Chapter Text
The markets of Dale were bustling in the early springtime air and Frodo took complete advantage of his escorts' distraction to wander off into the churning crowds. At eighteen-years-old, he was finally allowed to visit the northman city without either of his uncles or aunt, which was a first for the dark-haired hobbit and Frodo was going to enjoy the temporary freedom while he could. So long as he didn't wander out of the assigned guards' sight, the faunt was allowed to explore the numerous stalls to his heart's content. Frodo could already feel the familiar eyes of Aina and Fari on his back, their loyalty to Dwalin and the royal family absolute in every way; there would be no shaking them off, though not for lack of trying on Frodo and his friends' parts.
"I need to purchase something for Amad's birthday," said Donel, his eyes surveying each shop they passed on the street. "She's always talking about those woven bracelets and fancy tapestries near the Lady's Fountain. At the little shop with the green windows?"
"My uncle knows the owner and weaver who supplies them," said Dwina. "He smells kinda funny. Like Master Dori's chamomile tea."
"Then why don't we stop in there for a look around?" proposed Frodo, his hands tightening around Donel's and Dwina's as they pushed through the crowds. "Maybe they have something with foreign languages, too. Your amad liked those books Ori gave her last year, right?"
"She didn't put them down for a week. Adad was jealous of them."
Dwina clapped a hand against her skirts and said, "I heard your uncle mention something about Lotani merchants being in Dale last week. Master Sven's always doing some kind of business with traders from the east. Maybe he purchased some of their wares?"
"And your amad speaks Ulgathig, right?"
"I remember seeing Lotani and Dyrian stalls in the markets last spring," said Dwina. "They had beautiful tapestries with all kinds of pretty weavings and scripts on them. Even my uncle was impressed by the craftsmanship."
"Uncle Bilbo says that a lot of the northeastern tribes are headed by women," Frodo added. "That seems like something your amad would appreciate or at least like, if any of the tapestries were made by the matriarch ladies."
"I love their stories about the shieldmaidens." Dwina smiled toothily at the thought. "Only the Rohirrim traders and bards have better tales, but they never venture this far north. I haven't seen any of them since Uncle brought us to Erebor."
Donel pouted at the small purse in his front pocket. "I hope I have enough to get her something nice. Everything costs so much..."
"We've got some coins on us."
Frodo nodded. "Uncle Glóin always shoves a bunch into my pockets when I come to Dale. Here, have some of them."
Poor Donel's eyes nearly bugged out at the sight of so much gold and silver in one spot. Frodo often forgot just how poor his friends had been growing up, especially Donel, whose family had been nomadic tinkers that never stayed in a single town for very long. Drogo and Primula Baggins had been hobbits of modest means as well, but Frodo had little memory of that life now. Whenever he thought of food or home, Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin were the first things that came to his mind.
They had been his parents and providers since his seventh birthday. Perhaps even earlier.
Of course, Frodo still had vague recollections of his mother and father, like Primula dancing beneath the Party Tree and Drogo tucking him into bed at night, but it was the faunt's uncles and aunt and cousins who dominated the majority of his memories. Images of Primula and Dís had gradually started to blend together at times, which had distressed Frodo when he'd first realized what was happening. Thankfully, Uncle Bilbo and Ori had collaborated with one another to create several portraits of the faunt's mother and father. The beautifully detailed pictures now sat right beside Frodo's pillow on his bureau and nightstand, a loving tribute to the parents who had left their son's life far too soon.
"Buy something real nice for her," Frodo insisted. "She deserves it."
The three children arrived at their destination a few minutes later, Aina and Fari only a couple yards behind them. Thankfully, the weaver's wasn't too crowded and they were able to enter without too many problems. Maneuvering through Dale was often difficult due to their small sizes, but most northmen were sympathetic to their dwarf neighbors and designed their shops accordingly. Of course, much of the masonry and stone-based reconstruction of Dale had been done by the Longbeard dwarves themselves, so quite a few dwarven touches could be found throughout the city.
Strategically placed stepstools and staircases were Frodo's favorite aspects of the white-towered metropolis. If he wanted to see overtop of the crowds or just rest above the bustling men, then there was always a tiered fountain or stair-based garden nearby. The men and women of Dale often left these raised elevations to their shorter neighbors, purposely avoiding those spots so that the dwarves—and everyone's favorite pair of hobbits—could easily find them.
"Look for anything exotic," said Donel once they were inside. "Amad's fond of weird scripts and eastern jewelry."
Frodo nodded and meandered down a side aisle, his feet automatically stepping up onto the raised walkway that lined all of the shop's tables, which made everything appear at shoulder level for him. The fauntling couldn't wait until he was older and taller; then he'd be able to look at the tables and shelves without straining his neck. But for now, he'd just have to make do with a neck ache for Thana's birthday.
"This is pretty," Frodo whispered to himself. "Doesn't look like anything the guilds are making..."
He reached up and ran his fingers over the pale tapestry, carefully noting the squiggly scripts that circled the edges and then joined together in the center. It seemed to be a depiction of the moon and a grassy lake at nighttime. Two swans were sewn onto either side, their forms separated by the watery moonlight. Frodo wondered what the story behind it was; he always enjoyed a good tale from the east.
"Maybe something brighter..."
The faunt continued down the aisle, carefully sifting through the tapestries and looking for anything that might catch Thana's intellectual eye. His best friend's mother was a brilliant lady and even more amazing interpreter, often overseeing all councils that involved foreign-speaking delegates, merchants, or emissaries. Erebor's market and guild halls would've been destitute without the Consort's diplomacy and Thana's swift ability to learn almost any language she was presented with. They had managed to broker a couple dozen trade agreements in less than a decade, which was no small feat. Bilbo had even managed to finagle a few shipments of Old Toby out of the Brandybucks and Tooks during their trip to the Shire five months ago.
"Huh, what's this?"
Eyebrows furrowed in bemusement, Frodo hoisted himself a little higher onto the table and pulled out an elaborate tapestry that had been hidden underneath the rest of the pile. It was long and incredibly colorful with Westron and Sindarin script flowing along the edges, small pictures telling a detailed story about the Quest for Erebor. Frodo was instantly able to recognize his uncles, cousins, and the Company, all of them depicted as accurately as needlework and weaving permitted; even Bofur's floppy hat and Óin's trusty ear horn were included in the panels.
"Ha! Fíli's butt looks big and frumpy."
Frodo smiled as he slowly unfurled the tapestry, snorting when he came to the panels that depicted the demise of Bag End's pantry and his cousins losing the ponies to three moronic trolls. Honestly, how they'd survived the whole quest was beyond Frodo's imagination. Even at eighteen-years-old, he wasn't stupid enough to stumble into half of the trouble they'd managed to find on their way to the Lonely Mountain. Only the common sense of a gentlehobbit had kept them all alive and in one piece, as his Aunt Dís often pointed out.
"And there's the Bombur barrel."
He was about three-fourths through the tapestry when he noticed something peculiar. Tilting his head to the side, Frodo stared at the new panel and felt a queasy knot form at the bottom of his stomach. There, depicted all of his majestic glory, was Frodo's dwarven uncle, his face twisted with rage as he dangled Bilbo off of the battlements. The scene was unlike anything Frodo had ever seen before; a crude caricature of the stern King and gentle uncle who'd carried the faunt to bed, prepared his bubble baths, and kissed his boo boos to make the pain go away. The King resembled an angry warg more than a dwarven warrior, hands wrapped tightly around Bilbo's pale throat, pale blue eyes bright with fury and madness.
The faunt felt sick to his stomach and dropped the tapestry as if it had burned him. Frodo's lips quivered and he wondered when the temperature had dropped so low; it was the beginning of summer and everyone had been complaining about the sudden heat in recent days. But this didn't stop Frodo's fingers from feeling numb or his cheeks from turning an even paler white, the faunt's natural skin tone draining until he strongly resembled a blue-eyed corpse. It was the soft hands and murmuring of an elderly man that finally pulled Frodo from his frozen stupor.
"Are you alright, laddie?"
Frodo turned watery eyes up to stare at the man, his hands still shaking from the cruel picture he'd just gazed upon. With a shaky finger, Frodo pointed at the panel and then asked, "What does this mean?"
"Ah, so you've found my latest work," said the man with a nod. "Took me several years to finally complete it. I made two of them: one for the King of Dale and one to stay in my shop. Haven't had the time to properly display it yet."
"But what about this?" asked Frodo as he pointed to the panel again. "When did this happen?"
"That, little dwarf, was a most unpleasant incident that took place shortly before the Battle of the Five Armies," sighed the man. He pulled the tapestry toward himself. "I was there the day that the Dwarf-King, mad in his need to reclaim his home and his treasure, dangled Master Baggins from the keep's battlements. Everyone was certain that he would drop the halfling to his death upon the mountain rocks. Terrible business."
"But why would he do that?" demanded Frodo. "Why would he...ever do such a horrible thing?"
"Power and gold and castles and pride can drive a good person to do terrible things, my little friend. Many a good king or queen has been swayed by the promise of power and grandeur and great riches. Surely you have heard the tales and legends of such misguided and foul deeds," said the shopkeeper. "In this case, it was the Arkenstone that was behind the King's wicked fury. The Heart of the Mountain, they called it. Growing up in Esgaroth, I heard many a story about it. A bane upon the dwarves, I'd reckon, but it certainly had its sway over many other people, too."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Aye, I guess children wouldn't be told the darkest parts of that particular story," said the old man. "It's not a pleasant tale, I fear."
The shopkeeper's face appeared more wrinkled for a moment. He looked haunted and disturbed by his own thoughts, which made Frodo's stomach twist into even more painful knots. He was almost scared to hear what the older man had to say. Surely the incident couldn't be any more terrible than the picture already made it appear? How could it possibly be worse?
"My eyes aren't what they used to be, even at the time, but I can still remember the glow of the Arkenstone in King Bard's hands. Apparently, Master Baggins had stolen it in the night, wanting to use the stone as a bargaining chip to prevent a three-way war between the elves, dwarves, and men. Quite brilliant and foolish, if you ask me, but that hobbit's a special one. When the Dwarf-King wouldn't reward Bard for slaying the dragon—which had destroyed Laketown and killed hundreds of innocent people, as I'm sure you already know—the hobbit took it into his own hands to help the homeless denizens of Laketown. So, since the Dwarf-King wouldn't allow him to give his own share of the treasure to King Bard, Master Baggins stole the Arkenstone and used it as leverage to assist the Lakemen and prevent an outbreak of war."
Frodo felt cold as ice and tentatively asked, "The King didn't like that?"
The man's chuckle was sad and bitter. "Not at all, as you can see here. If the wizard hadn't been there to talk the Dwarf-King down, then Master Baggins surely would've been as dead as that accursed dragon. My eyes might be failing, but my mind isn't. I'll never forget that day. Or the ones that followed it."
"Why would Bilbo come back? Or marry him?"
"I've no idea, laddie. The King seems absolutely smitten with him now, but those last days before Master Baggins' departure were tense, if I remember correctly. There were rumors of a reconciliation before the wizard and halfling left for the kindly west, but I rarely ventured into the dwarven encampment. Quite a bit of animosity was floating all around back in those days."
"And the Arkenstone?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," said the old man with a shrug. "It's certainly not sitting above the throne anymore. I'd prefer the accursed thing never return to these parts, but dwarves are a strange lot when it comes to their rocks and stones. At times, they seem to covet them more than life itself. I've a great love for my dyes and fabrics, but I'd never dangle my wife off of Dale's walls if she misplaced them. Or hid them in the pantry. She's done that many a time. Quite devious, that woman. It must be where our daughters get it from, I reckon."
"I don't understand."
The weaver placed a warm hand on Frodo's shoulder. "It's a confusing tale, laddie. I had to confer with our princesses about several parts of it, and I'm still not sure if I was able to capture all of it accurately on here. But I wouldn't worry too much about it. Master Baggins is alive and hale and appears to be doing a fine job as Consort. My wife is especially appreciative of his work with the local farms and eastern merchants. I couldn't tell you about the Dwarf-King, though. He's a strange one, that Thorin Oakenshield. Very stoic and grumpy looking."
"He's not a people person."
"No, no, he's not," agreed the man with a laugh. "But he seems to have improved, at least as a leader. I hope he treats the hobbit well. Banishment, near murder, and awful battles cannot be the easiest actions to move past in a marriage. A story for the ages, I say."
"Maybe..."
"Are you sure you're feeling well, laddie?" The man reached out and felt Frodo's clammy forehead. "Would your mother or father happen to be around? I wouldn't want you to sick up in my dirty ol' store. Not healthy for a fine lad such as yourself."
Frodo shook his head. "I'm here with my friends. And them."
"Ah, the two dwarven ladies who've been eyeing me like a bloodthirsty warg. Quite the protectors you've got there." He reached out and rearranged the tapestry back to its rightful place on the table. "Are you sure you're alright, laddie?"
"Just a queasy stomach," Frodo admitted. "Today's been quite overwhelming."
"Well, you should head home and rest up then. Never good for a young lad to overstress himself. You should leave such things to us grown ups. It's practically our lot in life to be swamped with work. Do you need any help before I return to the desk? Perhaps a friendlier story? Such as the trolls?"
Frodo shook his head again. "No, you've told me more than enough."
"Alright. Rest easy, laddie."
With that, the elderly shopkeeper left Frodo to his thoughts. And what turbulent thoughts they were! For the first time in many years, Frodo felt insecure and sick and more than a little scared about his relationship with the King Under the Mountain. No one had ever told the faunt that part of the story. He felt angry, much angrier than he had in a long, long time. He wondered what else they were hiding from him.
"Frodo?" asked Dwina, her familiar warmth suddenly at his side. "What's wrong? You look sick."
"Did you know that the King nearly killed Uncle Bilbo?" demanded the faunt. His eyes were watery and he could feel his nose starting to dampen, too. "Am I the only person who didn't know this?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That Uncle Bilbo was nearly killed by his own husband over a stupid stone," hissed Frodo. "It's shown right here on this tapestry. See? And the old shopkeeper said so when I asked him about it. He tried to throw him from the walls!"
Dwina pulled the angry faunt into a nearby corner and demanded, "What are you talking about, Frodo Baggins?"
"So you don't know?"
"Would I be asking you if I had any inkling about what you're talking about," snapped Dwina. "No, I wouldn't. Now stop looking at me like that and explain why you're being so nasty. I refuse to put up with it."
And so, Frodo explained everything he'd learned over the past fifteen minutes. Dwina's dark eyes widened throughout the whole thing, her face going just as pale as Frodo's when he'd first seen the tapestry depiction. She looked queasy and upset by the end, small hands holding onto Frodo's elbow as she attempted to absorb the darkest part of their people's greatest tale.
"But Bilbo's so nice," Dwina whispered. "Why would your uncle want to hurt him? Dwarves don't do that to their loved ones."
"He did."
"Are you absolutely certain?"
Frodo huffed in frustration. "Why would the old man lie to me? I don't think he even knew who or what I am. He kept calling me little dwarf and didn't even comment my foot fuzz or leafy ears."
"No one's ever told me that part of the story," said Dwina. "It's like it doesn't exist."
"In the mountain, it doesn't."
Dwina sighed from where she was hugging Frodo and said, "You're not fooling anyone, Donel. Stop hiding around the corner."
The other dwarfling shuffled out from behind the opposite table, freckled face completely unrepentant about the eavesdropping he'd been doing to them. Donel didn't waste a moment in taking Frodo's hand, fingers signing something to the guards in Iglishmêk that would hopefully pacify their concerns for the next couple minutes. The faunt felt hot in the ears, not wanting anyone to see him cry over something as silly as this. Thankfully, their small size allowed them to hide behind the tables without notice, adults going about their business above the children's eye line.
"Maybe it wasn't what it looked like?" hazarded Donel after a tense moment. "Maybe they'd just had a really nasty fight like my amad and adad do sometimes and—"
"Does he dangle your amad from the battlements when she takes his favorite rock?" asked Dwina with an annoyed huff. "Because I know that my uncle doesn't do that to my aunt when she's stolen his last jewel. And she actually did that for food before we came to Erebor, too."
"Well, no..."
"Then don't make assumptions."
The red-haired dwarfling patted Frodo on the shoulder and proceeded to straighten his tunic out, carefully smoothing the edges and making sure that he didn't look like a complete mess. Dwina was just brilliant like that; always thinking ahead and making sure that they didn't land in too much trouble. She was one of the smartest girls Frodo had ever known, making everyone else look like fools when it came to cooking, knife throwing, and arithmetic. Uncle Dori and Master Jarik were already scheming about Dwina being offered an apprenticeship in the Architect's Guild after her fiftieth birthday.
"What're you gonna do?" asked Donel. "We can't just hide out in Dale and avoid your uncle forever."
Dwina sniffed. "We could make a run for the Shire."
"I don't think Gandalf would take us without Uncle Bilbo's permission," said Frodo around a snotty laugh. "And Donel would just get smacked with Petunia Bracegirtle's broom again. She doesn't like people stealing her blueberry pies."
"That pie was worth it."
Frodo snickered with his best friends, politely accepting the handkerchief that Dwina offered for his booger-filled nose. He vaguely heard Donel attempt to whisper something to Dwina, but then there was a loud oomph and Frodo knew that she'd punched him in the gut. Dwina could be downright vicious when she was in the mood for it. Frodo was pretty good at avoiding her wrath, though.
"Did you find something for your amad?"
"Aye, they had some nice woven hairclips and bracelets over at the front counter," said Donel, hands still twitching with the urge to tackle Dwina. "The lady said that they're from the Great Plains in Palisor. Near a giant lake called Daldúnair. I've heard Amad and Bilbo talk about it before. It's apparently a major trading post in the east. What do you think?"
"It's really pretty," Frodo said. "And it looks just fine without any jewels, too."
"Children?" came Aina's voice from around the corner. "It's just past the fifteenth bell. We'd best head back to the mountain now."
With that said, the dwarflings and faunt were corralled toward the counter to make a final purchase of two bracelets and one hairclip for Donel's mother. After that, they were taken out into Dale's busy streets and steered towards the northern gate and the freshly paved road that would lead them back to Erebor. At least three dozen carts had been situated at the gates, filled to the brim with food, fabrics, and lumber supplies. Normally, Frodo would've been curious about what the dwarven merchants had purchased, but for the moment, such thoughts were at the very back of his mind.
"It'll be alright," assured Dwina. "I'm sure it's all just a big misunderstanding."
For the first time in his life, Frodo dreaded returning to the mountain that had become his home. He couldn't reconcile the enraged weaving of Erebor's King and the grumpy uncle who'd loved and cared for him over the past decade. Frodo knew that he needed to uncover the truth behind the matter; it'd haunt him constantly if he didn't. And there was only one place where he could do that...
"We need to find Ori."