. Bilbo was a burglar. He took one. He’d return it eventually.

Quick as a flash—or as fast as a hobbit could run at least—he was back in his rooms loading it up. Jerking the mithril coat over his head, Bilbo jammed the flower crown down upon it for good measure. There was no way to be sure if Tauriel was absolutely correct, but even if she turned out to be only slightly more informed than Bilbo was himself, he could not afford to take chances. So much time had already been wasted.

Racing back to the Hall of History—and Bilbo did not see why the party could not have been held somewhere closer to his residence in the royal wing—he bounced the wheelbarrow merrily before him. Hope was nothing but a honeybee buzzing in his chest that might yet be blown away before nesting more permanently, but perhaps not hoping enough had been the cause of all his disappointment. If Tauriel was to be believed. Well. If Tauriel was to be believed, he had a chance. A real chance to be with Thorin was worth any effort.

When he reached the hall he heard shouting within, but the hobbit paid it no mind. Abandoning the wheelbarrow was necessary. He couldn’t bring mining equipment into a party, not even a dwarvish one. Instead, he tucked his lovely frying pan into his belt hoping it would stay. Then he placed the heavy chain around his neck and carefully lifted the enormous gold medallion. Taking a deep breath, he dared to enter the fray.

“—have shown to be no better than the rest of your faithless kin,” Thorin was shouting. “Never again will I suffer your presence or that of any other elf! Banishment! And none of your cursed ilk shall ever again be welcomed in my halls!”

Bilbo stopped then, staring at the circle of shocked dwarves surrounding the stoic Tauriel as she was berated by the king. Kili stood beside her, looking miserable, but he did not intervene in her defense. For her part, Tauriel glanced over at the door where Bilbo stood and smiled. She did appear to be extremely amused.

“You dare mock me!” Thorin’s voice was a roar, but Tauriel’s silent laughter did not diminish. “To jest about secrets of the heart is an offense to all dwarves! Yet what does an elf care of the pain she causes? We are nothing but fools for your amusement! Yet I say again that you are filth, and you will not make sport of me or my hobbit.”

“Steady on, Thorin,” Bilbo said. His own voice trembled a little, for it cut deeply to think that Tauriel had been playing a joke on him. Part of him almost agreed with the king’s rage, but of course she deserved to get a little of her own back after the amount of vitriol she had to deal with every day in Erebor. Of course it made sense for her to mock dwarven courtships when she was barely allowed to hold her own, and no one seemed to care at all what Elvish customs entailed. It simply hurt. He had not thought to be the target of such merriment. However, such disappointment was not enough to keep a hobbit from defending his friend.

The king whirled around to look at Bilbo and froze. Laughter broke out like a wildfire, raging through the hall as every dwarf present immediately saw the humor in Tauriel’s teasing. Coin purses were tossed about, and Bilbo couldn’t help noticing more than a few flying in Gandalf’s direction.

“Silence!” The king bellowed, still staring at Bilbo. Everyone obeyed, but that was worse, for instead of laughing, they all simply stared and smirked.

Utterly mortified, Bilbo tried to ease the situation by joining in with a little laugh of his own. Unfortunately, it came out sounding very flat. “You have to admit, Thorin, it is a little funny. Me thinking you’d give me a—well. And after you wouldn’t take my ring.” He forced another small chuckle. “I’d call it very silly.” Hopefully no one else would call it otherwise. Bilbo knew how ridiculous he must look, decked out in mithril, weighed down by gold and jewels, with a frying pan tucked into his belt and a crown upon his head like the Fool of April at a spring fair.

“I would not take your ring.” Thorin’s voice was a harsh rasp. “How bitterly you wept when I refused it!”

Blinking quickly, Bilbo tried to put a stop to whatever apologies were about to be made. “Right.” The hobbit coughed. “You were quite clear about that, and I’m sorry to. Well. I’m sorry for everything, but most of all for making an ass of myself and disrupting the party. I was confused. Happy to make amends to everyone, but I really have to be going just now.” His arms ached from holding the heavy medallion and the bejeweled chain felt like it was choking him. Turning, he took three quick steps back to the exit.

Happily his stolen wheelbarrow was still just on the other side of the door. Behind him, Bilbo heard a great commotion, but he couldn’t turn back. Much as he wanted to help Tauriel and make sure Thorin apologized properly for all of the horrible things he’d been saying, the little hobbit had finally reached the end of his courage. He could not face Thorin’s sympathy again, not when his hopes had been so unexpectedly raised. He could not face all of his friends laughing at his broken heart.

So he ran. He ran to the one place in Erebor where he was guaranteed to find solace. He ran to his mushroom mine.

Chapter Text

Leaving the wheelbarrow at the door, Bilbo stumbled along the green granite path that divided his mushrooms neatly. He carried the heavy gold medallion Thorin had crafted for him in both hands, and he had his frying pan tucked into one arm. It was utterly foolish to cling to them so. Obviously they had not been courting gifts. They were just three mathoms and a thank-you present for a decent cook, which he had always known. He had always known that a great, noble king could not fall in love with a Baggins. Somehow, this foreknowledge failed to keep him from crying.

Dropping down to sit among his mushrooms, Bilbo plucked a few within reach and munched on them to console his broken heart. Draping the gemstone laden chain about his neck again was foolish. The enormous pendant had not been a courting gift. Indeed, even if Tauriel had not been joking and a dwarf might give something other than a ring as such, Bilbo could not see any circumstance in which one might classify such massive piece of jewelry as romantic. It was not beautiful like his crown nor wonderfully useful like his frying pan. It was, however, the gift of Thorin’s hand. As such, Bilbo loved it almost as much as either of those presents. The chain was just long enough that Bilbo could wear it while leaving the heavy medallion flat on the floor to study. For the first time he noticed how fiercely happy the little mail-clad hobbit made of gold looked, standing in front of Erebor with a triumphant sword and a hopeful acorn. The golden Bilbo had found a place where he belonged.

As had the real hobbit. Much as he wanted Thorin’s love, he did not need it to be happy in Erebor. Such gifts as the king had given him were sufficient, and far more than he deserved. Thorin gave him time, friendship, and breakfast every day. Beyond that, he had mushrooms a plenty. Enough to sit snacking on fresh Black Trilbies as though they were baby carrots that wanted thinning. Bilbo laughed at himself and cleaned his face with a nice handkerchief. All would be well. Maybe the dwarves would not even tease him very much, since it was not their way to speak of love where it was unrequited.

As if thinking of his friends was enough to summon them, Bilbo heard the quiet shift of the stone doors to his mine opening. Looking over his shoulder revealed Thorin in the entryway. Bilbo lept to his feet, or tried to. The heavy pendant did not lift from the ground, and the thick chain was still wrapped around Bilbo’s neck. As he bounced up, it tethered him to the ground and he lost his balance, banging his face badly on the floor. Immediately Thorin was there, taking the medallion in one hand and lifting it easily as he helped Bilbo to his feet with the other.

“Thank you.” When he was standing steadily, Bilbo took the medallion in both of his hands, but Thorin did not let go. “I should like to be alone just now,” Bilbo added pointedly.

Thorin’s mouth opened and closed, but he did not turn to leave.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said, rubbing his stinging jaw against his shoulder. “Really. I can take a joke as well as anyone. I hope you did not actually banish Tauriel for the trick.”

At that the king seemed to find his voice. “I have made amends to Tauriel for my words. It is my hope that you will allow me to make amends to you as well. For I have misunderstood you just as badly as ever I did her, and in doing so caused you great pain.”

“Oh no,” Bilbo said. “I’m quite well.”

“You love me.”

All the air seemed to leave the little mine. Bilbo could neither breathe nor speak and he felt desperately dizzy. Finally, he managed to say, “I thought dwarves could not speak of love until a courting gift was accepted.”

“And you did not believe you had received one until Tauriel told you otherwise.”

“Do you mean to say she was telling the truth?” Bilbo could not allow himself to hope again. That would simply be stupid after everything else that had happened. Yet that buzzing honeybee was back in his chest.

“As she knew it,” the king said, “but that does not mean she was entirely correct.”

Nodding, Bilbo swallowed the hard knot that welled in his throat. It was just as well that he had not gotten his hopes up. Best to let that little bee die and forget all chance of honey. Of course a dwarf could not love a hobbit.

“This was not a courting gift.” Thorin fingered the mithril chain mail at Bilbo’s sleeve gently. “This was the gift of madness, when I could see you only as a treasure to be gilded and guarded.” His other hand was still on the heavy pendant, relieving Bilbo of its weight, and Thorin stroked the smooth surface with his thumb. “Yet I have no such excuse for this, which was the gift of pride. Giving you a burden of gold only showed you that my values were the same whether I was mad or sane.”

“That’s not.” Bilbo sighed. “You were very kind to—”

“Your chin is bleeding,” the dwarf growled, “from when it pinned you to the ground just now.”

“Oh!” Quickly, Bilbo retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and touched it to his stinging face. It did indeed come away bloody. The hobbit did not know what to say, so he allowed Thorin to lift the chain over his head, taking the pendant and setting it carefully on the ground.

As he bent low, the king took a moment to brush his fingers over the frying pan that Bilbo had been sitting beside. “Perhaps this was better done. This was the gift of my friendship, thinking only to bring you pleasure and expecting nothing in return. Yet no dwarf would ever be fool enough to think iron was a courting gift.”

Bilbo’s cheeks burned crimson and he looked down at the white handkerchief in his hand. At least the bleeding seemed to have stopped. “No. I didn’t think either. I mean, among hobbits that sort of present, but of course I never really thought you would.” He forced a little laugh and could not meet his friend’s eyes.

“However, this I will admit was the gift of my hope.” Ignoring Bilbo’s babbling, Thorin’s right hand went slowly to trace the flowers of the hobbit’s crown. “As soon as I saw the gold pin you chose to adorn yourself with and learned that flowers had a language among your people, I knew what I must do. The King Under the Mountain may reach far enough to learn such a language, especially one that hobbits do not keep secret. A courtship gift in that tongue was one I thought you would not refuse, not if there was any chance your heart might ever welcome me.”

Bilbo’s own hands flew to the crown on his head, clutching at it as he stared up into Thorin’s eyes. “Then you knew? You know that this is a, well, I mean, you know about mixing celandine and daisies? That was not an accident? And. I mean to say. The tiger lily, Thorin.” If anything Bilbo’s blush deepened to mention the blossom aloud.

“Oh yes.” Thorin’s eyes were soft, but more gentle still was the hand that found its way to Bilbo’s cheek. “I assure you the bee was also quite intentional.”

Squeaking was inevitable. So was finally kissing Thorin. Bilbo really could not be expected to do anything else at such a moment, and there was no one to stop him this time. Slowly he rose up on his toes to press their lips together gently. Thorin’s mouth was just as soft and lovely as Bilbo had known it would be, and the tickle of a beard against his cheeks made the little hobbit nearly faint in delight. The king allowed the gesture, and smiled broadly when Bilbo pulled away. Still, there were a few points that needed clarifying.

“I thought it had to be rings. It seemed like everyone who spoke about courtship gifts showed me rings as examples. And, well.”

“And so you tried to offer me your magic ring. Dearest Bilbo!” Thorin dropped another gentle kiss to the hobbit’s forehead, just below the shining black mushroom at the center of his crown, as though promising that all would be well. “At that time, offered in such a way, it could only be payment for the crown. Proud as I might be of my own work, even I could not deny that you were giving greater value in the trade than what I offered. It is an old method of refusal, to overpay for a courtship gift and thus say that you value the item though you will not accept a gift. A suitor of honor who accepts such payment will never again trouble the one who refused him.”

“Oh!” Bilbo wondered if it was possible to explode from happiness. Or perhaps faint from shock. “I thought perhaps it could not tempt you. I thought even the most precious thing I had was not enough. Which hurt. For I hoped you might simply take it and let me speak. After all, you could always just tell me that you did not love me back, once you had heard me out.”

Thorin’s breath gave a small hitch. That was all the warning Bilbo had before he was pulled into another kiss. This kiss was quite different from the gentle one that he had pressed to the king’s lips, for Thorin was suddenly fierce and devouring. Like a gift his tongue slipped between Bilbo’s lips, filling his mouth, making the hobbit moan. Though this was very close to the culmination of all of the little fellow’s wildest hopes, part of Bilbo still was occupied with wondering and worrying that he did not yet understand. That his dreams might once again be dashed upon the rocks of reality.

“I wanted it,” Thorin admitted, so low that Bilbo could scarcely hear him even in the warm silence of the Mushroom Mine. “Looking at it in your hand I thought perhaps I should take it. If I could not have you, I would have gold. All the gold in the world, fueling a great empire of the dwarven people which would stretch across Middle Earth as has never been seen in this age or any other. In that moment, your little ring tempted me indeed. To speak plainly, I would ask that you keep it away from me henceforth, for in what I perceived as your rejection I felt madness returning. This once, however, I proved strong enough. This once, I was able to refuse the gold.”

“Oh.” Remembering a time when Thorin had not been able to refuse the allure of gold did no one any good. Bilbo did not know how to apologize for tempting the king so terribly. There was no arguing the fact that it had been deliberate and badly done.

“Yet I am glad now to have wanted the thing so fiercely. For though you did not understand then, by refusing it I have proved my love.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, Thorin had given him a number of courting gifts. Naturally he wanted to be with Bilbo and there was no reason for that unless he loved him. Thorin loved him. Bilbo was up on his toes again before he knew it, kissing the king splendidly.

“Right then,” he said at last. “That’s more than enough dwarvish nonsense. It is long past time for some hobbit traditions.”

“Is it?” Thorin’s eyes sparkled in the golden lamp light. “What did you have in mind?”

“You gave me a tiger lily, Thorin,” Bilbo said, a hint of reproach in his voice as he reached up to touch the orange blossom in his crown. “A tiger lily.”

“So I did.” A wicked smirk twitched at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “I do not know if you noticed, but there is a bee at the center of your lily, perched right upon his stamen. Is there some custom that usually accompanies the giving of such a flower?”

Growling wordlessly, Bilbo proceeded to show him precisely what the hobbit custom was right there among the mushrooms. After a time, Thorin conceded that the Shire ways in these matters had a great deal of merit. A little while after that, he admitted that they may perhaps even be superior. Later still, he vowed upon his honor to bow to Bilbo’s wishes in all such dealings for the rest of their days and beyond.

So in the end, it was all quite worth the trouble.

Chapter Text

Durin’s Day dawned bright and cold to see two figures finding their way among the stones of the Lonely Mountain. After a few minutes of walking, they came to a pleasantly flat place with marble flagstones set in a gently winding path. The land seemed barren, but an educated eye would recognize a well tilled garden lying fallow in preparation for the winter. In fact, the path meandered through various plots, separating them carefully with the white marble which seemed to make up spokes of a great wheel. It was to the center of this wheel that the pair headed.

In the very middle of the wide circle which seemed to be the hub of the wheel, Bilbo knelt down. Trowel in hand, he dug a little hole, placed his acorn carefully, and then covered it up with the rich, black earth. Next to him, Thorin took the great wrought iron cage, carefully crafted by his own hand in the forges of Erebor, and pressed it down around the little seed. No black squirrel of Mirkwood, nor any other forager, would find the nut before it had the chance to sprout.

“I feel like I should say something,” Bilbo said.

“Do hobbits have words for such occasions?”

“Not really. As a people, we aren’t much for speech making. Or rather we are, as we tend to like attention and sociability, but the speeches are usually short and to the point. I remember the Old Took at one of his birthday parties—and mind you, this was occasion enough that Gandalf the Grey came to do fireworks like a travelling showman—standing up and saying thank you to everyone for coming. That was it. The whole of his speech for a Hundred Weight Feast. Everyone thought it was absolutely perfect. They cheered him for nearly an hour, or so it felt to a young fauntling who couldn’t have his cake until we all stopped clapping.”

Thorin laughed. “Then I think perhaps you break the mold, Master Baggins. Give me your speech if you are so inclined, for I am always delighted by your clever words.”

“That’s just it: I can’t think of anything appropriate. I’ve been trying for days.”

Frowning, Thorin offered to give a traditional blessing to Mahal. “My people use it more generally as a dedication to a new forge, but we could ask my lord and your lady to look kindly upon the garden.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s only an acorn; we don’t need to go bothering the Valar about our little plantings. I suppose all I really want to say is, well.” Bilbo looked down at the seed, protected as it was by dwarvish iron. “I’m home.”

Thorin’s eyes went wide. That was all the warning Bilbo got before he was wrapped up in the dwarf’s arms and pulled close for a kiss. The dwarven heat which never failed to overwhelm him in such moments stole through the little hobbit, chasing all trace of winter from the air. When Thorin finally released him, Bilbo looked around, a little surprised to see that the various bulbs and plants had not begun sprouting in the promise of such a spring.

“As I said.” Thorin’s voice was deep and gravely. “Your words never fail to move me, my poet.”

“Oh!” Bilbo was rather moved himself, by Thorin’s tone nearly as much as the kiss. “Well, if you like.”

Chuckling, Thorin pressed his forehead gently against Bilbo’s. “I’m afraid we have not the time. There is much to be done before we go to Dale, and there is Kili’s wedding to prepare for in addition to Erebor’s Durin’s Day celebrations. Including it as a part of the rest of the feasting is easy enough, but if my amends to Tauriel are to be made appropriately, then it must be a proper wedding indeed.”

“You might call it easy. You did not learn less than an hour ago that you have to bake an entire wedding cake before we go to Dale. So I suppose I take your point.” Bilbo pulled away smiling, feeling the frosty air once more as he lost contact with the forge-like heat that radiated from the dwarf. “After all, I have known from the start that I would have to ease you into the concept of second breakfast.”

Laughter seemed to come so easily to Thorin that morning. Bilbo was quite hopeful that he could continue the trend. Perhaps for all the remaining days of their lives, though he blushed to think it. So it was that Bilbo happened to be looking off toward the beautiful sunrise when a heavy cloak settled about his shoulders. Glancing up at Thorin in surprise, he saw that the the king had settled his own furs around Bilbo, though he was wearing only a light shirt and armor without them.

“Your coat is too thin for the winter weather,” the dwarf announced regally. “I shall have others made up for you.”

“As it happens I have several on order, but this will never do. I am far too short for your cloak. It is dragging in the dirt and I shall get it all over muddy.”

Thorin shrugged. “I must wear a more ornamental one for the trip to Dale in any case. Pray do not concern yourself.”

“But you are not dressed for the weather without it. I will not take your clothes and let you catch a chill because of it.”

A dusky rose bloomed beneath Thorin’s beard. “Ah, I will endure. Perhaps you may judge my endurance kindly as you consider my courtship.”

Stopping entirely, Bilbo held the cloak out to Thorin. “I say it will not do,” he insisted. “You have endured more than your fair share of hardship. If this is some dwarven way of expressing your affections, I will remind you that I am a hobbit.”

“As it please you.” Thorin fastened the cloak about his own shoulders once more, but he was no longer smiling.

“Hobbits share,” Bilbo said, ducking underneath the great fur alongside the dwarf, wrapping one arm about his waist.

Laughing heartily, Thorin threw an arm over Bilbo’s shoulders, covering him easily with the fur as they walked on. “So they do. A very acceptable compromise, Master Baggins.”

“Thank you kindly, Your Majesty. Indeed, you may not realize that this is by far the superior option from my perspective.”

“Is it?”

“A dwarf is as good as a hot brick for keeping a hobbit warm on a cold day, you know.”

“I am happy to be of service,” Thorin said, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s temple as they continued on toward the gates of Erebor.

Once the couple reached their destination, they were forced to part. Bilbo had not been joking about the wedding cake. While it made a certain amount of sense for Tauriel and Kili to include their wedding celebration with the planned festivities, before Thorin changed his mind and retracted his permission, Bilbo had been astounded that they intended to forgo a cake. Apparently it was not a part of elvish tradition, nor vital to the dwarvish ones. However, Bilbo could hardly recognize a marriage if there was no cake at the wedding. Sometimes he thought hobbits must be the only civilized people in all of Middle Earth, though he did not say as much to the joyful couple.

Happily, they had entrusted the business of the cake to his capable hands. The only requirements were Tauriel’s preference for honey over sugar as a sweetener and Kili’s request that the cake be colorful, whatever the flavor. Apparently dwarven weddings were meant to be full of laughter and color. If Kili could not guarantee laughter with an elvish bride, he would at least dress them both in a rainbow of jewels and drape the halls of Erebor with silk. Bilbo was more than happy to oblige both of them.

However, doing so did mean spending his morning in the great kitchens of Erebor with Lea, trying to stay out of the way of Bombur and the others preparing Durin’s Day feasts for the King’s Table. Even the Culinary Guild Hall did not have ovens big enough for the cake they planned.

Together they ground almonds into a very fine flour. Lea was particularly skilled at the grinding, and when they were done Bilbo gifted her the hand mill without a second thought. She grinned, but they did not have time to celebrate. Adding honey, vanilla, rose water, and egg white to the almond flour, Bilbo mixed together a lovely marzipan. That was a good beginning, but they could do better.

Master Darro took a break from helping Bombur to come and assist Bilbo. She had a number of wonderful little powders that looked like nothing more than salt at first glance. Yet the powder had no flavor or affect on food, other than to change its color. “You must be careful to use plenty and mix it by hand,” Darro warned. “It is the touch of skin that activates the color, not the food.”

Bilbo was delighted to obey, for the dyes were far and away the best he’d ever encountered. Using them he was able to make vibrant red roses, brilliant green leaves, shining yellow stars, a bright orange fire moon, and sweet blue forget-me-nots to decorate six tiers of an enormous cake. He hoped it would be enough for every guest to have a little slice, but he left Lea with instructions to make as many little cakes as she could and decorate them with the leftover marzipan. She was happy to oblige.

After that, it was all a dash to change clothes and hurry off toward Dale while looking regal at Thorin’s side, as though they never had so much as heard of rushing in their lives. It gave Bilbo a little thrill to wear his mithril coat now that he knew it had been the first of Thorin’s courting gifts, but that was nothing at all compared to the joy of wearing his flower crown out and about.

Theodwyn was the first to notice it when they reached the square where the statue was to be erected, and she came rushing over with a broad grin. “I see you wear the flowers of Erebor in your hair now, my friend! Am I to give you my congratulations?”

“Not yet,” Thorin said with a smile. “We are only courting.”

“Of course, of course! Though I expect the engagement will come soon enough after the way Bilbo has been pining.”

Thorin blinked. “Pining?”

Theodwyn blushed. “I speak out of turn. My apologies. However, I must say it was very unfair of you to give it to him last night during your dwarvish ceremony, for I have been waiting two months together to see one of you give a courting gift. I just knew it would be a crown of flowers, given Bilbo’s liking for them. Though I did not expect such blossoms as these!”

Bilbo coughed. “You, ah, knew it would be a crown of flowers?”

“From the very moment Thorin stole the one I made for thee,” she said fondly. “But tell me what the meanings all are in your Holbytla language! I see joy-in-the-day and happiness, which are plain enough. Obviously the mushroom and the oak leaves join your two houses together.” She sighed. “That is very romantic. I do know know the meaning of the tiger lily or the cornflowers, though, and there are so many forget-me-nots that I think they must imply something very special indeed.”

Blushing, the hobbit explained the meanings of the flowers, glossing over the tiger lily as best he could. It embarrassed him to realize that their feelings, which had been so opaque to one another, had been so obvious to a girl barely into adulthood.

Before he was forced to respond further, however, it was time for everyone to stand quietly while Thorin and Bard gave speeches. Then the red silk covering the statue was pulled away, revealing the work. Onlookers gasped. So did Bilbo. Nearly thirty feet tall, it showed Bard proudly aiming his bow at the sky, guarding Dale forevermore against any threat from above. The carving in the marble was so fine that the folds of his coat seemed to be real fabric and every strand of his hair looked as though it might blow easily in the cold wind. It looked exactly like him, if he were four times taller, and it was a marvel of dwarven craftsmanship.

Naturally, after the unveiling there needed to be more speeches. The stonemason said a little about the honor he’d been granted in the commission of the work. Then Sigrid, Dis, Fili, Bain, and Gandalf all gave more speeches. Gandalf’s was the only truly interesting one, as it was a call for unity and vigilance as opposed to simple thanks. Still, they were all very proper and important, and Bilbo was quite frozen along with nearly starving by the end of them for he had missed both second breakfast and elevenses.

Fortunately there was a luncheon served in Bard’s hall after the ceremony. Unfortunately, it was not a sit down affair, and Bilbo was required to stand with Thorin well away from the food, receiving encouraging comments about their courtship from all and sundry. Apparently it was a matter of habit among royalty to go hungry for the sake of light, showy conversation. This situation might have been salvaged by a very kind tall fellow who brought the hobbit a plate of mushroom canapés; however, the canapés themselves were quite bad. It shouldn’t have been possible, for they were only crusty white bread topped with diced trilbies and bright orange roe. Even the worst cook should have done something lovely with those three ingredients. Bilbo ate another to be polite, and also to try to determine what the problem was.

Figuring out what tasted off proved a challenge. The roe was fresh enough. That would have been quite obvious, for fish and eggs were always obvious when they had gone off, and fish eggs doubly so. The bread was light in the center with the pleasant crunch that one wanted in a canapé. Tasting a fourth, Bilbo was forced to conclude that the problem lay with the trilbies. Perhaps they’d been tossed in a sauce or mixed with some other sort of mushroom. They were very oily, and though he definitely tasted the signature flavor of the Black Trilby, he tasted something else as well. Something that quite ruined the entire canapé.

“Will you not share with me?” Thorin asked flirtatiously, glancing down at the hobbit’s plate.

“Er, no,” Bilbo said.

The king raised an eyebrow. “Truly? I thought you enjoyed feeding me tidbits.”

That was too mild a term for the pleasure that Bilbo derived from the act, but he did have standards. “No.” Lowering his voice he added, “I mean no disrespect to Bard’s cook, but I cannot offer these to someone I am courting. I simply cannot.”

Hiding a smile, Thorin asked, “Then the Men of Dale have failed to work the art with your mushrooms that a hobbit might? For I know Bard ordered several barrels specially that he might cater to your tastes.”

“I am not being picky,” Bilbo said, feeling as though he rather might be. “Darro!”

The silver-bearded Master from the Culinary Guild came over, making a little bow to her king. “How can I assist you, my friend?”

Offering her the plate, Bilbo said quietly, “Taste one of these and tell Thorin they are not good enough for him.”

Darro laughed and bowed low once more, accepting the honor. Then she inspected a canapé. Quite suddenly, she dashed the entire plate from Bilbo’s hands shattering it on the floor and knocking the hobbit to the ground with her dwarven strength. Instantly Thorin’s sword was at her throat, but Darro did not spare the weapon even single glance. “Poison,” she said, staring down at Bilbo. “There are Dark Ogres mixed in with the Dark Giants. Even a sliver of those rare mushrooms is poison enough to kill a dwarf. Tell me you did not eat one.”

“He ate four,” Thorin said, staring down at his beloved.

Bilbo’s stomach cramped

Chapter Text

“Oh dear.” Looking from the broken dish on the floor beside him to his fellow Master in the Culinary Guild, Bilbo realized what he had been tasting in the canapés. “We call them Black Bowlers because they look so much like trilbies, but yes, Darro, I agree. They are quite poisonous. Oh! Do not let anyone else eat them! How could they have gotten mixed in with my trilbies? I pick all the mushrooms by hand. I would have noticed ages ago if any bowlers grew in my little mine.”

“Treachery!” Thorin bellowed, moving his sword away from Darro’s throat but not sheathing it.

Bilbo suspected that the sword would not rest until it found a throat to cut, but he could not worry about that now. He had his own troubles.

The King Under the Mountain looked forceful, mighty, and, to one who knew him well, completely terrified. “Oin! Oin! Come at once!”

“Lord Baggins has been poisoned!” Doron son of Foron yelled. His face was nearly as red as his beard. The dwarf was clearly furious about the attack, which was rather flattering. After all of their many arguments, it was somewhat encouraging to know that Doron still saw the hobbit as one of his people. Apparently Bilbo was someone to be defended from the outsiders the dwarf hated so much. “I saw the Man who gave him the plate. He wore the livery of Bard’s house!”

Then Bilbo could not focus on the shouting, for Oin was at his side, pushed there by the roiling of the gathered crowd. Instantly the aged healer was on the floor, inspecting both the hobbit and the remains of the destroyed canapés.

“There is nothing that can be done.” Darro’s voice was soft and broken amidst the great uproar of confusion that threatened to turn the party into a riot. “Even a sliver on the tongue is deadly.”

“It’s fine,” Bilbo said, levering himself to his feet. “I’ll be fine.” His stomach lurched, proving what a lie that was. “No mushrooms are poisonous to hobbits.” His stomach cramped again. “At least, no mushrooms are deadly. I should have died a hundred times over as a fauntling if there was a mushroom to be found on the forest floor that could kill a hobbit. Only, I beg you will excuse me.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Thorin growled. “OIN!”

“She’s right lad,” Oin said unhappily. “There is no antidote for such a poison, and I certainly didn’t bring such a potion to a party. Perhaps syrup of ipecac! Bard may have some on hand. If the hobbit vomits quickly, there may yet be a chance.”

“I am not going to vomit,” Bilbo said very quickly. “I assure you, I will be quite well. Only you must excuse me.”

“You have to do something,” Thorin demanded of Oin, completely ignoring Bilbo even as he held tight to his arm and kept the hobbit from leaving.

“Thorin!” Dwalin put a heavy hand on the king’s shoulder. “The hobbit knows what is needed, and he says he will not die. You must let him go.”

Thorin’s face twisted in rage.

“The hobbit knows what he must now do,” Dwalin insisted, stressing the word “hobbit” strangely to Bilbo’s ear. “I will guard him, and carry him if I must.” That was even more unusual, for Bilbo would not need to be carried, though he did need to get away from the crowd as quickly as possible. Perhaps dwarven speed would not go amiss.

Thorin blinked and released Bilbo at once. “Take care of him,” he ordered.

Dwalin nodded once, but Bilbo didn’t stick around to see what else happened. The members of the company had cleared a path for him and he was able to dash from the room as quick as a rabbit fleeing a fox. There was a small privy just down the corridor, and Bilbo managed to make it by the skin of his nose, slamming the door shut behind him.

Then it came.

Never in his life had he quaked so, the cramping in his stomach felt like a warg had its jaws around his midsection, squeezing. The bile burned his throat like molten gold, spewing up to choke him in the process. He could not breathe through the heaving. It filled his nose as well as his mouth. Adding insult to injury, he could taste the dratted canapés a second time around. The flavor was not improved by a soupçon of stomach acid. Over and over his throat seized and his stomach cramped until there was nothing left and still his body worked, as though trying to turn him inside out to ensure that every scrap of mushroom could be scraped from the pocket of his stomach.

After an eternity of this, he stopped seizing long enough to breath, resting his face on the cool stone of the privy floor. Really he was lucky to be in Dale, for many homes in Hobbiton did not have toilets kept as clean as Bard’s was. Some places in the Shire did not even have proper plumbing or running water. If Bilbo had not been able to flush away the smell of his vomit, he was quite sure matters would be much worse. However, in the Shire no one would have deliberately poisoned him, not even his cousin Lobelia. Black Bowlers were dangerous, and he’d been obfuscating the truth a little to say that no hobbit ever died from eating one. The very young or the very old could potentially die from the awful, dehydrating vomiting that always accompanied such a poisoning. As it was, simply emptying his stomach into a clean toilet was the best possible scenario for such a situation.

And then it came again.

He had not taken a drink or even swallowed the air that cooled his desolate throat. There was nothing to regurgitate, and yet his body insisted. His stomach heaved, but suddenly that was not the worst of it. At once Bilbo rushed to lower his breeches and take a seat upon the privy. Though he still vomited, there was nothing coming out of his mouth and so he coughed into the air as his intestines spilled their watery contents into the basin beneath him. That burned as well, in a most unpleasant place.

Eventually he was able to rise shakily and pull the chain, washing away the smell once more with a rush of water. Unfortunately, soon after that he was seated again, expelling. It seemed that his body would force the poisons from his every orifice, by any means necessary. Probably this was a better fate than the instant death that would have awaited a dwarf or man who ate the same mushrooms.

Not to be left out, even Bilbo’s eyes began to weep. Whether this was from the poisoning, the pain, or simple shame, the hobbit did not know. He choked, he shat, and he cried miserably, stuck in a privy while Thorin was out there, likely facing down a poisoner who wanted to assassinate him. Bilbo would not let him face such an enemy alone.

Rising, he tugged up his breeches and went over to the sink to carefully rinse his mouth. He spat three times for good luck, but apparently that wasn’t good enough. The moment water touched his tongue, he was back to the toilet, expelling again. It was almost tiresome, really, except for the excruciating pain of the process.

Obstinately, Bilbo fixed his clothing and washed his face a second time. Rinsing his mouth, he spat three times for good luck. Nothing happened. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, the hobbit took a little more water and gargled it to sooth his burned throat. Once again, he got away with it. The looking glass showed a creature much the worse for wear, with dark circles around his eyes and sallow skin, he looked unhappily like a younger version of Gollum for a moment. Fortunately he had been quick enough not to get anything on his mithril coat, and so he need not go naked as that creature did. Daringly, Bilbo took a small sip of water, just to settle his churning stomach.

That dropped the fat into the fire, all right. Yet again, Bilbo found himself hunched over the toilet, coughing, spluttering, and seizing. It had been foolish to push. Once again he had to sit on the toilet cramping, though all that was left in his intestines seemed to be bile and acid. Clearly his body wanted to expel all of that as well. There was no choice in the matter, and Bilbo was in too much pain to fight.

Then he saw his crown of flowers upon the floor. The jade oak leaves glittered in the flickering lamp light. It must have fallen off during one of the wracking fits which shook his whole body. The crown was not damaged. In fact, Bilbo rather suspected the thing could be dropped from the top of the Lonely Mountain without suffering a scratch, for mithril was a sturdy metal and Thorin a master of his craft. Yet it was lying there on the privy floor, as though Bilbo had tossed it aside. He’d only been able to wear it out for less than twenty-four hours. If a time ever came when he’d been wearing it every day for two years, still he would not want to drop it casually on the floor of a privy, no matter how clean. It was the gift of Thorin’s love, worth more than all the flowers and jewels in the world combined.

Bilbo stood. He cleaned himself up. Rinsing his mouth, he gargled, spat, and took a drink of water. It stayed down. Picking his crown up, he polished it carefully with a handkerchief. Though he took great care with all of the flowers, he paid special attention to the little forget-me-nots. Each one received a gentle stroke as the hobbit inspected his prized possession carefully. All of them were well, and he was right that there had been no damage in the fall. Never again would he be so careless.

And yet he had not been careless. He had been poisoned. There could be no doubt that the plate had been handed to him specifically. Perhaps the poisoner had intended for Bilbo to share with Thorin as they often did, or perhaps not. That much was unknown. However, there could be no doubt that the hobbit would eat the canapés once he had them in hand. Moreover someone must have planned in advance indeed to find a poisonous mushroom that could be mistaken so readily for the Black Trilbies which Bilbo was well known to favor. Such actions could only be very deliberate indeed.

But why would a Man of Dale want to kill a mushroom farmer? And why so publicly? It was certainly possible that Bilbo had offended someone on one of his many visits to the little city. It was equally possible that the attack had nothing to do with his relationship to Thorin, but that did not seem likely. After all, a fellow was forced to consider that such a poisoning could have more than a single motivation. Killing Bilbo was one thing. For a Man in the livery of Bard’s house to kill Bilbo was quite another. Beyond that, to poison Bilbo on Durin’s Day, on the one year celebration of their entry into the mountain and the defeat of Smaug could only be an insult to Thorin’s authority. Such a prominent death would quite derail the festivities.

All of the planned festivities.

Bilbo placed the crown upon his head and fixed his curls around it. There was no chance of making himself look well, but after some little effort he appeared marginally presentable. Straightening his spine, he opened the privy door and went to find his enemy.

Chapter Text

Dwalin was standing just outside of the privy, keeping guard over Bilbo as he had promised. With an ax in each hand, he was more than ready to deal with a hundred attackers or more. If only their enemy was the sort to fight in the open instead of leaving wicked paintings in people's rooms and poisoning canapés. Fortunately, he was not alone. With him were Fili and Kili, as well as Oin, Bifur, Bofur, and Nori. All of them bristled like porcupines with visible weaponry, and not even devious, quick thinking Nori had yet realized that weapons would do no good. Bilbo managed a smile for his friends.

“How do you feel?” Fili demanded the moment BIlbo appeared in the door.

Bofur shoved the prince away. “GIve him some air. It’s obvious he feels horrible. But will you be alright, Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes,” the hobbit said quickly, stalling further inquiries regarding his health. “I simply needed a few minutes to gather myself.”

“It’s been two hours,” Nori said with his usual diplomacy.

Bilbo scowled at him. “Well, when you are poisoned I’ll make sure to set a clock and we shall see how well you do.”

“If any one of us had been poisoned,” Oin said gruffly, “he would not be standing right now. Do you need anything, lad? Some poultice your people use to ease the suffering, perhaps?”

“Ginger tea would be very welcome,” Bilbo said, “but it can wait.”

“Yes,” Kili agreed. “We should make for Erebor at once.”

“We are not going to the mountain,” Bilbo said firmly.

Dwalin scowled. “Yes, we are. The Man who poisoned you hasn’t been found. Until he is, and we know exactly how many Men of Dale are involved in the plot, you’re safest in the mountain. Thorin is going to bar everyone but the dwarves from Erebor until we know the danger is passed.”

Bilbo sighed. “Of course he is. Nevertheless, I am going back to the party. If you lot want to help, you’re more than welcome to join me.”

“It isn’t a party any longer, Bilbo,” Bofur said. “For a while it was a shouting match between Thorin and Bard, but Gandalf proved to have the loudest voice, and now I don’t know what it is.”

“No one has left yet, have they?” Bilbo asked sharply.

“Thorin and Doron both got a good look at the poisoner’s face,” Fili said gently, “but they cannot find him among the servants. We think he must have snuck away before the exits were closed. That is not to say that he will not be found.”

Humming thoughtfully, Bilbo marched back into the main hall. If some people had gone in search of the poisoner, most still remained, staring at the spectacle of the two kings. Bard and Thorin were glaring balefully at one another while Gandalf stood between them like a wall separating warring armies. Perhaps the citizenry found the sight entertaining. Perhaps they found it horrifying. Bilbo had no doubts that his death might have caused an irreparable rift between Erebor and Dale. Thorin was not one to accept loss, or forgive it. Blameless though Bard might be, the King Under the Mountain would need a target for his rage, or he would lash out at anyone who looked like one.

The hobbit was not given long to take in the sight of the room. Just as he spotted Thorin on the dias, so too the king saw him, and crossed the room in a swift, masterful stride to gather Bilbo in his arms.

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin murmured, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “Ghivashel,” he whispered, kissing the burglar’s cheek. “Sanâzyung,” he continued, trying to kiss the hobbit’s lips, but Bilbo was forced to turn his face away, taking the kiss on his other cheek. “You are yet unwell?”

“Perfectly well,” Bilbo said, putting a steady hand on Thorin’s beard. The king leaned into the touch, kissing Bilbo’s palm, but his soft eyes held a question. “I did tell you that no mushrooms are poisonous to hobbits, but I have not yet had a proper chance to clean my mouth. It would be tragedy indeed if you were to taste such poisons on my lips.”

Thorin’s gaze grew speculative. After a moment he said, “Poison is not what you fear I will taste.” That was all the warning Bilbo had before the king was kissing him fully, opening his mouth and demanding access. The hobbit did not try to resist. He was rather finished with resisting the walking temptation that was Thorin Oakenshield. However, he was a little surprised that Thorin did not pull away. Bilbo had done his best with water, but he knew that there was still bile on his breath. No hobbit could tolerate such a taste for long. Yet Thorin didn’t seem to be so much enduring as devouring, and Bilbo gave himself over wholly to the embrace.

“We will go home,” Thorin announced regally when he finally pulled away. “You need rest.”

Sighing, Bilbo almost agreed. Being put to bed by Thorin would likely be very pleasant. They had not quite managed to make it to a bed the night before, and he thought he might enjoy snuggling close while someone brought him tea. Dozing a little in the afternoon was always agreeable, and doing so at Thorin’s side would be happiness itself. Unfortunately, over Thorin’s shoulder he could see Bard about to faint with relief that Bilbo had survived. It was Durin’s Day, and there were too many plans for them to sleep just yet.

Others had made too many plans for a hobbit who cared about his friends to ignore.

“In a little while my love. First, may I ask if you found the body of my poisoner?”

Thorin’s eyes widened with surprise. “We have only just begun looking for one,” he said slowly. “Gandalf suggested that whatever conspiracy lay behind his hire might not wanted him to speak.”

The wizard had the temerity to wink. Now that Bilbo was recovered, it was clear that the old meddler was going to leave matters to him to solve. As always. Bilbo sighed. One would expect a proper wizard could simply magic up a solution to everything with a wave of his staff and a few funny words. Perhaps one day the hobbit might meet a proper wizard. Still, there was a certain comfort in having Gandalf about. Nothing ever seemed to go too wrong while he was with them.

Now that it appeared Bilbo and Thorin had finished their greeting, the other king present came forward to speak with the newly recovered hobbit.

“It gladdens my heart to see you well, Master Baggins,” Bard said.

“Does it?” Thorin asked darkly, moving so that his body shielded Bilbo from the former bargeman. Rolling his eyes, Bilbo tried to push the dwarf to one side, but as always it was like trying to push a boulder.

“Yes,” Bard said plainly. “It does.” Turning his face back to Bilbo he continued. “Please allow me to beg forgiveness. The last thing I ever wanted was for you to come to harm within my halls.”

“I know,” Bilbo said.

At exactly the same time, Thorin growled, “Then why is it that you do not give up his poisoner to my justice?”

“Because I do not have his poisoner.” Bard’s voice had an exasperated quality that Bilbo recognized as a common side effect of arguing with the King Under the Mountain. “You have looked upon the faces of all my household staff, of all who might ever wear the livery of my hall legitimately, and you recognized none of them.”

“Then give me the name of the one who was not here,” Thorin bellowed.

“There is no name!” Bard shouted. “No one was missing! Is it so impossible for you to believe that someone might have stolen a suit of clothes from my laundry?”

“Perhaps not,” Doron said harshly, “for a Man might be a thief. Yet that idea does not preclude the thought that Men might also conspire against our mountain and our king. You have always been jealous of the wealth of Erebor.”

“I will punish a poisoner, make no mistake,” Thorin agreed. “If you do not present me with the man whose face I saw, Bard, then the man who placed the poison in his hands will do well enough.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. “But that is quite easy to determine!”

Just like that, he had the attention of the room.

“My Burglar?” Thorin asked. As he turned to look at Bilbo the anger faded from his face like a shadow fading in the sun.

“Darro has that powder.”

The Culinary Guild Master looked quite surprised to be named in such august and dangerous company, but she came forward at once. Now that the situation was less urgent, Bilbo took a moment to admire her silver braids. They were accentuated with beads of topaz and citron to match the yellow silk dress she wore with great dignity. Her cauldron pin was displayed prominently on her shoulder, and she seemed quite ready for action, though unsure of how she could help. “Master Baggins?”

“You have that powder that turns red, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, clearly not understanding his intentions. “I do.”

Turning back to Thorin, Bilbo explained in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “Though any Master of the Culinary Guild can tell the difference between poisonous and good mushrooms on sight, there is always the chance of accidentally touching them when gathering ingredients. Cleaning such poisons entirely away can be very difficult. One must powder one’s hands in baking soda and then wash them in vinegar to really be rid of the poison. It’s quite a pleasant sensation, actually Thorin. You ought to try it with me sometime, just for fun. Without touching poison. I would prefer you not to touch poisons of any kind, please.”

“I will do my best.” The king smiled. “So long as you promise to do the same in future. Your Culinary Guild has a way to detect traces of poison if it has not been washed away in this manner?”

“Darro has a powder that will turn red when it touches the skin of the poisoner. Unless they are a member of our guild and know the trick to truly cleaning their hands, I expect all will be revealed.”

“Is this so?” Thorin demanded, turning to Darro.

Looking from Bilbo to the king, she nodded. “Master Baggins speaks the truth, my liege.”

“Then perhaps you should go and fetch it,” he growled, looking nearly murderous that no one had mentioned such a powder earlier.

“I will bear you hence,” Theodwyn said, stepping forward. She looked eager to be doing something to help, and Bilbo felt a small pang in his heart. All of his friends had clearly been very worried for his health. “On Sunflash’s back, we can make Erebor and return in the space of half an hour.”

Darro nodded. “Thank you, Lady of Rohan. It would appear that haste is needed.” Casting a look to Bilbo that clearly suggested he was in her debt for making her ride on horseback, Master Darro went at once with Theodwyn.

Sighing, Bilbo turned back to Thorin. “So we shall know soon enough if the one who actually gave me the poison was the only person to touch the bad mushrooms. Though of course, it cannot entirely clear anyone else of charges of conspiracy. Still, we might yet get lucky.”

Thorin smiled. “I have already been more fortunate than I merit, to have a love hardy enough to survive what would easily fell a dwarf.”

“Ah,” Bilbo said, blushing a little. “That is no credit to me, for you know I am much weaker than a dwarf in a dozen other ways. You need only greet me with a headbut as your sister once did if you want proof.”

“I want no such proof,” Thorin said, brushing a lock of hair away from Bilbo’s eyes. “I want only you, exactly as you are.”

Naturally Bilbo had to kiss him again after that. If Thorin didn’t mind the awful aftertaste in his mouth, the hobbit certainly wasn’t going to let anything else stop him.

Chapter Text

It was Gloin who stopped Bilbo and Thorin kissing, some minutes later. “If you two âzyungâl-mizim feel like coming up for air any time soon, you might notice that Dori, the elf, and I have found your poisoner.”

Bilbo blinked a little absently. He still felt very weak, wanting nothing more than tea and bed. If he could not have those until Darro returned then he would rather snuggle up to Thorin while he waited. Besides which, Gloin was incorrect. Tauriel, Dori, and Gloin had found the body of man who gave Bilbo the plate. They had not found the true culprit.

“He was stuffed in a closet two floors up, this coin purse shoved in his mouth to keep him silent. The elf found him. She’s a good enough tracker, I’ll give her that.”

“Or perhaps she knew precisely where the body was to be found,” Doron suggested darkly.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed slightly, looking at Tauriel. Bilbo decided to uproot those suspicious before they had time to grow.

“Please,” he snorted, “Tauriel was able to track us through woods so thick I could hardly see the path at noon. She’s spent six hundred years tracking quarry a lot more difficult to find than a single man in a single house, no matter how large and lovely Bard’s hall may be. And anyway, I’d hardly call two hours quick.”

It worked. Thorin nodded, and though Doron did not concede the point, he did not try to argue further. Instead, he frowned, looking very thoughtful.

“You are certain this is the man?” Bard asked, inspecting the body in the center of his floor. All of the reception’s guests pressed back toward the walls, but none of them looked truly alarmed to see a dead body. Indeed, almost everyone in the room had seen many during the Battle of Five Armies which had taken place less than a year before.

“I know his face,” Thorin said, spitting on the corpse. “He is the one who poisoned my Bilbo, may he fester and rot. A quick death was better than he deserved.”

Bard looked tremendously relieved, which was odd. A smart man like him ought to know that it wasn’t over yet. As soon as he spoke, however, Bilbo understood his feelings. “Look at the piercings in his ears. He is a river pirate. Such style was never in fashion among the people of Laketown, precisely because the river pirates favor it so. All of the members of my household are friends of mine from before we came to Dale. Though such a man as this might be welcome to settle in Dale and make a life for himself away from violence, I would know if one had entered my service. I tell you again, he must have stolen this livery.”

Thorin nodded regally, finally accepting this explanation now that he had proof and the corpse of the one who had actually tried to kill Bilbo. “If this is so, then you speak the truth when you say Dale did not participate in this plot.”

“Perhaps,” Doron said. “Yet I cannot help but think it is very convenient. A criminal such as this man must have been would likely hire his service out to any who could pay his price. Surely the coffers of Dale could afford to contract a man who could not be one of theirs, to deflect suspicion from their kind.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo agreed innocently. “That is very wise, Doron. We must be sure to take into account that this fellow was almost certainly hired to kill me. Why, it might not even be another Man who did the hiring! The elves of Mirkwood likely do not want to see a wedding take place this evening, and if the mountain went into mourning it would not. You are very clever to remind us!”

Doron’s face went carefully blank, the way Thorin’s face was wont to do when he was hiding something. Bilbo did not truly need the confirmation of his suspicions, but it was nice to have it. Since the King Under the Mountain was not a fool, he looked at Bilbo instead of Doron. “Then you do not think you were poisoned for yourself?”

Shrugging, Bilbo said, “I do not know this man. I do not think I short changed him when he was buying mushrooms from me, and even if I had, it was an awful lot of effort to go to just to poison a mushroom farmer.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “Then it is my love that has brought you to harm once again, as it seems to be ever so.”

“No, Thorin, no,” Bilbo said quickly, forgetting all about Doron, politics, and other pointless things. “Someone wanted to hurt you, perhaps, and I was there. But I am not hurt. No harm done!”

“They intended you should die,” the king said darkly. “Even Gandalf, who knows the capabilities of hobbits as well as even you, was concerned at your poisoning. When you say there was no danger, you lie.”

Before Bilbo could object to the strength of these terms, another voice cut in.

“Make an example,” Doron said. “So that all who seek to harm what is yours know the price of failure.” Oh, that got Thorin’s attention all right. “Let me take this corpse and stake it out upon the mountainside for vermin and carrion crows to gnaw upon, that his body might never rest safely under stone.”

“A fitting punishment, Doron son of Foron.” Thorin’s eyes glittered, and Bilbo didn’t know what he would do if the king ordered the merchant to see to the matter at once. “Wait with us for the return of the Culinary Guild, however. I would have you stake the one who hired him at his side, letting their flesh mix in the bellies of the beasts.”

So that was fine. Bilbo sighed. It wasn’t that Thorin was bloodthirsty, necessarily. He was simply protective. To call him overprotective would not be stretching a point. Exaggerating his discomfort with this sentence was easy enough, and no one suspected a hobbit in distress who wandered over to the sideboard in an attempt to ease a troubled heart. Bilbo poured himself a goblet of water and slipped a salt shaker into his sleeve.

Thorin was at his side seconds later. “I have been told if aught else was poisoned on this table, many would now be dead. Yet still I might beg you to wait until we returned to the safety of Erebor to eat.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo drank the water. He was thirsty and his head was throbbing. “You needn’t worry. I won’t be able to eat a bite for hours. Maybe not even until tomorrow. I shall have to secret away a slice of the wedding cake for us to share when I feel better. It would be tremendously bad luck not to have any.”

Thorin blinked. “The wedding and the festivities can be postponed. Indeed, the parade of arms was to begin an hour ago. My hobbit, I do not wish to shame you, but you are not well. Once we have seen to the poisoner, I would have you rest.”

“If you do that, you give him exactly what he wants, whether or not we catch him out. The wisest course is to see Kili and Tauriel safely married before anything else can go wrong,” Bilbo said stubbornly. “You needn’t fear I shall insist on dancing at the wedding.”

Tucking a curl back behind Bilbo’s ear, Thorin said softly, “I was looking forward to dancing with you.”

Bilbo snorted. “You have not known about this wedding long enough to be looking forward to any part of it. Anyway you never dance.”

“But you love to,” the king said simply. “Your heart seems so free when you are prancing about upon your light hobbit feet. Long have I imagined a day when you might accept my courtship, and how I might spin with you in those circle dances that you seem to love best. We move well together, and I am sure that I could find a way to make you laugh.”

“I am sure you could,” Bilbo agreed, smiling up at the handsome dwarf. “Perhaps I might have one dance in me yet, if you will be my partner.”

Thorin scowled. “The wedding will take place. I understand why you insist upon it, and perhaps I even agree. That shall be the whole of my concession. Ask no more of me. Once they are married, you will rest.”

Far too exhausted to argue, Bilbo placed a hand on his love’s shoulder. “Alright, Thorin. If you will rest with me, I think I should want nothing more. We can dance another day.”

Smiling, the king would have answered. However, just then Theodwyn and Darro returned to Bard’s hall, attracting the attention of all who waited. Bilbo hurried over to them to retrieve the powder from Darro’s offering hand.

“Here we are, then,” he said, effectively capturing the attention of the room. “Now Thorin, if you will watch as I sprinkle a little of this powder on my hands, oh there it goes!” As Bilbo spoke, he shook a little food coloring into his palm and watched it turn red on contact with his skin. Holding up his hands for all to see, he said, “Obviously I touched the poisoned mushrooms.” Beckoning Thorin over, the hobbit poured a little salt from his shirtsleeve onto the king’s hands.

Inspecting the plain white pile, Thorin held up his hands to show Bard and the waiting crowd. “Lo! I did not touch the poison, and the grains remain white.”

Darro looked more surprised than anyone at this news, but as Bilbo had expected, no one was paying much attention to a Culinary Guild Master’s expression while the hands of the kings were being tested for poison.

“King Bard, if you will?”

Bard came over to Bilbo quite willingly and allowed the hobbit to pour salt over his hands. He waited for a watchful moment, and then held the little pile up for Thorin and the rest of the room to inspect. “It would seem that I, too, am pure as the driven snow,” the dragonslayer said with a little laugh in his voice.

“So it would seem,” Thorin said, though he did not sound entirely convinced.

“Of course he did not touch the poison himself,” Doron growled. “The head of such a conspiracy would never be stupid enough to touch the poisoned mushrooms with his own hand. Test the members of his household next!”

“First let us prove that the powder truly works,” Bilbo said calmly. “Darro, if you will?”

Darro came forward nervously. “Bilbo, you know—”

“I know that you touched the mushroom when I handed one of the canapés to you. I also know, and I am sure Thorin remembers, that it was you who stopped the king from eating one of the poisoned treats. You are not under suspicion, only hold out your hands so that everyone can see how the powder works.”

Darro obediently held out her hands, and Bilbo poured some of the food coloring into them. Everyone watched once again as the white powder slowly turned red where it touched her skin. “Bilbo,” she said again, but he hushed her.

“Now, Master Doron, if you will?”

“What?” The dwarf stood stock still, staring at Bilbo with undisguised hatred.

“I should like to demonstrate one more time what the powder looks like in the hands of one who never touched the poison,” Bilbo said innocently.

“You are wasting time! Stop dithering and test Bard’s household staff. We all know that it was a Man of Dale who poisoned you.”

“Do we know that?” Bilbo asked, putting on a confused expression.

“Let him test your hands, Doron,” Thorin ordered in a low voice that nevertheless went straight to the spine of everyone listening.

Looking from Thorin to Bilbo, Doron nodded once in acquiescence. Sauntering over to the hobbit, he held out a hand. Then he spun his other hand around, the ceremonial ax he wore flashing in the sunlight as it sliced toward Bilbo’s neck.

The hobbit was ready. Ducking the blow, he skipped backward, drawing Sting from the sheath at his side. Of course, he didn’t need to use his little blade. Thorin was there with Orcrist, standing between Bilbo and danger like a mithril shield.

All around the room, dwarves and men drew their weapons. Even Tauriel had an arrow notched on her bow. Yet she did not shoot. No one stepped forward to interfere. It was very clear that Thorin did not need help.

The merchant and the king exchanged a few blows before Doron said, “It did not have to come to this!”

“No, it did not,” Thorin growled, slapping the ax away like a buzzing fly with the flat of his blade.

“I know that you hated the elvish whore, too. I know you would not have allowed her to marry into the line of Durin if you were not blinded by wanting to fuck that little rat. My mistake, the great failure of my duty, was not killing him months ago!”

Doron’s head rolled across the floor, bouncing a little until it stopped beside the body of the man who’d handed Bilbo the poisoned mushrooms. His body fell over like toppling lumber, dropping at Thorin’s feet. The king looked mildly surprised by this turn of events.

“Brother dear,” Dis said, stepping forward, “it might have been useful to question him and find out if he was working with anyone.”

Frowning as though he agreed with his sister but did not want to say as much, Thorin simply grumbled, “He should not have spoken of Bilbo in such language.”

“On that point, O King Under the Mountain,” Bard said, putting a friendly hand on Thorin’s shoulder, “We are in complete agreement. I think it is clear to all that this dwarf hired this man to poison Master Baggins in an attempt to sunder relations between Erebor and other kingdoms.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed. “He was always on about Erebor being only for the dwarves. Didn’t want any non-dwarves inside the mountain at all, though he never tried to force me out the way he and his faction tried to bully Tauriel.”

“Just so.” Bard nodded gravely. “I will not quarrel any further over who took more harm at his hand or whose law had right to justice over him. As he was a citizen of Erebor, I give his body to your keeping.”

“As for that,” Thorin said harshly, “he pronounced his own sentence.” Dwarves around the room gasped in shock, but Thorin did not pause. “Let him be staked out on the side of the mountain with this poisoner. Let the beasts and carrion eaters have their bodies. Let them go to the halls of waiting with my curse upon them, never to find rest under stone. So shall it be for any who dare to harm a single hair upon the head of my burglar.”

Taking Thorin by the hand, Bilbo pressed a little kiss to his beard. “You are upset,” he said. “So am I, if it comes to that. After all, you may not know this, but for a grown hobbit to allow something like that to happen. I mean, I ought to have known. Shameful, really, not to recognize a bowler, even mixed up with trilbies as it was. And me a mushroom seller! I ought not even be allowed to eat another mushroom for a month.”

Thorin’s hand brushed gently against Bilbo’s face. The hobbit was a little surprised to see a tear caught on the king’s thumb. “I know,” the dwarf said, just as softly. “I know it shames you. You told us once, though you do not remember it.”

“Oh.” Bilbo decided not to ask if he had actually vomited when Dis struck him upon the head so long ago, or if he had only spoken of it. He did not want to know, and anyway it no longer mattered. “Then you know that I am quite hurt by these events, and I do not take them lightly.”

“Yet you would ask mercy for him,” Thorin said, his eyes widening with surprise.

“You have cut off his head,” the hobbit said simply. “He is beyond mercy or punishment now. There is only honor left, and it is not his which concerns me. I think you will regret this, once your blood has cooled.”

Closing his eyes, Thorin bent his neck, pressing their foreheads together. The raven crown of Erebor tapped softly against Bilbo’s mithril flowers. For a long, peaceful moment the hobbit and the dwarf breathed together, calming down.

Then Thorin straightened his spine. “Give the traitor to his family,” he ordered. “Let him be buried as a dwarf. And bury the pirate with what honors such men give to their dead. They will pass now and be forgotten, and their remnants will not stain our mountainside.”

So it was done, as the King Under the Mountain ordained, but before he returned to Erebor, the king himself took Master Darro aside to thank her for her part in unmasking the murderer. “All shall remember that on this day the wisdom of the Culinary Guild prevailed, saving not only my own life, but guarding our people against his further treachery.”

“My king,” Darro said, straightening up to her full height. “I must tell you—”

“I would ask,” he continued, speaking over her, but keeping his voice pitched low for her ears only, “that you tell no one of my burglar’s deceit. You and I know that it was only some kind of food coloring, but his little tricks have ever been of great service to me. Loath as I am to think it, he may yet need to use this one again.”

Relaxing like a puppet with her strings cut, Darro agreed at once. “Of course, my king. My service and my silence have always been yours.”

“Believe when I say that I value them highly. Honors will be given to the Culinary Guild for your assistance this day. A recognition that is long past due.”

Smiling tremulously, the elderly dwarrowdam looked like all of her dreams had come true.

Chapter Text

On the trip back to the mountain from Dale, Bilbo rode with Thorin on his war goat. He was too weak to ride alone, and he was certainly in no shape for the long walk. A great black war goat would not have been a hobbit’s first choice for transportation, but with Thorin at the reins, it was not so bad. Indeed, in other circumstances, it would have been a downright inspiring position. Seated with Thorin flush against his back, those strong arms on either side of him holding the reins, Bilbo’s tired mind whirled with possibilities. Unfortunately, the hobbit was too weak from his poisoning to truly enjoy it. Snuggling back against Thorin’s chest, he shut his eyes for a few minutes, trusting the king to see them home safely.

When he woke, it was to unfamiliar surroundings. It took him a long moment to realize that he was in Erebor, not riding with Thorin. Since he could still smell the rich incense that trailed the king like music, Thorin could not be far. Yet Bilbo did not know where he was. The comfortable bed was much larger than Bilbo’s own, with smooth silk sheets instead of simple linen. Looking up, the hobbit saw elaborate geometric patterns of gold laid in the stone of the ceiling. Looking left, he saw space enough in the bed for another person, though Bilbo was quite alone. On his right, however, was a piping hot cup of ginger tea sitting on the night stand. That was very welcome, for his stomach was still a little queasy.

Stretching a bit, Bilbo sat up and helped himself to the tea. It was delicious, and he allowed himself to breathe deeply as he drank, gathering his strength. Then he set the cup and saucer aside, and went to find someone to scold for letting him sleep.

He did not have to go far. The bedroom opened out onto Thorin’s sitting room. The king was there, staring at the mosaic which depicted the death of Smaug and the Battle of the Five Armies. It really was a beautiful piece of work, showing as it did the king slaying Azog with Fili and Kili fighting by his side. All of the members of the company were immortalized, and even Bard was there shooting down the dragon. Yet it was to the hobbit holding the Arkenstone amidst this chaos that the king’s eyes seemed to be drawn. Watching Thorin stare at Bilbo’s face on the wall quite obliterated any desire the hobbit had to lecture the dwarf. He looked almost lost, far younger than his two hundred years could count, and so very alone. Depositing himself in the king’s lap seemed like a good way for the hobbit to announce his presence.

It did make Thorin smile. Wrapping his arms around Bilbo, the king kissed him gently and held him close. “There is more tea in the fire if it would sooth you,” Thorin said softly. “Oin said it would help.”

“In a minute,” Bilbo said. “I am quite comfortable here, though I shall not forgive you if I have missed the wedding.”

“Peace.” Thorin chuckled. “We have an hour yet until the appointed time. Dis and Fili have agreed to see to the other festivities in my absence, but only the King can join a new member to the House of Durin. The wedding cannot happen without me, so you need not fear missing it.”

“Oh good.” Bilbo tucked his head a little more comfortably into the curve of Thorin’s neck. “I was rather surprised to wake up in your bed. You know among my people it is considered polite to ask before taking someone to bed.”

Humming in gentle agreement, Thorin said, “Exactly as it is among dwarves, no doubt. But I could not shake the fear that some trap might yet be hidden in your room. Pray, forgive me.”

Bilbo found that he could not quite manage to fear poison or assassination plots while seated so very comfortably in Thorin’s lap. He could, however, easily forgive the king for anything in the world. “Of course. I only said that you ought to ask, not that I have any objections to going to bed with you.”

The dwarf’s breath hitched in a rather gratifying way. “Then I ask you to come to bed with me.”

“Oh hush!” Bilbo laughed a little and pushed playfully at Thorin’s shoulder. “I am in no shape for such games. I apologize if I got your hopes up with my phrasing, but I need to have another cup of tea and clean up a bit for the wedding. We do not have time for anything else.”

“Of course.” Thorin pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s temple. “I would be quite lost without you to guide me, amrâlimê. What I should have asked is if you would consent in the future to share my bed, tonight and all other nights, to sleep at my side that we need not be parted when night’s curtain draws the mountain into slumber.”

That was very sweet. Bilbo did not know quite what to say in response. He kissed Thorin on his lips, very softly. “I suppose I can get used to all this opulence if it means sleeping by your side,” he said, trying to make light of the confession. “Though I am quite used to my comfortable little hobbit room.”

The smile that broke across Thorin’s face was as bright as the dawn, and Bilbo felt himself turning toward the king like a sunflower. “Only say the word, my hobbit, and all of my gilded plates can be replaced with pottery. I would trade silk for linen in a heartbeat to have you near.”

Bilbo laughed. Patting the king’s bearded cheek came so very naturally. “Oh, you needn’t worry. I shall get used to looking at my own likeness on the wall eventually.”

Thorin arched an eyebrow. “It is the mural which bothers you?”

“No of course not.”

“It does.” Thorin frowned. “I know my artistry with stone is poor, but I thought your likeness good.”

“It is! Very good!” Bilbo took a deep breath, knowing Thorin would not believe him until he admitted the truth of the matter. “I have wondered, just in passing you know, here and there when I happened to glance at it, why you would choose to immortalize me stealing from you instead of any of the other things that I did.”

A sharp laugh seemed to spring from Thorin’s throat unbidden. He stared at Bilbo in surprise, and then his face softened once more into that warm smile that always made the hobbit want to press close. In fact, Bilbo wondered if he really was too tired to go to bed when Thorin smiled in that way. “Still you do not understand, Bilbo? I did not show you stealing; I showed you holding the heart of the mountain.”

Bilbo stared, but the king was not finished.

“This wall was the work of many long nights. When I could not sleep for dreaming of my myriad mistakes and the losses we endured in the battle, I would make my little stone pictures to remind myself that we triumphed in the end. In those days I did not even dare hope you might one day look upon it, for you seemed to flee my presence at every turn. I cannot tell you how many hours I spent cursing my madness for costing me your friendship, though I know now that you had reasons of your own for avoiding me and refusing what I did not dare call a gift.”

“Oh Thorin!”

“So I crafted here a likeness of you which would look upon me kindly no matter what I did, and I put into his hands the Arkenstone, as my heart is in your hands always. Even if you should return to your Shire, I thought I should at least have the memory of you. As well as the certainty that if I had put my faith in your hands from the first, I might at least have kept your good opinion, whether or not I lost you.”

“Thorin!” Bilbo could not stand to hear how unhappy the king had been. “Thorin you will never lose me! I was yours long before we ever came to the mountain. Oh! You suffered so needlessly. I cannot believe I was too stupid to tell you how I loved you.”

Thorin’s laugh was a broken thing. “Yet I nearly lost you today.”

“I am well,” Bilbo said quickly. “I am perfectly well!”

Thorin shook his head. “Nori and Dis both warned me that Doron was a danger, though they only suspected he would try to kill Tauriel. Balin wanted to ban him from the mountain to begin with! His reputation among the dwarves of the Iron Hills was as one who exploited the labor of others to his own gain. Even you told me time and again that he hated all but the dwarves and openly spoke nothing but vitriol to you. In ignoring my every advisor, I practically handed you to him as a sacrifice to his hateful ideals.”

“You didn't!” Bilbo kissed Thorin’s beard again. “You gave him a chance. Very nobly, I might add. All you did was give him a chance to make a home in Erebor, the same chance you wanted to give to every dwarf. It is not your fault if he brought such hatred with him, nor that he failed to be the dwarf you hoped he might have been.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo, and the hobbit was quite aware that the king was keeping silent because he did not want to argue, not because he agreed. “I am very glad that I yet have more of you than stone on a wall,” Thorin said, very quietly.

Trembling slightly, whether it was from weakness or emotion even Bilbo did not know, the hobbit stroked Thorin’s hair. “You have all of me, Thorin. We won! We won that battle on the wall, and we have won today’s as well. There is no more need for struggle or heartbreak or staring lonesomely at cold stone.”

Dropping a gentle kiss to his hobbit’s mouth, the king smiled once more. “Almost, I can believe that. When I have you in my arms.”

Well. Bilbo couldn’t not say anything to that, could he? Hopping up, he took Thorin by the hand. “Fine,” the hobbit said. “Fifteen minutes, though. We are not going to be late to the wedding.”

“Bilbo?” Adorably confused was a much better look for Thorin than depressed and self loathing.

“I suppose we are going to bed after all. But only for a little while.”

Laughing, the dwarf sprang up to follow his hobbit eagerly. If they were more than fifteen minutes about it, they still managed to be on time for the wedding.

Chapter Text

Perhaps spilling gold all over the floor of the Hall of Kings had been incidental during the great fight with Smaug, but during the year Erebor had been settled, the fact had become a lauded feature. It was always everyone’s favorite place for a dance, and the natural choice for a big ceremony. Dressed for a wedding, it was absolutely incredible.

Colorful banners and tapestries swirled around the great stone columns, and even the enormous statues of kings from the past were dressed in bright silks for the occasion. All the dwarves of Erebor and many of the men from Dale were gathered wearing their finest clothes. Even a few elves of Mirkwood had come, and Bilbo thought he recognized their prince among the little band. The Company that had traveled so far together and seen the first blush of Kili and Tauriel’s love formed an honor guard for the happy couple. Once again Bilbo was dressed in mithril with Sting at his side, and this time he wore a crown of flowers colorful enough for any wedding.

Tauriel wore flowers, too, and much like Bilbo’s in their fashion. Her dress was sewn with emerald leaves wrought upon silver branches. Beads in her hair sparkled with rubies and sapphires in the shape of pansies and spring beauties. Upon her brow there rested a mithril circlet more subdued than Bilbo’s own, which crowned her gloriously in little white blossoms, like stars made of shimmering diamonds.

If anything, Kili was more colorful than his bride. His clothing was the deep blue of Durin’s folk, embroidered with diamonds and sapphires in a dwarvish pattern for good luck. He wore a circlet as well, of mithril and blue, and Bilbo thought he looked very princely in it. The rainbow of color was not obvious until one looked at his usually messy hair. His dark locks had been braided into submission very carefully, with beads of every precious stone to be found beneath the mountain neatly worked into every single crossing of hair.

Indeed, the young couple shone very sweetly together as they held hands and marched across the golden floor. Bilbo was proud to march with them, armed and armored in the dwarvish fashion, as they approached Kili’s family at the front of the hall.

Thorin stood there, with Dis to his left and Fili to his right. They, too, were dressed in their best. All of them wore ceremonial armor, shining in the light like gold with bright crowns of heavy jewels. Dis’s hair had been braided almost as elaborately as Kili’s, and with nearly as many gemstones. Fili had added a cape to his armor which seemed to change color whenever the light shifted, as though some clever dwarf had woven a rainbow into silk. Only Thorin appeared to be in his usual colors of gold, silver, and sapphires. Bilbo was rather guiltily aware that the king had dressed with more haste and less care than he might have in other circumstances. Still, he looked very well. They all looked quite spectacular, in point of fact.

Fili winked at his brother.

“Uncle,” Kili said after a nervous beat. “I bring before you the love of my heart, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm, and I tell you now that all that I have is hers. My body, my honor, and my treasure are hers. I would give her my family as well. Will you welcome her, or must we go from your halls and find another place to be together?”

Turning regally to the bride, the king asked, “Is this your wish also, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm? To become a member of my house and take a place in my line?”

The elf’s voice rang out clearly, and without hesitation. “I come before you with the love of my heart, Kili of the Lonely Mountain, and I tell you now that all that is his, I share. His perils, his triumphs, and his burdens, I will bear as well. I would join our families together. If you will not welcome me, then I will go with him alone to begin anew a family of our own.”

“Then I welcome you, Tauriel, as my nephew’s wife. As you require, so shall I provide. Shelter from evil, help in need, and advice when you falter. From this moment onward, you are of Durin’s Folk, bear yourself with honor.”

Bilbo had been given to understand that this simple exchange of vows was all that was required for a dwarven wedding to take place. Once Thorin welcomed Tauriel into the family, the ceremony ought to have concluded. However, it seemed that he blinked and suddenly Prince Legolas was standing on the dias next to Fili. A soft murmur rippled through the crowd as the dwarves wondered what mischief the elven prince would make.

“Have you nothing to ask of me, Tauriel? Or have we been friends alone in these five hundred years since your parents were lost?”

Looking at the bride, Bilbo was astounded to see tears filling her eyes. She had always seemed so self sufficient, happy enough to be completely alone as long as she had a blade in her hand. Suddenly the hobbit understood why she loved Kili so fiercely, and why she sought out even the company of a gentlehobbit and a human woman when others turned her away.

“Legolas,” she said and laughed a little, sending the tears down her cheeks. Then she shook her head and stood up straight. “Brother. I bring before you the love of my heart, Kili of the Lonely Mountain, and I tell you now that all that I have is his. My body, my honor, and my treasure are his. I would give him my family as well. Will you welcome him, or shall we never go to your halls to be greeted as kin?”

Smiling, the prince turned to the groom. “Is this your wish also, Kili of the Lonely Mountain? To join hand and hearth to my sister, taking a place in our home?”

Grinning incandescently, Kili squeezed Tauriel’s hand. “I come before you with the love of my heart, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm, and I tell you now that all that is hers, I share. Her perils, her triumphs, and her burdens, I will bear as well. I would join our families together. If you will not welcome me, then I will go with her alone to begin anew a family of our own.”

“Then I welcome you, Kili, as my sister’s husband. As you require, so shall I provide. Shelter from evil, help in need, and advice when you falter. From this moment onward, you are Elf Friend and kin, bear yourself with honor.”

Then the wedding really was over, and a great cheer filled the hall. A band struck up, casks were opened, and dwarves spread out to begin dancing and making merry. Kili practically tripped over himself, rushing forward to shake Legolas’s hand.

“Brother!” he cried, and it seemed suddenly that shaking hands was not nearly enough. He threw his arms around the elven prince, lifting him from the ground. Bilbo was no expert on elvish expressions, but it seemed to him that Legolas was not wholly comfortable with this mode of embrace. “Tauriel has always been so circumspect about her lack of family. I knew she had no blood relations, but I suspected she must have some kin close to her heart. Oh! I will bring honor to your house, I swear it. A wedding is only half a wedding if there is only one family to do the welcoming! A drink! A drink for my new brother!”

Then nothing would do, but he rushed off to fetch Legolas a glass of the best wine himself. Smiling fondly after him, Tauriel turned to the prince. “I do thank you for coming. As he says, dwarvish tradition calls for a meeting of families at a wedding, and I felt a poor bride indeed with no kin to take my part.”

Legolas frowned slightly. “Father should have come. It was he who took you in when your parents were lost to our people. One day he will amend his thinking and see that you are yet the same Tauriel you have always been, but sadly I could not convince him to make this that day.”

“Then for my part I thank you for your failure,” Thorin said, placing a hand on the elven prince’s shoulder and passing him the wine glass from Kili’s hands. “I owe Tauriel a great debt, and much more than that still would I do to see my youngest nephew happy, but I do not think I could yet join my family to Thranduil’s. You, however, are not your father, and perhaps that is most evidenced by the fact that you are here when he is not. Be welcome in my home, brother of my niece.”

After that there was a great flurry for everyone to congratulate the new couple. Bilbo watched as elves, dwarves, and men swirled past. There was dancing, eating, and drinking, but the hobbit found a place to sit and a had a cup of ginger tea. More than once, Thorin suggested they go, but a Baggins was as stubborn as any dwarf. It was worth the wait.

Lea wheeled out the cake with the help of a few others, looking resplendent in a gold and purple gown herself. The cake, however, looked perfect. Marzipan decorations took the many tiers on a long journey up through a great forest until one sprang from the leaves and followed bright, blue butterflies into the night sky to dance among the stars. Bilbo had heard the tale of the Fire Moon from Tauriel, and so he’d hung one on the cake, larger than life. Then he’d set a little marzipan elf and a little marzipan dwarf to dance in its light upon the sugar frosting at the top of the massive dessert.

“Oh, Bilbo! It is beautiful,” Kili cried. “I did not realize wedding cakes were crafted with such artistry among your people.”

“Beautiful,” Fili echoed, looking positively dumbstruck.

“Well,” the hobbit said modestly, “I have done a little more baking than most, and Tauriel gave me the idea for marzipan when she said that she liked honey.”

“And since I am no dwarf,” the bride murmured, “perhaps I can thank you for your gift to us on our wedding day.”

Bilbo blushed. “Is it that obvious? Oh dear. Only a wedding without any presents is terribly bad form, you know.”

Kili and Tauriel laughed together. “We will not tell,” Kili promised. “Thank you for sharing your hobbit luck with us, for you are the luckiest fellow I know. If even a grain of your fortune passes to us, we shall be happy for all of our days. “

“Well then,” the hobbit said, cutting them a generous slice of cake. “There can be no better fortune for a new couple than to share a dessert plate, that all your future days shall have their full measure of sweetness.”

“Nice dress,” Fili said, and Bilbo realized he had not so much been staring at the cake as he had been eyeing the hobbit’s innocent apprentice.

“Oh! Thank you your majesty,” Lea said, bobbing a curtsy. “Master Baggins gifted it to me some time ago. I believe he wishes for me to learn self-confidence, but in truth there has been no occasion grand enough for me to wear it until today.”

Fili nodded, but did not say anything else, so Lea turned back to start serving the cake. When his outstretched fist brushed against the sleeve of her dress, she looked up in surprise. Then she tentatively put her hand out, to receive what Fili offered her. Sensing trouble, Bilbo pushed past Kili to see what Lea had been given.

The ring was made of gold, and shaped like a raven of Erebor with sweeping wings meant to curl around a dwarven finger. In its beak was a great sapphire, and one visible eye was a smaller ruby. Yet it was not the gems which stood out. Upon its back, the raven carried a great feast of mushrooms and meat and all the small dishes that were good to eat. To Bilbo’s eye, untrained though it might be in the way of dwarven art, it looked like a promise that none would ever go hungry in the Lonely Mountain. That was a much sweeter message than expected, and so the hobbit did not bluster at Fili as he had intended.

“It is.” Lea took a deep breath. “This is a very beautiful ring, your majesty. I suppose you only wanted to show it to me?”

Fili opened his mouth and then closed it again. Kili came over and punched his brother hard in the kidney. The staring dwarf did not even spare his younger brother a glance.

“I made it. For you. With my hand. A gift. Made. At the forge. For you, a gift,” the usually eloquent prince stammered.

Blushing deeply, Lea put the ring on her finger. “Thank you very much,” she said softly. “I will wear it with pride, my prince.”

“Starlight, in the sapphire,” Fili said quickly. “It’s not useless. Speak ‘glîm’ and it will glow. Heat in the ruby, too. Depress it and turn it to the left, saying ‘baraz’ and the ring with grow hot enough to boil water, though only for an hour or so. It will need a full day to charge between uses, too. I tried to shorten the resetting period, but working runes into such a small jewel is a fearsome challenge. Yet it had to be a ring, for your hand. Because your hands. Your hands are.”

Kili punched his brother again. “She’s already wearing it.”

“Oh!” Fili looked quite dumbfounded to realize that this was, indeed, the case.

“I’ll put it to good use,” Lea promised. Though she was still quite red beneath her beard, she looked up at Fili and smiled.

“Dance!” the hapless prince suggested. “Do you? With me, I mean? I have seen you before. Dancing, that is.”

“I would love to dance,” Lea said firmly, taking him by the hand and leading him off to the dance floor.

Kili had the good grace to wait until the pair were actually dancing before he fell all over himself laughing. Shaking her head, Tauriel scolded him. “It is no crime to be nervous about initiating a courtship. You should be kinder to your brother.”

“But it is Fili! I have never seen him so afraid in all my life, and of Lea! Who always looks at him like some work of art too precious to be touched until he manages to make her laugh!”

“Tell me I was not so clumsy in giving my courting gifts to you,” Thorin said, coming over to Bilbo and wrapping an arm about the hobbit’s waist.

Leaning into him for support, Bilbo said, “You were not. Though much trouble might have been saved if you were. I have never seen a more clearly besotted dwarf in all my days.”

“Then you do not spend nearly enough time gazing into my eyes, amrâlimê.”

Bilbo supposed that this was true, so he leaned back to enjoy the soft look and the gentle color of forget-me-nots. “Fili seemed very eager to explain that his gift was useful as well as beautiful, yet that does not seem to be a general rule for courting gifts as far as I can tell.”

“No, but you and your apprentice are very alike.” Thorin smiled wryly. “I suspect my heir learned something from my example, however poor it might have been.”

“What do you mean?” Lifting one hand to trace the flowers of his crown, Bilbo admitted, “I love your gift to me far more than I would ever have thought I could love metal and jewels, but I would not call it useful.”

“Yet the flowers of Erebor are not what you treasure most among the things that I have given you,” Thorin said, tucking a curly lock of hair back behind the point of Bilbo’s ear.

It took the hobbit a long moment to realize what he meant. “My mushroom mine?”

“The one thing you could never refuse,” the king agreed, smiling warmly.

Bilbo laughed. “But that was not a courting gift.”

“No, but if I had found a way to make it so, it might have been you and I marrying today and not only my nephew.”

“Never fear,” the hobbit said, “for we shall have our turn soon enough. And in the meantime we can have wedding cake and mushroom omelets for breakfast, when my stomach is settled enough to enjoy them properly.”

“Ah, mushrooms for breakfast,” the king concurred happily. “There is nothing in the world that a hobbit loves more than that, and so I have kept you at my side. Never have I been more grateful for the blessings of the Lonely Mountain.”

“Perhaps there is one thing I love more,” Bilbo said quietly.

“Perhaps,” Thorin agreed more seriously, bending down for a kiss.