Archive of Our Own

Bilbo was tending his flower beds when the letter arrived.

In the handful of years since Thorin had created this garden for Bilbo, on a terrace high on the Lonely Mountain, the garden had grown and developed, and Bilbo was rooted into it now, as firmly as ever he had been rooted to the Shire before. The young sapling that Thorin had transplanted from Lake-town was now sturdy; the raised beds were full of greenery, strong plants that could weather the fierce winters here. Bilbo had planted flowers and vegetables and herbs, and he had anchored his own spirit to the soil and the living things that he so carefully tended.

It was spring now, and Bilbo revelled in it. A light breeze drifted across his terrace, and the air was filled with the sounds of insects busily pollinating the flowers that he had managed to protect and keep safe through the winter snows. He was weeding today, for even here, on the slopes of Erebor, weeds were a gardener’s continual problem. But Bilbo didn’t mind. He had learned through bitter experience what became of Hobbits who did not have a garden to care for, or plants to tend.

He weeded patiently, with his dirt-covered hands and with the tools Thorin had crafted so lovingly for him. The sun was warm on his back, and his toes curled into the soft soil. Bilbo was contented. The only thing he lacked was someone to share in his garden, for although Thorin often joined Bilbo here on the terrace, when his duties allowed, and although Fili and Kili, and his other friends, were frequent visitors, none of them understood Bilbo’s joy for new growth. The bright green of new stems pushing out of the soil, or a bud on the cusp of flowering – these things were a delight for Bilbo. He had planted daffodils last year, the bulbs sent to him from Rivendell, and Thorin had been bemused by Bilbo’s exuberance when they survived the winter.

They were Dwaves; their world was one of stone. Thorin did try, because Thorin knew what none of the others did, and Bilbo was grateful for his attempts. Still, sometimes he longed for another Hobbit, so that he could show off his garden with pride, and discuss the growing of vegetables in such a climate as this.

Fili brought him the letter, when the sun was high in the sky and Bilbo was just contemplating going in search of some lunch. His young nephew stood at the doors to the terrace, although Bilbo reflected that he was no longer quite so young, for Fili had grown much over the last few years, and was now as steady an heir as any ruler could want. Thorin was proud of him, and although Bilbo sometimes felt he had no right to feel likewise, he was proud as well.

He sat back on his heels and looked up at his heart’s kin, but Fili was unusually grave, and he still wore his court clothes, finery that he usually shed as quickly as possible. Bilbo brushed his hands together and stood up, concern curdling in his stomach and drying his mouth.

“Fili?” he asked. “Is something the matter?”

Fili made no reply, only held out the letter that he carried. Bilbo took it, and even after so long away from the Shire he could recognise his cousin’s hand, the careful strokes and curves of it. He had exchanged a handful of letters with relatives in the Shire since making his home here in Erebor, but no more than a handful, perhaps once or twice a year. The roads were a little safer than they had been, for many orcs had been killed in the great battle, and their numbers had not yet been restored. Still, it was a long journey, and not one made often, so letters were rare.

“It was carried by a Dwarf,” said Fili as Bilbo broke the seal and unfolded the pages. “Coming from Ered Luin. He was asked to carry this carefully, to make sure you got it. I don’t think it can be good news, Uncle.”

It was a long letter, and seemed to be filled with nothing extraordinary, nothing to cause Fili to look so serious, and Bilbo folded the letter and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

“My cousin Amaranth must have worried the Dwarf unnecessarily,” he said. “Just a normal letter, Fili. You needn’t be so anxious.” Fili did not quite seem to believe him, and Bilbo knew why. Neither Fili nor Kili had ever quite forgiven him for hiding his illness from them, that first year here in Erebor. They did not hold it against him, but they never forgot, and it sometimes caused them to view Bilbo’s reassurances with suspicion. But Bilbo suggested they have lunch together, and asked him about his morning’s work, and soon enough Fili was cheerful again.

Bilbo did not remember the letter until late that evening, just as he was trying to decide if a little evening nibble of something would be appropriate, and whether such a nibble would be worth the bother of getting up – because he was quite comfortable where he was, stretched out on a couch with his head resting against Thorin’s leg. Thorin was reading, for there was no end of paperwork for a king still hard at work restoring a kingdom, but he held the pages with one hand and stroked his other hand through Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo felt himself almost on the verge of falling asleep, which was no doubt Thorin’s aim, and at length he decided that he could go without a nibble of cheese, for the sake of letting Thorin continue to pet him so. Every now and then Thorin’s forefinger brushed against the point of Bilbo’s ear, a movement that Bilbo was quite sure was intentional.

Then he remembered his letter, and Bilbo withdrew it from his pocket and unfolded it once more, anticipating a nostalgic few moments as he read the news of his friends and relatives in the Shire.

“Fili mentioned there was a letter for you,” said Thorin, and Bilbo hummed a response and immersed himself in the minutiae of life in Buckland. Amaranth wrote of weddings and births, of an argument between a Bracegirdle and a Proudfoot over the ownership of a wandering cow, of how this year’s Old Toby promised to be the best in some time. There was a familiarity in the rhythm of it, a way and a speed of life that Bilbo had left behind when he had followed thirteen Dwarves out of the Shire and onto an adventure.

It was only on the last page of the letter that Bilbo realised why his cousin might have pressed her Dwarf messenger so, for on the last page Amaranth wrote, with a shaking hand, of the death of her sister Primula, and Primula’s husband Drogo Baggins.

Bilbo sat up then, ignoring Thorin’s protest and questions, and he read the few lines over and over. They were dead, his young cousins, drowned in a boating accident, and their son left behind in the care of his Brandybuck relatives. That poor boy, Bilbo thought, and he allowed Thorin to take the letter from him, to read what had so distressed Bilbo.

“I am sorry,” said Thorin. He put the letter aside, and his own documents, and he took Bilbo’s hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed Bilbo’s palm. It was a comfort, but not enough, and so Bilbo sought more. He burrowed into Thorin’s arms and hid his face against Thorin’s chest, leaning on the Dwarf’s great strength and trying to take some of that strength into himself.

“How do you grieve your dead?” Thorin asked at length, curious. It was not a subject they had ever discussed. Since making his home in Erebor Bilbo had followed Dwarven customs in such things, for he was considered as good as a Dwarf by everybody under the Mountain, and Bilbo strived to be worthy of such regard.

“We usually don’t,” said Bilbo, and he could feel Thorin’s surprise in the sudden laxness of his arms. Then Bilbo explained – as he would explain to no other, for Thorin alone knew some of the secrets that all Hobbits kept closely guarded. They did not grieve, he explained, because death was simply a return to the earth that nurtured them, and as long as a Hobbit was placed in the ground, they were never truly gone. The earth gave, and the earth took; it was a cycle of growth and death that was as natural as breathing. What need was there for grief in that?

But accidental deaths, he told Thorin, were lives cut short before that cycle could complete. There was the boy, too – young Frodo Baggins, left alone, and Bilbo’s heart ached for him.

“But he has other relatives?” Thorin questioned. “Uncles, grandparents?”

“Rorimac has taken him in,” Bilbo said. Thorin was still and thoughtful. Bilbo knew he tried, for Bilbo’s sake, to remember at least a little of the labyrinthine families from which Bilbo came, but Dwarves had small families, and Bilbo had many relatives. “My aunt Mirabella’s oldest,” he added. “Frodo’s uncle.” Thorin shook his head and muttered about the blessings of Hobbits, to have such large families. It was an old refrain, and it made Bilbo smile. He lifted his head from Thorin’s chest and offered his mouth for a kiss.

But his thoughts dwelled on the letter. Amaranth Brandybuck was no fool, and she wrote that young Frodo did not do well in Brandy Hall now that his parents were gone. Too much Baggins in him, she wrote, although he had dear friends among the other fauntlings. His parents were gone, and no amount of aunts or uncles could make up for the lack of a mother or a father.

An idea formed in his mind, nebulous at first but gaining substance with startling speed. He grew distracted, and Thorin sat back with a huff and an expressive look on his face.

“Should I be offended by such disinterest?” he asked, and Bilbo scoffed at him and turned to retrieve the letter, reading again the sparse lines that Amaranth had written of the orphaned boy. He tried to remember how old the child was – not yet a tween, he thought, still a fauntling. His heart ached, and he tried to be practical, to scold himself for such wild ideas – such Tookish ideas.

Thorin nudged him, his expression amused now.

“Bilbo,” he said, “I am familiar with that look on your face. What scheme are you hatching now?”

“I must go to the Shire,” said Bilbo.

Later, once he was alone in the great bed that he was too used to sharing with Thorin, Bilbo would reflect that he should have expected the argument that ensued from his words. They were in any case due for such a quarrel – they loved each other deeply, but they were who they were, and it was not always easy for a Hobbit to live among Dwarves, or for a Dwarf to understand a Hobbit. No argument ever lasted long; Bilbo usually stormed away and hid himself in some corner of the mountain, refusing to allow Thorin to hurl cruel words that would only be retracted later.

Thorin’s arguments now made no sense, and he scarcely allowed Bilbo to get a word in edgeways. He shouted and stormed, declaring the journey too dangerous and Bilbo unprepared for such travels. There were no guards to be spared for the journey, Thorin claimed, and later Bilbo would recognise that Thorin’s anger came from fear. For now, though, he stood his ground and tried to counter everything Thorin flung at him. He did not need guards, he said, or he could hire Men from Dale for the journey. Gandalf might be nearby, to accompany him along the road, or perhaps Tauriel of Mirkwood could be spared. But the mention of the Elf only stoked Thorin’s anger, for he did not yet approve of Kili’s relationship with her, although he had never acted against it.

“I forbid it,” Thorin raged at last. “You will not go.”

“I should like to see you stop me,” Bilbo returned.

They were interrupted then, their voices loud enough to have drawn Fili’s attention even through the thick stone walls that separated their quarters. Fili dragged Thorin from the room, muttering under his breath to his uncle all the while, and once Bilbo was alone, all the anger left him with a great sigh.

After all, he thought, it would be a long journey. Six months perhaps before he returned, or longer, if he was delayed in the Shire or by poor weather. The thought of parting from Thorin for so long was not a pleasant one, but it was not enough to turn Bilbo from his purpose. He knew why Amaranth Brandybuck had written to him; he was Hobbit enough, still, to read between the lines and understand what she was asking him.

In all his ranting, Bilbo reflected sadly, Thorin had not even asked him what his purpose would be in going back to the Shire.

Kili came to him the next morning. Just like his brother, Kili had matured much over the past few years, although he lacked Fili’s responsibilities and so escaped much of the pressure of being heir to a kingdom only recently reclaimed. His beard remained short, but through choice now, for a longer beard interfered with his archery, and Kili’s relationship with Tauriel had only made him work harder for increased proficiency with his bow.

He came with breakfast, a tray laden with all Bilbo’s favourite foods, and Bilbo laughed and assured Kili that he was not still angry with Thorin. Kili shrugged his shoulders and happily joined Bilbo for the meal, and only when they were both sated did he ask his questions. Why, he asked, should Bilbo want to return to the Shire? Was he unhappy in Erebor? If he wished to share his condolences, surely a letter would suffice?

Bilbo shook his head and explained, as he would have explained to Thorin the previous night had Thorin given him a chance. He had been very fond of Primula and Drogo, he told Kili, and Frodo was left alone, an orphaned only child in a home full of well-intentioned Hobbits who could not spare the time to understand him.

Bilbo had time – plenty of it, more than enough to spend some on a young boy left adrift in the world. He had few duties here that could not be left for a time while he travelled to the Shire to take guardianship of the fauntling. Questions would be raised, he admitted, by some of his family – by many of them, perhaps, since he knew full well what most Hobbits thought of him, for running off on an adventure and then settling down as the consort of a Dwarven king in a far-off mountain. But in the end, the decision would be Frodo’s, and Bilbo knew it to be the right thing, to offer a new home to the boy.

Bilbo fell silent then, worried that Kili had made no response. But Kili was thoughtful, and now that Bilbo had finished speaking he smiled, and reached out to clasp Bilbo’s shoulder.

“It is a good idea,” he said, “and you are kind to think of it. I’ll go with you, Uncle – and Tauriel will too, I know.”

A lump came to Bilbo’s throat at the simple, unconditional support from his nephew. He lifted his hand to grasp Kili’s forearm, and tried to pretend that he was not feeling so affected. Kili’s smile was bright and his eyes merry, so Bilbo knew he could see what Bilbo had no inclination to reveal, but he did not comment on it.

“We can be ready to go within a week,” Kili said then, and he began to collect the breakfast things back onto the tray as he rambled about supplies and ponies and making sure Bilbo remembered how to use his little sword. He made no mention of Thorin. Bilbo must have that conversation himself, and they both knew it.

But Thorin’s duties took up too much time for Bilbo to be able to speak to him before evening, and so he spent the day with Kili, ordering supplies for their journey – dried meats and cram, mainly, and Bilbo almost had second thoughts about the journey when he realised it would mean eating cram again, but Kili reminded him that Tauriel would surely bring lembas, and she would share it without hesitation.

Bombur found out about Bilbo’s plan then, for he oversaw all food supplies for the mountain kingdom, and the news moved rapidly from there, passed from Dwarf to Dwarf with the speed that only gossip could ever attain. Bilbo was amused and annoyed in turns at the stories he heard as he moved through the hallways of Erebor and was accosted by many of the Dwarves who had come to care for him as fiercely as if he were one of their own. Some begged him not to leave, having heard only that he was to go, not that he was to return. Some offered to come with him as an honour guard, “as befits the King’s consort”, and Bilbo was touched by those offers, even though he declined them all, for the rebuilding of Erebor was far from finished, and every Dwarf here was needed for that.

By the time Bofur found him that evening, grimy from the mines and demanding to know what Thorin had done, to drive Bilbo from the Mountain, Bilbo was beginning to wonder whether he could be excused for hijacking Thorin’s council meeting the next morning, to make a public announcement and stop all the rumours flying about.

“Thorin hasn’t done anything,” he said, more harshly than his friend deserved, and he regretted his tone at once at Bofur’s chagrined expression. “I’m sorry,” Bilbo said, “but I’ve had everyone under the Mountain, it seems, coming to ask me if a hundred different rumours are true.”

Bofur laughed then, and dragged Bilbo off to their favourite bar for a brew and an explanation. Bilbo drank a mug of beer and offered the explanation freely, but declined an invitation to stay longer, choosing instead to return to his quarters in the hope of finding Thorin free of his day’s duties, at least until supper, when they both were bound to appear in the dining hall.

Thorin was not there, and though normally Bilbo would not have worried over his absence – for meetings ran long, and the King’s Council was not peopled with Dwarves known for their brevity – tonight he did worry. He thought of Thorin’s anger, and recognised it for the fear it was, and Bilbo could admit to himself that he should have spoken better.

He dressed for supper with more care than usual, choosing the clothes he knew Thorin liked best. Thorin was already at supper when Bilbo arrived, his expression dark and grim, but Bilbo slipped into his seat beside him and reached out beneath the table to touch Thorin’s knee.

“I do not want to argue,” he said softly. Thorin was silent, but his hand met Bilbo’s and his expression lightened. Meals taken in the dining hall were too public for much talk between them on any subject they did not wish to be spread throughout the Mountain, but eventually supper ended, and Thorin held Bilbo’s hand as they returned to their quarters.

There, in the privacy of their own rooms, Bilbo had the chance to explain. Thorin listened, and was silent, as words poured from Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo spoke until his mouth was dry, until he ran out of things to say, and only then did Thorin speak.

“I will miss you,” he said, and Bilbo sighed and reached for him, entwining their fingers and lifting Thorin’s hand to press kisses to his knuckles. “And,” Thorin added, “I shall worry.” But he agreed that Kili could be spared for such a task, and that Tauriel would be an adequate guard. Another Dwarf also must go, he told Bilbo, and would not be moved on that point. Dwalin would accompany them, whether Bilbo willed it or not, and Bilbo conceded it, for he knew Thorin would fear less if his old friend were there to help keep Bilbo safe.

Thorin used their conjoined hands to pull Bilbo closer, then, and it was some time before more words passed between them. At length Thorin lay stretched full length on the couch, with Bilbo sprawled over him, and Thorin asked if Frodo was likely to come.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo had to admit. He could not know, of course – it had been four years now since Bilbo had left the Shire, and young fauntlings changed much within a single season. It might well prove to be a fruitless journey, but it was one Bilbo had to make, and Thorin seemed to understand that now.

“I would not love you so well, were you not as you are,” he said, and so of course Bilbo had to kiss him again. Thorin’s beard tickled and then scratched, but Bilbo had never minded that, and he felt almost as though he should store up these sensations in his mind, for the time when they would be parted. He tried to suggest to Thorin that the months would go by quickly, but he made no objection when Thorin growled a low growl and tumbled them off the couch and into the bedroom.

Four days passed before the small party was ready to leave, and they left with a fanfare and a crowd. It seemed as if all of Erebor had turned out to bid farewell to their King’s husband, and Bilbo was not unaffected. Kili laughed, and joked that the Dwarves of Erebor would miss Bilbo more than they would miss him. His mother, Dis, who had chosen to accompany them to Dale, cuffed him roughly and said that if Kili did half of what Bilbo did for Erebor, he would be missed twice as much as he would be now. That made Bilbo blush hotly, but the teasing made it easier to ride away from Erebor, and from the King who stood atop the gates until they had ridden so far that Bilbo could no longer see him when he twisted around to look over his shoulder.

Dis left them at Dale, and Tauriel joined them at Lake-town. Bilbo was glad of her company, for while Dwalin was never talkative, Kili could talk non-stop when he chose, and Tauriel was a welcome balance in the small group. She was lively and spirited, but she was a formidable warrior, and even Dwalin had grown to respect her for it.

They passed through Mirkwood safely, for Thranduil had set patrols to destroy the spiders and to keep the path safe, and so it was not many weeks before they found themselves at Beorn’s house. The great shifter welcomed them readily, and gave them fresh supplies for the next stage of their journey. Of the Misty Mountains he could tell them only a little, but it was mostly good news, for it seemed the orcs had not yet regained a foothold there.

“Stay longer,” he urged them. “Feast on my honey, I know the little one enjoys it!”

But Bilbo shook his head. He would not stay, because any prolonged visit here meant his return to Thorin would be further delayed. His companions did not object; Dwalin had never been quite comfortable with Beorn, and Kili knew Bilbo’s feelings on the matter.

“We go for family,” said Tauriel to Beorn, as the travellers began to saddle their mounts after they had spent two days resting and eating their fill. “And we have family to return to, after.”

“Ah,” said Beorn, grave then. “I cannot begrudge that to any. Safe journey, then, elf-maid. And you, little bunny.”

Bilbo sighed. He had learned to ignore the nickname, but that didn’t mean that he liked hearing it. Kili started sniggering, but Dwalin gave him a solid thump and told him to get on. Bilbo smiled then, and exchanged an amused look with Tauriel.

They hurried through the Misty Mountains, mindful of Beorn’s warnings that even with the mountains emptied there were still dangers on the high passes. Late spring was fading into summer, so the days continued to grow longer, and they rode for as long as there was light in the evening. Tauriel held the night’s watch most often, for she needed less sleep than the Dwarves, but nothing occurred as they crossed the mountains save that Bilbo suffered a nightmare, and woke to find that somehow his Ring had come loose from his pocket and was clenched tightly in his fist.

He did not speak of it to his friends. He never spoke of the Ring, not even to Thorin. He hardly even thought of it these days, truth be told – although sometimes he worried, if the Ring was not near. He kept it in a box, in Erebor, hidden at the back of a shelf in his wardrobe, but sometimes he felt the desire to keep it on him, and then it went into an inner pocket of his waistcoat. He had no reason to use it, of course, but he sometimes felt better when it was within reach, just in case a need should ever arise.

The nightmare discomfited him, for it had been filled with visions of the creature Gollum, and Bilbo wished for Thorin, for Thorin’s arms to hold him and his love to melt away the last traces of the dream from Bilbo’s mind. A futile wish, and he knew it, but it made him urge the others on, and they crossed the mountains even faster, and did not stop for a midday meal, but ate lembas or cram from their saddles.

A patrol from Rivendell met them in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and accompanied them back to the Last Homely House. There they were welcomed by Lord Elrond, and given every hospitality, but Bilbo could not enjoy it as he wished to – they were so close to the Shire now that he could only desire to press on. There were still some weeks of travel ahead of them, he said regretfully to Lord Elrond, and he had no wish to still be travelling back to Erebor when winter arrived.

Still, they passed a few days in Rivendell, for Bilbo was wearied from the hasty journey over the mountains. It caused his companions to watch him with worry, no matter how Bilbo reassured them, but none of them had forgotten Bilbo’s illness and they did not accept his protests of health. Kili trailed him like a shadow, hardly allowing him a moment to himself, and Bilbo was almost certain that Tauriel spoke to Elrond about him, for more than once he caught that stately lord keeping a watchful eye on him.

He complained to Dwalin, but he gained nothing by it, for Dwalin gave him an incredulous look and asked what he thought Thorin would do, if any of them let Bilbo fall ill so far from Erebor.

“He’d have my beard before I even stepped back through the gates,” Dwalin said, and Bilbo knew Thorin too well to be able to disagree. So he accepted his princely shadow, and suffered Tauriel to over-fill his plate at each meal. But all he needed was a few nights sleeping in a soft bed, and within a week they set off once more, with fresh supplies and an Elven escort until they had passed the Trollshaws.

“We should find our trolls again,” Kili said with a merry laugh, “when we return with Frodo. We can tell him all about his clever uncle.” Bilbo shook his head in amusement as Kili told the tale again, as if Tauriel had never heard it, with more embellishments than ever before. He did not mind hearing it, nor Kili’s assumption that Frodo would indeed be travelling this way with them very soon. He was finding that the closer they travelled to the Shire, the more he doubted the wisdom of his plan and the more uncertain he was that Frodo would agree – let alone that the Brandybuck clan would release him into Bilbo’s care.

The road was ill maintained between Rivendell and Bree, but it was enough to give them a clear path and so they followed it, for this was not a journey of secrecy, as had been the only other journey Bilbo had taken before. They rode openly, although with care, for Elrond had warned them that the Rangers had been at work chasing bandits from the road. And indeed they were set upon, barely a day’s travel from Bree, and Bilbo wished then that he had kept up his sword practice, for he did little good and only became cross with his own ineptitude.

The bandits did not pose much difficulty to his friends, however. Dwalin was ever a masterful warrior, and Kili and Tauriel both fought as well with blades as they did with bows. The bandits were a starving bunch, dirty and bedraggled, and Bilbo urged Dwalin to leave them bound and to send back Men from Bree to deal with their own.

“You are too merciful, Master Baggins,” Dwalin grumbled, but Tauriel approved of Bilbo’s plan, and so the bandits were bound with rope and tucked into a gorse thicket to keep them hidden from any nearby predators.

In Bree they stopped for only one night, and Tauriel sought out the town’s sheriffs and guardsmen to report their encounter with the bandits, for she was of a height with Men, and would garner more respect than Bilbo or the Dwarves. When she returned to them in the inn, she matched Dwalin drink for drink, and Bilbo wished Thorin was with them. Thorin, Bilbo thought, would be torn between supporting his friend and delighting in Dwalin’s shame at losing to an Elf.

He missed Thorin deeply, more than he had expected. His companions were all good friends and cheered him admirably, but Bilbo missed Thorin. He missed waking beside his husband, and watching him dress, and he missed the way Thorin would coax him into wearing the light crown he had fashioned for Bilbo, all silver tongue and soft hands until Bilbo relented and donned the circlet.

But they were nearly at the Shire. In only a few more days, if the weather continued to hold fine, they would pass by the Old Forest, and then onwards to Buckland. Bilbo longed for it just as much as he longed for Thorin, for with each passing mile he could feel something ease inside him, a connection to his homeland that he had almost begun to forget. His garden in Erebor, and his journeys to Dale and the shores of the Long Lake, kept him firmly rooted into his own body, his spirit anchored so he would not fade away, but the Shire had been his first roots, the place where he had grown and where he had tended the earth for so long. It called him home now he was so close to it.

Tauriel seemed to notice, and more than once Bilbo found her watching him with a strange expression, but he ignored it, since there was no explanation he could give to any questions she might put to him. Bad enough that he had betrayed his kind’s secrets to one other, even though that one was his husband. He would not do so a second time, not even for one so dearly beloved by his heart’s kin.

Instead he told her stories of the Old Forest, stories that made her turn her attention to the great forest they were passing. Bilbo could recall his mother telling him these stories, and so stories of the Old Forest drifted into stories of his mother, and Kili encouraged him in those, always eager to hear about Bilbo’s family and childhood.

It was nearly midsummer when they entered the Shire, turning south along the Brandywine River and journeying to Brandy Hall. Their speed was slowed almost as soon as they entered the Shire, for the story of Bilbo Baggins and his Dwarves was still a marvel even after four years, and Hobbits familiar and less so alike stopped Bilbo and asked after him, amazed or disapproving in turn.

Before long Bilbo found that it was easier to alight from his pony and walk, the better to greet old friends and distant relations, as it seemed nobody was willing to let him pass without at the very least exchanging a ‘good afternoon’ with him. Dwalin stayed astride his pony, and sent a fierce glare to any Hobbit who dared to hint that Bilbo was anything but a Hobbit of good reputation, but Kili and Tauriel walked alongside Bilbo. Kili drew the eye of a Hobbit maid or two, and Tauriel teased him that he might stay in the Shire and find a Hobbit to marry.

“Certainly your uncle could not disapprove of a Hobbit,” she said, and it would have been light but for the look in her eye. Kili shook his head and offered her a smile that made Bilbo look away from them, so private it seemed to be.

News of his arrival spread faster than they could walk, and so by the time they reached Brandy Hall, a welcome had been arranged and old Gorbadoc Brandybuck was waiting for them at the door, comfortably ensconced on a bench, puffing away on a pipe.

“Mirabella always said there was more Took in you than you let on,” he greeted, and Bilbo could not think of an adequate response before Gorbadoc continued. “So which one is he?” he asked, gesturing his pipe between Kili and Dwalin. Bilbo hurried to explanations and introductions before Kili could make a bad impression by laughing, and Gorbadoc nodded but said nothing when the Dwarves both bowed and offered their service, as they had to Bilbo so long ago.

Mirabella appeared then, scolding Gorbadoc for not inviting their visitors in and welcoming Bilbo back all in one breath. A crowd of fauntlings appeared with her, and in minutes Dwalin had abandoned his usual gruff demeanour in favour of allowing the smallest children to climb all over him. Kili laughed until he attracted his own share of the fauntlings, and then he was too busy for laughter.

Bilbo and Tauriel were ushered into Brandy Hall, and plied with tea and biscuits, and it was some time before Bilbo could progress beyond ‘how are you’ and ‘how well you’re looking’. All of Gorbadoc’s many children seemed to have discovered his arrival, and all came to visit their cousin and marvel at the Hobbit who had married a Dwarf King. He answered their questions and listened to their news, and it was only later, once Kili and Dwalin had joined them and more food had been served, that Bilbo was able to ask after the object of his journey.

“Amaranth wrote to me about Primula and Drogo,” he said to his aunt Mirabella, who had contrived to sit beside him. “I’ve come for Frodo.”

Mirabella gave him a stare that made her look so much like her sister Belladonna that for a moment Bilbo was struck with a pang of old grief, but then the moment passed and Mirabella shrugged her shoulders and gestured towards the window.

“He’s outside,” she said. “He’s outside all the time, or nearly. He doesn’t like crowds, these days.”

Bilbo slipped away unnoticed, for attention had passed from him to his companions, and went out into the garden to find his young relative. There was no sign of where Frodo might be, and Mirabella had given him no hints, but Bilbo was content to wander and to enjoy the garden. There were plants and flowers in the Shire that he had not been able to cultivate in Erebor, the climates being so different, and so he took his time now, enjoying the sights and the smells of a good Shire garden, tended by Hobbits for generations. His own garden was so new, and though it was enough for him, enough to give him roots to the world, still the newness of it was so different to the old gardens here, filled with years of love and care.

At length Bilbo found Frodo, tucked away in a corner of the large garden. The boy was pale, made more so by the mop of dark hair on his head, and he was a little thinner than he ought to be. He knelt on the grass, hard at work doing something, biting his lip with fierce concentration. Bilbo wandered closer, but stopped when Frodo looked up, all large blue eyes and pale face, dark smudges under his eyes.

“Hello,” said Frodo, standing up to offer his dirty hand. Bilbo approved of his manners, and shook Frodo’s hand solemnly. Then he asked what Frodo was doing, and Frodo invited him onto the grass to see the village he was building from twigs and leaves. Before long they were both stretched out on their stomachs, and if Bilbo watched Frodo more than he contributed to the construction, he didn’t think Frodo noticed.

“What about a river?” Bilbo suggested idly at one point, but regretted his words as soon as he spoke them, and Frodo shook his head vigorously and pressed his lips firmly together. Bilbo could not unsay what had been said, but he would not allow himself to be so careless again.

They played together for nearly an hour before they were found by anyone, and it was Kili who came in search of his errant uncle. Kili looked a little worse for wear, his clothes in disarray and a smear of jam on his face, but Bilbo said nothing; he had grass stains on his shirt and knew Kili would delight in pointing it out if Bilbo were to comment on Kili’s appearance.

“This must be Frodo,” said Kili, sweeping into a low bow. “At your service, cousin.”

“We aren’t cousins,” said Frodo. His eyes were wide and fixed on Kili, and Bilbo wondered what he could do to erase that haunted, lonely look from the young child. “You’re a Dwarf.”

“I am,” agreed Kili. He went down on one knee beside Frodo, so they were eye to eye, and Bilbo watched, curious to see what Kili would say. “But your great-uncle Bilbo is my uncle by marriage, and so I think that ought to make us cousins, don’t you think?”

Frodo frowned, his eyebrows drawn together as he thought about that. Perhaps it was so, he agreed at last, and solemnly he held out his hand for Kili to shake.

“My Mama told me about you,” he said then to Bilbo, and Bilbo cocked his head and waited for more. But anything else that Frodo might have said was curtailed by a call from the Hall, and Frodo scurried off to be bathed before supper.

“Will he come?” Kili asked, rising once more and holding out a hand to help Bilbo up. “Have you asked him?”

“We’ve barely met,” Bilbo pointed out. “Not everybody goes at your speed, Kili.” He would not rush Frodo. This was not a decision to be made in haste. Who knew, after all, when or whether Bilbo would ever return to the Shire again, and Frodo must understand that before he could decide whether to stay or to go. They must spend time together first, more than a short hour in the sun, before Bilbo could even think of suggesting to Frodo that he should come with him, back to Erebor, to make a new home under the Lonely Mountain.

Supper was a lively affair, and afterwards the younger Hobbits coaxed a bedtime story from Bilbo. One of his adventures, they said, and Bilbo willingly went. Storytelling was a favourite pastime of his, and he had learned many Dwarven tales in the years he had spent in Erebor. But the fauntlings wanted a story of his own adventures, and so he told them of the three trolls, and was agreeably rewarded by their awed reactions.

Three days passed thus, in eating and talking and smoking good Shire pipeweed. Bilbo relished it, the familiar old rhythms of life and the ways of his own kind, but he could admit to himself that he enjoyed it all the more for the knowledge that he would not remain here. He could no longer be content in the borders of the Shire, and he felt a strange sense of detachment when he looked out at his homeland. He looked for mountains, and saw only gentle hills. He was not the same Hobbit who had left the Shire, and he had known that, but this visit made the differences clear.

He spent time with Frodo, when he could – as much of it as he could, even going so far as to use his Ring on occasion to escape yet another family reunion, so he and Frodo could go on long walks together. He was here for Frodo, after all, and he had taken a great liking to the boy. He was clever, and though quiet and solemn, Bilbo could see a streak of mischief in him that was only suppressed now by grief. Rorimac, the eldest of Gorbadoc’s offspring, told Bilbo stories that only confirmed Bilbo’s impression. Scrumping for apples seemed a favourite occupation, and foraging for mushrooms that did not belong to him. Frodo had the makings of a regular little burglar, and it amused Bilbo immensely.

“I like him,” he said, one evening when he, Rorimac and Gorbadoc were sitting outside Brandy Hall sharing a particularly fine pouch of Old Toby. “He’s a smart lad.”

“He is,” Rorimac agreed. “A good boy, mostly.” He eyed Bilbo with a thoughtful expression, and Bilbo busied himself with his pipe. It did no good; Rorimac asked his question anyway. “What do you intend, then, Bilbo? You’ve not come all this way just for a visit.” Gorbadoc nodded, grunting around his pipe.

“No,” said Bilbo. “I want to ask Frodo to come back to Erebor with me.”

He realised then that he had forgotten some of the art of subtlety, for no decent Hobbit would have made such a statement outright. He had learned too much from the Dwarves, he rued, and hoped it would not cost him dear.

“Ha!” said Gorbadoc, not sounding in the least upset or surprised, and he reached across to nudge his son. “Didn’t I say so?”

Bilbo explained his plan then, and answered all their questions. He wanted to take Frodo as his heir, he said, but that was really incidental. He wanted to provide a home for the boy, who had lost so much. Amaranth had written, he told them, and suggested that Frodo was not quite content here. Perhaps Frodo would fare better with someone who was devoted to his care, someone who did not have many other children to take love and attention. Erebor was not the Shire, he admitted, and yet it was a safe home, and a loving one. Thorin would welcome Frodo with open arms, and the Dwarves were a good people, if a little rough.

“And,” Bilbo added, “I admit I would enjoy not being the only Hobbit there.”

Gorbadoc finished his pipe before speaking again, and when he did so, he was oddly hesitant.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t say as how I’m surprised you’re a little on the lonely side. But a Hobbit so far from home…a fauntling has needs, Bilbo, you know that.” Rorimac cleared his throat, uncomfortable. This was not a subject any of them were used to discussing.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I have a garden there, of course.” They were relieved, and Bilbo shared a little of his illness with them then, in careful, slow words that danced around the edges of the matter. He would not speak of it directly. It was so seldom spoken of that he couldn’t quite bring himself to use blunt words – but of course they knew what he meant, and it seemed to ease their minds a little. Frodo’s needs in that sense would be met, Bilbo assured them, for Bilbo himself was all too aware of the dangers of being without some grounding force, without roots to the earth.

“Well,” said Rorimac at last, “it’s his decision, of course. But I shan’t oppose you, cousin.” Bilbo looked at Gorbadoc then, for he was Frodo’s grandfather and had every right to contest it. But Gorbadoc shrugged and jerked his thumb back at the Hall.

“Mirabella says it’s alright,” he said, “so you may as well ask him.”

Others might complain, but Gorbadoc was Master of Buckland, and Rorimac would be so after his father’s death. No Brandybuck had more right to allow Frodo’s removal than they, and since none of Frodo’s Baggins kin had come forward to care for the boy, Bilbo would not face opposition from that quarter either – should Frodo agree, of course, which was still uncertain.

But now he had approval, now Bilbo knew that he could take Frodo away if Frodo wished it, he wasted little time in putting his proposal to the young boy. The very next morning he invited Frodo to walk with him towards Crickhollow, a long enough walk for the conversation he meant to have. Frodo would tire before they got there, of course, but the destination wasn’t important.

“I’ll invite the others, too,” said Frodo, preparing to rush off and find his cousins, but Bilbo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Just us, my lad,” he said. “I’ve a question to ask you.”

They wandered off at a leisurely place. Bilbo carried a basket of food for their meals, and there was no need for them to hurry. The day was warm and the skies clear, and Frodo seemed happy enough, rambling along beside him. They spoke very little until they were well away from Brandy Hall, and then Frodo slipped his hand into Bilbo’s and asked why Bilbo had wanted to speak to him.

“Are you happy at Brandy Hall, Frodo?” Bilbo questioned. Frodo shrugged and looked away, and would not answer. Bilbo squeezed his hand and reassured Frodo that his answer would not reflect badly on his relatives.

“I miss my parents,” Frodo admitted in a low voice, and Bilbo wanted to hug him but didn’t, restraining himself to another squeeze of Frodo’s hand. “They’re all very nice,” Frodo hurried to add, “and Uncle Rorimac has been very kind to me.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said. “But are you happy?” Frodo said nothing, and they walked along together, nodding to the odd farmer they passed in the fields. Bilbo whistled a tune he’d learned from the Dwarves, and before long Frodo had caught the refrain and was humming along. Bilbo taught him the words then, and they both laughed when Frodo went wrong. But Bilbo was patient, and Frodo was clever, and by the time came for elevenses, Frodo was as confident as Bilbo in singing the song.

They settled beneath a tree at the roadside for their elevenses, and it was there, leaning against the tree trunk, that Bilbo asked Frodo whether he should like to come and live with him, in Erebor. Frodo exclaimed in delight, and jumped up, threatening to spill his bread and butter onto the grass.

“It is a long way from the Shire,” Bilbo cautioned. He did not want to dampen the boy’s enthusiasm, but he would not lie to him about what such a move would mean for Frodo. “And I couldn’t promise you that we’d be coming back,” he added. Frodo sat down again, thoughtful now, and Bilbo let him be for a while, let him think his own thoughts about what Bilbo had said.

“Why me?” Frodo asked at last, after he had finished his elevenses. “Is it because my parents are dead?” The question was asked with the bluntness of a child, and it almost took Bilbo’s breath away. But he answered carefully, and truthfully. Frodo’s parents were dead, and Bilbo could not replace them, he told Frodo, but he should like to look after Frodo now, and to care for him. He would like to make Frodo his heir, but more than that – he wanted to give Frodo a home, and somebody whose first concern was Frodo.

“Won’t King Thorin mind?” Frodo asked next, looking up at Bilbo with wide eyes. “I’m not any relation. I’m not a Dwarf.”

“You are his heart’s kin,” said Bilbo, “as Kili is my heart’s kin.”

He spoke of Erebor then, painting a picture in words for Frodo. He talked about the great halls, the carved pillars, and the huge caverns that shone and sparkled in torchlight, studded with precious stones. He described his own rooms, and the garden that Thorin had made for him, and spoke of trips to Dale to the flourishing markets there. It was perhaps a little unfair, to talk of the wonders of Erebor, and not of any discomforts remaining from Smaug’s inhabitation of the Mountain. But Bilbo could not quite seem to feel guilty for that, not when Frodo was listening so closely, his eyes wide and firmly fixed upon Bilbo.

“And there are Elves close by, you know,” Bilbo added, for Frodo was fascinated by Tauriel, and had begged her to teach him Sindarin. She was often at the Mountain, Bilbo told Frodo, and would surely give him lessons, if he should wish it.

“But I would have to say goodbye to my friends,” said Frodo, and Bilbo could not find anything to say, because it was the truth. Frodo would have to say goodbye to his friends, his family, to the Shire and to everything he had ever known. But Frodo had already had to do that, in a way, when his parents had died. His world had been changed completely in an instant, and Bilbo rather thought that Frodo could weather another change.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” Bilbo offered. “Take your time. We don’t have to leave for a few weeks.” A few weeks could make little difference to their journey, after all; they might not reach Erebor before the first snows, but they could hire a sled in Dale, if it came to that. Thorin would worry, of course, but Thorin would worry regardless. Whether Bilbo arrived before or with the first winter blizzards was irrelevant, and was certainly not enough to persuade Bilbo to try to hurry Frodo’s decision.

They walked on until lunch, and then Frodo protested tiredness and they turned back. A passing farmer offered them a ride on his cart, speeding their return journey, and they sat on the back of the cart, their legs dangling over the road, but did not speak of Erebor until they were back at Brandy Hall. There Frodo stopped Bilbo just before they reached the front door.

“If I came,” he said, “would I have to wear boots, like Kili and Mister Dwalin?” And Bilbo could not help laughing. He laughed so long and so hard that Dwalin stomped out of the house to see what was happening, and when Frodo protested that it had been a serious question, Dwalin laughed too.

“D’you see your uncle wearing boots?” he demanded of Frodo. “You’re a Hobbit. Nobody wants you to be anything else.”

Some days passed before Frodo gave Bilbo his answer. Kili grew visibly more impatient daily – although Tauriel tempered him a little – but Bilbo knew the value of patience, and he waited without complaint. He enjoyed all the things he had missed about the Shire and his own kind, and he tried not to notice the things that frustrated him now, after his time away. Soon enough, he knew, he would leave the Shire behind, and would once again miss the familiarity of it. Time enough to dwell on his frustrations then.

He tried not to miss Thorin, as well – but in that he failed. It was a quiet ache in his heart, to be parted from Thorin for so long, a hurt that only their reunion would heal.

Nearly a week after Bilbo asked Frodo to come with him, to live in Erebor, Frodo gave him an answer. It was late, past time for Frodo to be asleep, when the young fauntling found Bilbo enjoying a last smoke in the garden with Kili before they retired for the night.

Frodo climbed into Bilbo’s lap and wrapped his arms about his neck so that Bilbo had to take his pipe from his lips and pass it into Kili’s hands.

“You should be asleep,” Bilbo scolded, but there was no heat in his words. He found himself enjoying the embrace, unexpected though it was, and he put his own arms around the lad, holding him close. “What’s the matter, my boy?”

“I’ll come with you,” said Frodo. “To the Lonely Mountain. I want to come.”

Bilbo couldn’t speak, but he hugged Frodo tightly and stroked a hand through the boy’s soft, dark curls. He could see the flash of Kili’s smile, scarcely lit by the glow of his pipe – Kili was pleased for him, he knew. And pleased for Frodo too, for the boy had engaged the affections of all Bilbo’s travelling companions, each in their turn.

Bilbo had not realised how much he had wanted this until it was given to him. He wished Thorin could be here, to share in his joy, but soon enough they would leave the Shire and begin the long journey back to Erebor, and Thorin would be waiting for them when at last they reached the Lonely Mountain. He would envelop Bilbo in his arms, and he would greet Frodo with pleasure. Bilbo imagined them together, and it made him smile. Thorin would love Frodo as his own kin, he knew, for Bilbo’s sake alone – but he would love Frodo for his own sake, as well. Bilbo was sure of that.

“Can we go tomorrow?” Frodo asked eagerly, when at last Bilbo released him and he scrambled off Bilbo’s lap. “Can we, Uncle?”

“Not tomorrow,” laughed Bilbo, and reminded Frodo that he would have to pack what belongings he wanted to take, and they would need supplies for the journey as well. But it would not take long; Tauriel had been charming Hobbits left and right, and gathering stores to last them at least until Rivendell, where Elrond’s people would replenish their food further. They must stop in Bree also, for Frodo would have no clothes hardy enough to withstand travel, and he would need a good cloak at the very least. They would reach the Misty Mountains before even the earliest snows fell, long before even autumn set in, but the mountains were always cold, no matter the season. Frodo would not be used to it; winters had not been so harsh in the Shire, not in Frodo’s lifetime.

He sent Frodo to bed, and the next morning he told Gorbadoc and Mirabella of Frodo’s decision, and preparations began. Frodo had little enough to bring with him, Bilbo discovered. Clothes, of course, but he only needed a few changes to bring with him for the journey – Dori had grown used to tailoring for Hobbits and would, Bilbo was sure, be pleased to make sturdy, warm clothes for Frodo’s new life in Erebor. Toys he was too old for, or so he said to Bilbo when he was asked. Bilbo said nothing, but thought of Bifur’s creations and knew that Frodo would not lack for entertainment. Frodo insisted on bringing a book, a worn guide to herbs and their uses that was inscribed with his mother’s name.

There was no picture of Drogo and Primula Baggins, no portrait drawn of them that Frodo might take with him. They had never felt the need, Rorimac confided in Bilbo, for they had expected to have many more years. Bilbo thought of his own parents, and the portraits of them that had always hung in Bag End. He regretted not going to Hobbiton, to see his own home – for it was still his, although he rented it to the Gamgees so it would not grow neglected. But even on ponies it would take more time than he wanted to spare, for he longed to be reunited with Thorin.

Then Frodo’s things were all packed, the whole of his life in one knapsack, and their saddlebags were filled with food and water skins, and so Bilbo said farewell once more to the Shire. Frodo said goodbye to his friends and cousins, and the older Hobbits pretended not to see if a fauntling or two wiped tears from their cheeks. Frodo did not cry, although he was quiet for many miles, seated on the pony in front of Bilbo. Not even Kili could draw a word from him, let alone a smile, though Kili tried hard and more than once earned himself a growl from Dwalin for his antics.

The journey eastwards, away from the Shire, was slower than their journey west, for Frodo was young, just thirteen years and small for that. He tired faster than his adult companions, and often Bilbo found Frodo dozing in the saddle, leaning back against Bilbo so he did not fall off. The riding was hard for him too, although that grew easier, as Bilbo had known it would, for he had experienced the same when he had first travelled this way.

Frodo bore it well, and Bilbo was proud of him. He watched as Frodo grew more confident in his interactions with the others – with Tauriel, who was teaching him woodcraft and tracking, and with Kili, who told him stories and answered his many questions with a patience that Bilbo had not seen in him before, and with Dwalin, the gruff warrior and veteran of many battles, who was swayed by Frodo’s every whim.

One evening Bilbo teased Dwalin about that, for in Thorin’s absence he considered it his duty. Dwalin merely shrugged a shoulder and tucked Frodo’s blanket closer around him.

“He could stand a bit of spoiling,” he said. “You won’t find a Dwarf from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills who wouldn’t do what I do.”

Kili nodded agreement from the other side of the night’s fire. “It’s true,” he said. “Children are a rare blessing, for us.” Bilbo knew as much, but he refrained from teasing further. Frodo was not a child to take advantage of it, and so Bilbo couldn’t mind if Dwalin spoiled him a little.

Their journey was uneventful, and for that Bilbo was thankful. They stopped a night in Bree and acquired a good cloak for Frodo, and then travelled onwards. Frodo begged to see Bilbo’s trolls, and Tauriel claimed a desire to see them also, and so when they reached the Trollshaws they found the great stones that had once been living beings.

“Can we look for troll treasure, too?” Frodo asked eagerly, but Bilbo gave an emphatic no.

“If I never smell troll again in my life, I shall count myself lucky,” he told Frodo, “and four years cannot possibly be enough to rid the cave of that stench. You’ll see treasure enough in Erebor, Frodo.”

From the Trollshaws to Rivendell, it rained without pause. Bilbo was glad of his cloak, and more than glad that he had purchased one for Frodo, but before long even their cloaks were no defence against the cold and damp. They travelled in the rain, and ate in the rain, and found what shelter they could at night. Kili remained cheerful throughout the dismal weather, and Tauriel even seemed to enjoy it a little, at least at first, but Frodo was thoroughly miserable, and before long Bilbo had caught a cold.

It crept up on him slowly; first a shiver, and then a slight tickle in his nose, and then the beginnings of a fever, until Bilbo had to admit he was well on the way to being thoroughly ill.

“It’s only another few days to Rivendell,” he said, when he caught Dwalin giving him a sceptical look. “It’s only a cold, Dwalin. I’m not about to fall off my pony and d– ” He caught himself before he could say what he had meant to say. Frodo was riding with Dwalin now, for none of them wanted the young one to catch Bilbo’s cold, but he had good hearing and was watching Bilbo with a worried look. Bilbo would not speak of death, even in jest, not when Frodo was near enough to hear.

Kili was not so tactful, however. He twisted around on his pony and scowled at Bilbo, a fierce expression that made him look so much like Thorin.

“You were close enough to death four years ago,” the young Dwarf reminded him. “Don’t joke about it, Uncle. You still get tired easily.”

Frodo looked pale and afraid suddenly, and Bilbo glared at Kili and shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly. He looked across at Frodo then, and gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’m fine,” he said again. Dwalin murmured something to Frodo that seemed to soothe him a little, but Bilbo rather thought that the conversation would be continued once they were safely in Rivendell, and out of the rain.

Two miserable days passed before they finally reached the hidden valley, and Bilbo was swiftly bundled into bed and given firm instructions to stay there. Bilbo would have been quite bored, but for the books he was brought to entertain himself with, and he spent many a happy hour reading Elvish histories, content in the knowledge that Kili and Tauriel were taking care of Frodo, and Dwalin was keeping them all out of mischief.

Frodo crept into his room one night, some four days after they had arrived in Rivendell. Bilbo was feeling better – no longer congested or feverish, he merely needed a little more rest to be fully recovered, and he was certainly no longer contagious, and so he did not object when Frodo burrowed into the bed beside him.

“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo whispered, so close to Bilbo that his breath was warm against Bilbo’s arm. “Uncle, why have Kili and Tauriel and Dwalin been so worried about you?”

“I imagine it’s because they’re fond of me,” Bilbo said, glad of the darkness that hid the grimace he made. He did not want to lie to Frodo, of course not, but neither did he wish to disturb the young lad with the wasting that had so nearly claimed Bilbo’s life. It was not, after all, a continuing problem. Frodo would never know it for himself; Bilbo’s garden would make sure of that.

“Kili said you almost died,” said Frodo, and he sounded obstinate, as if he would not rest until he had an answer that satisfied him. “Did you?”

Bilbo sighed and pulled Frodo a little closer to him, and Frodo rested his head on Bilbo’s chest.

“Yes,” Bilbo answered at last, “I almost died. But I am hearty and well now, Frodo, and I won’t get ill like that again.” Then he explained, choosing his words carefully, what had befallen him during that first winter in Erebor when he had been so distracted, so caught up in his new life, that he had forgotten the things that no Hobbit should ever forget. He had not had roots, he said, for he had not had a garden to tend, no living thing to love and nurture and be nurtured by in return. But it would not happen again, he told Frodo firmly, for he had a garden now, and it would be Frodo’s garden too. They would tend it together, and dig themselves into the earth of the Mountain, and neither of them would suffer the wasting.

Frodo was quiet for a time, his head rising and falling with each breath Bilbo took. Bilbo almost drifted off to sleep again, oddly comfortable lying in the bed with Frodo curled around him, for all it was new to him. But Frodo moved then, and a sharp elbow poked into Bilbo’s stomach. It was quite accidental, and Frodo apologised, but it woke Bilbo thoroughly.

“Do they know?” Frodo asked him. “The Dwarves?”

“No,” Bilbo said emphatically, and they were not to be told, either. The Dwarves had their own secrets, he explained to Frodo, and they must keep their own. Thorin knew, for Bilbo loved Thorin and had not wanted to die without telling Thorin why, but Thorin kept their secrets as well as any Hobbit, and had never broken that trust.

Frodo seemed satisfied, and soon afterwards went to sleep, while Bilbo gazed up into the darkness and wondered how soon the healers would agree to let him continue his journey home.

Ten days passed in Rivendell before Bilbo was declared fit enough to travel across the Misty Mountains, and by the end of it they were all eager to depart. Dwalin had had enough of Elves, he declared as they rode away from the valley towards the Misty Mountains.

“Present company excepted,” he added, not quite grudgingly, when Tauriel raised an eyebrow. “You’re not too bad. For an Elf.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Tauriel said, “for a Dwarf.” Kili smothered a laugh, and spurred his pony into a trot to avoid the cuff Dwalin aimed at his head.

The mountains were beautiful in the summer, slopes covered in grasses and wild flowers and steep cliffs rising up like sentinels. The weather was glorious, even when the path wound higher and higher. Bilbo enjoyed it so much that he almost forgot the dangers in the mountains, so pleasant was the journey and so contented he was, travelling on his pony with Frodo before him.

But Dwalin set a watch each night, and sometimes they could hear wolves calling in the distance. Far enough that they need not worry, Tauriel assured them, and she had the keenest hearing of them all, and the sharpest eyesight, and so they trusted her word.

Bilbo did not dream of Gollum this time, and he was relieved, for although he had pitied the poor creature, he did not like to think of him. It was too uncomfortable, too terrifying, even now when his experience in Gollum’s cave was far behind him. When Bilbo remembered those eyes, and that voice, and the way he had screamed for his precious, it made him feel sick to his stomach.

They were not yet in Beorn’s lands when they were attacked; if they had been, the attack would surely not have occurred, for Beorn guarded his borders ferociously, and did not suffer orcs to come onto the land he protected. Later, Beorn would growl that orcs should know better than to come even near to his territory, but that was later, once everybody was safe.

It happened at dusk, when the sun lingered at the edges of the horizon and darkness had not yet encompassed the land entirely. Tauriel had laid a fire, and Kili had hunted up a rabbit to add to their rations. Bilbo cooked, for none of them trusted Kili to produce an edible meal, and Tauriel sat close by tending to her blades. She seemed oddly watchful, Bilbo thought, continually glancing up from her weapons to stare into the growing darkness beyond the fire’s light. When Bilbo asked her what was wrong, she pursed her lips and shook her head.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It feels too quiet.”

“Aye,” said Dwalin. He stood up, turned in a slow circle, and fingered the handle of one of his axes. Bilbo sat very still, trying to hear what they heard – and he heard nothing, none of the usual sounds of the wild, no animals calling, no shriek of an owl. Nothing.

He put down his ladle and gripped the hilt of his sword. He was not much use with it, but he had faced Azog with less experience than he now had, and he would die before allowing an orc to lay hands on Frodo. He turned to find Frodo – he hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t seen the need, their journey had been so quiet and uneventful so far, and none of his companions would let Frodo get into trouble, but now panic gripped him when he could not immediately see the youngling. He began to call out, but Tauriel silenced him with a sharp gesture.

“I’ve got him,” Kili said, coming into the circle of light. He led Bilbo’s pony, and Frodo was in the saddle already, looking small and scared. Dwalin grunted acknowledgement, and fastened Frodo’s knapsack to the saddle.

“What – ,” Bilbo began, but he did not speak further. A howl broke the unnatural silence, loud and close – too close, and Dwalin cursed roughly and put out the fire, pouring a whole water skin over it and then stamping out the rest of it with his heavy boots.

“Do it,” he said to Tauriel. Bilbo turned, but Tauriel was already beside him. She lifted him up, ignoring his indignant squeak, and put him on the pony behind Frodo.

“Uncle,” Kili said, grasping Bilbo’s knee tightly, “listen. We’re not far from Beorn – you can get there by dawn, if you ride hard and don’t stop.”

Bilbo understood, and felt sick with it. “No,” he said. “Not a chance. Kili – ”

“I promised Uncle you’d be safe,” Kili interrupted him. The howling was growing closer, the sound of wargs on a hunt, and Dwalin snapped out a command in Khuzdul. Kili spared him a glance and then looked back at Bilbo. “We’ll be fine,” he said, but Bilbo was not reassured. Three great warriors they might be, but they had no way of knowing how many wargs were coming, nor how many orcs came with them.

But Frodo was pressed close against his front, shaking slightly, trying not to cry, and Bilbo knew there was no choice.

“If you don’t turn up alive,” he said to Kili, “I will personally drag you out of Mahal’s Halls and make you regret it. Do you understand me?”

Kili made no answer, but slapped the pony’s rear, and in a moment the pony was galloping away from the campfire, away from Bilbo’s friends and family, and all Bilbo could do was hang on to Frodo with one hand and the reins with another, and hope that they would not be followed.

Bilbo could hear the howling of wargs, and the shrieking of orcs, but it was growing fainter with every passing moment. The pony seemed to understand their need for speed, for she galloped on as fast as she could, through trees and meadows and across streams. Bilbo clung on with grim determination, for there was little he could do to help but to keep himself and Frodo safely astride the pony.

The pony galloped for what seemed like hours, and then slowed to a trot. Bilbo craned around to look over his shoulder, and he tried to hear any sound at all. He had no idea how far they had come from the camp, from Kili and Dwalin and Tauriel – any sound of battle must be far beyond earshot – but he could not help but look and listen. Not when his friends faced evil, and he had been sent away with –

With Frodo, and that of course was Bilbo’s first priority. Frodo must be safe. It must be a small party of orcs, he reasoned to himself, for both Beorn and Elrond had assured them that orc numbers in the Misty Mountains were still far from replenished. Dwalin had fought many wars, and Tauriel was as fierce a warrior as the Dwarf, when she needed to be. And Kili, young joyful Kili…Kili had fought many times, and had lost three fingers in his last great battle. They must surely overcome their enemy, and they would join Bilbo and Frodo as soon as they could.

They travelled on throughout the night. Frodo leaned back against Bilbo and fell asleep, and Bilbo fastened him onto the saddle with rope from his saddlebag, to keep him from falling out of the saddle and down onto the ground. Bilbo was tired, but too scared and worried to let the tiredness overcome him. He held Frodo close and let the pony guide their way, for in the darkness Bilbo could not say whether they were growing closer to Beorn’s lands, or moving further away.

In the end Beorn found them, just as they reached his lands, with the grey dull light of pre-dawn just beginning to show Bilbo where they had reached in their night time ride. Beorn was in bear form, huge and terrifying, and Frodo screamed, and would have fallen from the pony but for the ropes which still held him. The pony tried to bolt, but Bilbo held the reins fast, and in a moment the great bear had transmuted into a great man, and the pony’s fear ebbed away, although she still whinnied and threw up her head when Beorn stepped towards her.

“Little bunny!” he greeted, his expression worried. “How came you to be here in the night, and alone – but no, not alone. A little kit with you. Where are your friends?”

Bilbo explained in sparse, hurried words, and all the while Frodo clung to the arm Bilbo held around his middle. Beorn looked grim when he learned of a warg hunting party, and spared them little time. He questioned if Bilbo knew the way to his house from here, and when Bilbo nodded, Beorn sent them onwards with a gesture. He would find Bilbo’s companions, and deal with what wargs and orcs might remain, he assured Bilbo, but Bilbo and the little one must be safe, and Bilbo was so wearied and so worried that he agreed at once. Beorn departed, and Bilbo urged the weary pony onwards.

“Who was that man?” Frodo asked, craning his head up to look at Frodo.

“Beorn,” said Bilbo, too weary to talk much. “He’s a friend, Frodo. He’ll make sure the others get here safely.”

Within a few short minutes they reached Beorn’s house, and Bilbo untied Frodo and helped him dismount, and then gladly gave the pony into the capable paws of Beorn’s animal servants. He could see that Frodo longed to press him with questions, the boy’s curiosity boundless despite their separation from the others and their flight through the darkness, but Bilbo felt about to fall asleep on his feet, and Frodo too was tired. He protested that he was not, of course, and Bilbo knew that Frodo wanted to explore this strange house, but dark smudges under his eyes only highlighted how pale Frodo was, how much he needed food and sleep.

“Later,” he promised the fauntling, and he put Frodo to bed, settling him beside the fire and wrapping him with furs. A sheep brought him a tray of food, carried on its back, and Frodo ate bread and honey, and drank warm milk, and fell fast asleep curled into his nest of furs.

Bilbo did not sleep at first, although he was tired enough to wish for it; he sat beside Frodo, his legs outstretched before him and his back against the wall, and he waited. But eventually, of course, he could not resist it further, and sleep crept upon him and took him into slumber, and he slept peacefully and did not dream.

He slept for hours, and he did not awake until late afternoon, when the sun came in through a window and bathed him with warm light. Then Bilbo woke, rubbed at his eyes, yawned widely, and looked for Frodo.

Frodo was at Beorn’s great table, and a veritable feast was spread before him – bread and butter, cheeses and preserves, biscuits and honey cakes, all Beorn’s good food laid out for Frodo’s consumption. Bilbo hoped Frodo had asked permission of the animals before taking the food, and said so, but Frodo told him that it was the animals who had presented it all to him.

“They like me,” Frodo said, brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Uncle, how can these animals walk on their back legs and carry things?”

“If I knew that, Frodo my lad, I’d be a wiser Hobbit,” sighed Bilbo. He stretched and winced at the ache in his muscles. “Any sign of Beorn? Or the others?” he asked, but Frodo shook his head. Bilbo worried, for surely they should have arrived by now, but he tried not to show it to Frodo, who was after all still very young and had experienced too much death already. Instead he hauled himself onto a stool beside his nephew, ate his fill of the food, and answered as many of Frodo’s questions as he could.

The others did not arrive until the sun was nearly gone, and Bilbo’s worry grew all the while. He reminded himself that they might have lost the ponies, and so be travelling on foot – that Beorn must have stayed to accompany them to his house, to keep them safe – that they could be so long in coming for any one of a number of reasons. But his worry could not respond to such logic, not when he knew the damage that could be wrought by warg claw and orc blade.

Beorn came first, giving orders to his animals in a strange tongue, and then he told the two Hobbits to clear off the table and keep out of the way. Bilbo hurried to obey, and made Frodo stand by the wall and told him to stay there. Then he waited anxiously to see which of them was injured – to see which of them had made it to safety.

Dwalin and Kili came together, with Tauriel carried between them, Kili holding her shoulders and Dwalin her legs. She seemed covered in blood, her clothes soaked in it, and she was pale and cold to the touch.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Kili said, but spared few other words. With Beorn’s help, they heaved Tauriel onto the table. She was not unconscious – she muttered something in Sindarin, and reached out to clutch at Kili’s hand. Then Beorn lifted a cup to her lips, and made her drink. Even as Kili and Dwalin stripped her of her clothing, down to her smallclothes, the drink did its work and she fell into unconscious repose.

“We need hot water and bandages,” said Dwalin grimly. Beorn’s animals were bringing the supplies, but Bilbo intercepted them and took them to the table himself, standing on one of the stools so he could reach the table top. The sight was not a pleasant one, and brought back all his worst memories of the battlefield, but Bilbo would not allow himself to turn away. He took a cloth and cleaned away blood, and watched as Beorn and Dwalin tended to the injured Elf.

A lucky blow, Kili said to Bilbo, once the wound had been cleaned and then smeared with a thick paste to prevent infection. A deep wound to Tauriel’s side, glancing down her hip and catching the top of her leg. It would heal itself, Beorn declared, without any need for stitches, but Tauriel was a sorry sight by the time she had been tended to, with bandages wrapped around from just below her breast bindings to below her smallclothes on her right leg.

They had thought the orcs all dead, it seemed, but one had reared up and tried to strike Kili, and Tauriel had pushed him aside and taken the blow for herself. Kili’s guilt was plain to see, and once Tauriel was settled enough, Bilbo took the young Dwarf away and sent him to bathe and eat.

Then he attended to Frodo, who had obediently stayed by the wall where Bilbo had left him, silent and fretful. Tauriel would heal, Bilbo reassured him, and she would heal faster than any Hobbit might from such a blow, for she was an Elf, strong and full of life.

“I’m sure she would get much better if you found her some honey cakes,” Bilbo added. “Why don’t you go along to the kitchen and see if there are any more?” Happier once given a task to perform, Frodo trotted off towards the kitchen, accompanied by a sheep, and Bilbo returned to the table and the still, silent patient.

“Dwalin,” he said, “tell me. You planned that, didn’t you? To send me off?” Dwalin gave him a look that suggested he should have known better than to ask, and Bilbo shook his head and pursed his lips. Tauriel had been injured because of him, then – because she, Kili and Dwalin had been distracting the orcs from pursuing Bilbo and Frodo. He could not be anything other than wholeheartedly glad that Frodo was safe and had not seen violence, but he hated that his friend had been wounded for his sake.

“She was wounded because she shoved Kili out of the way and took a blade meant for him,” Dwalin told him. “Don’t you be demeaning that. She’s a warrior. She knows what she’s about. And I reckon she’d do it again if she had to.”

Tauriel slept for the remainder of the day and through the night, and once Kili had washed the blood from his skin, he returned to stay beside her. Later, once they were all safely back in Erebor, Bilbo would tell Thorin of Kili’s devotion to his love, of how Kili had slept upright with his head pillowed on his arms, and how when Tauriel finally awoke, her first words were for Kili.

“Meleth nín,” she said, her eyes barely open, and she lifted her hand to cup Kili’s cheek. Bilbo ushered Frodo outside then, and pulled Dwalin along with them, to allow Kili and Tauriel some privacy.

Tauriel did heal quickly, as Bilbo had promised Frodo, but even so it was some weeks before Beorn judged her fit enough to travel. Three of their ponies were lost to wargs, and she argued fiercely that Frodo should be the one to ride, with or without Bilbo. He was too young to walk, she told Bilbo, and although she knew the fastest routes through Mirkwood – and could call on her fellow guard members for aid, should they need it – Frodo was small and slow, and would not be able to keep up a good pace. He needed to ride more than she did, for her wound healed more every day.

Bilbo was forced to agree, and so when at last Tauriel’s wound did not need dressing so much, and when she could move easily and wield a knife at least a little, they departed on foot save for Frodo, who rode the pony and sat proud and upright in the saddle. He seemed not to care that Dwalin walked beside him and held the reins, and it did Bilbo good to see Frodo’s bright smile, after the past few weeks of worry.

From Beorn’s lands to Mirkwood, and through Mirkwood itself, they made good time and enjoyed an easy enough journey. They were not further troubled with orcs, and Tauriel continued to heal. Bilbo caught Kili watching her sometimes, a strange look on his face, a kind of tension that Bilbo had not seen on the young Dwarf before. But he recognised it, and said nothing to Kili, for he knew it was never easy to watch a loved one be hurt or suffer. He remembered well the way he had watched Thorin, after the Battle four years before, when Thorin had been so close to death. Even afterwards Bilbo had watched and stayed close, full of irrational fear that Thorin would disappear if Bilbo stayed away for even a few hours.

By the time they had crossed Mirkwood, autumn had set in. The journey home to Erebor had been beset with delays, Bilbo complained to Kili, and Kili shrugged and pointed out that at least they would still beat the first snows. This was undeniable, and since Tauriel procured them passage on a boat going down the river to Lake-town, including even their remaining pony, Bilbo did his best not to complain further.

Erebor was within sight now, standing proud against the horizon, and the sight of it filled Bilbo with warmth.

“Is that the Mountain?” Frodo asked, tugging on Bilbo’s sleeve as they stood beside a small jetty on the river. “Is it, Uncle?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, smiling fondly down at his kin. “The Lonely Mountain. Your new home, Frodo.” His home, his chosen home, and Bilbo wished himself there already. He was glad he had taken this journey, glad that he had gone to find Frodo and offered to share his home and heart with the lad, but it had been many months, and he longed for Thorin’s arms around him and for the spark of those blue eyes when they looked at Bilbo.

“Uncle,” Frodo said, with another tug at Bilbo’s sleeve and a pleading tone to his voice, “do we have to go on the water?”

Bilbo sighed, and crouched down beside his nephew. They must, he explained gently, for it was still many miles to Erebor, and the river would take them to Lake-town much more swiftly than they could walk. The days would begin to grow shorter and colder, and Bilbo wanted them all safely inside the Mountain well before any bad weather should arrive. They were all tired, he added, and travelling by boat was fast and would let them all rest.

Dwalin stopped beside them then, and put a heavy hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

“I’ll teach you,” he said gruffly. “Next summer.”

“Teach me what?” Frodo asked, looking up at Dwalin curiously.

“To swim, of course.” Dwalin said nothing more, but went to clamber aboard the boat. Bilbo stared after him, bemused, and of half a mind to complain that Hobbits rarely swam – but Frodo looked cheered by the prospect, and happily ran after Dwalin to board the boat, and so Bilbo shrugged his shoulders and followed. Frodo might learn to swim if he wished, Bilbo thought to himself. Frodo would learn any number of odd things, living among Dwarves under a mountain, and swimming was perhaps the least of them.

At Lake-town they disembarked, and Frodo once more mounted the pony. He was so tiny here, among Men. Bilbo, who always felt small when next to Men or Elves, felt the smallness of Frodo even more keenly. Frodo was not large for a Hobbit, but next to Men – even the children of Men – he looked like an infant. But he had stalwart guards; Kili and Dwalin flanked the pony, and saw off any who seemed likely to stare, as they made their way through the town to an inn.

In truth, Lake-town was more of a village now, a stopping point between Mirkwood and Dale. The Men here were mostly fishermen who had chosen to stay, rather than move to Dale. It was quieter here now, and somehow more sad than it had been even under the reign of the dragon. Dale had been rebuilt, and continued to grow and prosper; wooden houses made way for stone, and every year more families moved from Lake-town to Dale as provision was made for them. Dale recovered while Lake-town declined.

But the inn was well enough. The beds were clean, the stew was hearty, and a warm fire in Bilbo’s bedroom was most welcome after travelling down the river. The innkeeper knew them, at least by sight, and she curtseyed to Bilbo and offered to send her young daughter for a raven to send to Erebor.

“No need for that,” said Bilbo, waving her off. “We’ll be there tomorrow, if we set off early enough.”

He slept well that night, although he shared a bed with Frodo and the young lad had a distinct tendency towards kicking out while he slept. He dreamed, but it was a pleasant dream, of lying in bed with Thorin on a lazy morning, and when Bilbo woke, he smiled contentedly up at the ceiling and thought of taking his supper that evening in Erebor.

Later he would regret his certainty, but despite all his bad experiences, Bilbo had never yet learned not to count his chickens before they hatched. It was a bitter disappointment when a fierce wind sprang up, and rain clattered at the window of the bedroom. The storm came up quickly, and although the innkeeper said it would surely pass soon, it delayed their journey, for no boat would set out for Dale in such a storm.

“I can’t send a raven now,” the innkeeper said to him as she served them breakfast. “None will go in this, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Nor would I expect them to,” Bilbo said, trying to hide his gloomy spirits, for he knew Dwalin and Kili were just as eager as he to be home at last. “Never mind, it won’t last forever. We’ll be home tomorrow, I’m sure.”

There was little to do, confined indoors as they were. Kili and Tauriel absented themselves, and Dwalin muttered something in Khuzdul as they went back upstairs to their bedroom – Bilbo was sure he recognised a word or two, and he was infinitely grateful that Frodo understood not a word of the language. He was fairly certain Dwalin had said nothing that was fitting for young ears.

Bilbo tried to occupy Frodo with lessons, but whether it was the rain or the disappointment of not reaching Erebor that day, Frodo could not seem to concentrate. He sighed and kicked his heels against his chair legs and could not give Bilbo answers to his questions. At last Bilbo shook his head and gave up.

“Well, Frodo,” he said, “we’re stuck in here until the storm passes, and we won’t get to Erebor until tomorrow at the earliest. How can we pass the time?”

“Tell me a story,” Frodo said at once. “About your adventures.”

Bilbo was sure Frodo had heard all his stories by now, or at least all the ones that Bilbo was happy to tell. There were some tales that must be left until Frodo was older, for Frodo was young yet – he would be fourteen in just a few days, in fact, for he shared a birthday with Bilbo. Stories of stone giants and mountain trolls were all well and good, if a little edited to make them seem less dangerous than they had actually been at the time, but Bilbo had not told Frodo of Thorin’s gold lust, or anything to do with that awful, awful day when Thorin had –

No. That was a story that Frodo would never hear from Bilbo, and certainly nobody else would speak of it. It was not a story well-known in the Mountain, and deliberately so. The Company tried their best to forget it, and of course Bilbo and Thorin never mentioned it. They had forgiven each other long ago, and Bilbo felt no anger over it, no grief.

But still, it was not something to tell Frodo.

“You know them all already,” he said to Frodo. He went to sit beside the fire, and searched his pocket for his pipe. Frodo joined him, kneeling beside Bilbo’s Dwarf-sized chair and looking up at him expectantly. Bilbo took his time, filling his pipe and lighting it, and Frodo sat eager and patient at his feet.

They passed the afternoon in storytelling, tales of Bilbo’s adventures and Dwarven stories and Elven ballads. Frodo wanted to hear it all, and Bilbo grew hoarse before the storm blew itself out. The rain and the wind did not cease until it was near dark, and the innkeeper came to light the candles in the bar room.

Then Bilbo realised he had an audience; a motley collection of Men, crowded near so they could hear him speak. He flushed, embarrassed, but they applauded him and cheered, and one grizzled old man went so far as to say that he should come again and spin a yarn for them, if he had time.

“If yon king don’t keep you too busy,” the Man added with a wink.

The next day brought clear skies and sunshine, and they boarded a fishing boat and had smooth sailing to Dale. From there even Frodo walked, for they left the weary pony in Dale, and high spirits filled them all. With every step Bilbo grew more eager, for every step brought him closer to Erebor, to Thorin.

Thorin, who he had not seen since that spring day when Bilbo had ridden away to claim Frodo as his own. It had been so long, longer than Bilbo had hoped, when he had set out. But he could not be disappointed in the result, for Frodo walked by his side – although walked was not quite the right word. Frodo was full of energy, a nervous anxiety that made him jump and skip and do whatever he could to avoid walking in a straight line.

He worried about Thorin, Bilbo knew, and knew also that no words of his could ease the worry. Only Thorin could do that, and he knew that Thorin would do so quickly. Thorin would embrace Frodo as his heart’s kin, and Frodo would find he was loved by more than just Bilbo. He would be happy, Bilbo hoped.

He hoped that Frodo would find happiness here, as he himself had.

“The sun cannot outshine you today, Bilbo,” Tauriel teased him, and Bilbo could not help but laugh.

Kili was happy too, and Bilbo knew how much he longed to see his brother again. The two had rarely been separated for long, and Bilbo knew well how Kili had missed his brother. Kili had confessed, one night when they had been camping and Bilbo and Kili alone had been awake, that it was like losing his fingers again, so much did he miss Fili. But he had endured it for Bilbo’s sake, and Bilbo was more than grateful.

Horns rang out as they approached the front gate. Frodo slipped his hand into Bilbo’s, and crowded close as Dwarves came swarming out to greet them. Bilbo tried to encourage him, but he knew it must be an unnerving sight. The guards, their armour shining bright in the sunlight, formed ranks and escorted them through the gate. Dwarves filled the space around them as the cry went up that they had returned.

Fili came first, knocking heads with Kili. He wore his court clothes, so Bilbo knew that Thorin must also be in the court or in council. But Thorin was coming, Fili assured him, for they had only just had word of Bilbo’s arrival, and Fili could escape the council more easily.

And indeed within moments Thorin was there, standing scarcely a few feet away from Bilbo but not drawing closer. He looked at Bilbo as if he could never look enough, and Bilbo seemed to have forgotten how dearly he loved this Dwarf, for he stared too, and his heart swelled. In his finery, his mail and his Durin blue, with silver beads glittering in his hair and beard and his crown upon his head, Thorin looked every inch the King under the Mountain.

“My king,” said Bilbo.

“My dear Bilbo,” Thorin returned, and they smiled at one another, heedless of how they might look to others.

Then Thorin crossed the space between them and gathered Bilbo into his arms, burying his face in the crook of Bilbo’s neck. His breath was hot and his crown pressed uncomfortably into Bilbo’s cheek, but Bilbo did not care. He held Thorin as tightly as he could, and closed his eyes so that he might hide any hint of the tears that he wished to cry. Though they were joyful, he did not wish to share his tears with the crowd around them.

“Never again,” Thorin muttered into his skin, so quiet that none but them might hear it. “Never again, Bilbo.”

“Never,” Bilbo swore. “Never.”

Thorin withdrew, and Bilbo expected nothing more, because they were after all in public. But Thorin lifted Bilbo’s chin with a finger, and kissed him as though they were alone in their rooms. The crowd around them cheered, and Bilbo felt perhaps he should have been embarrassed, but he could not care.

When at last they parted, Bilbo turned to find Frodo. The young fauntling, abandoned while Bilbo had reunited with Thorin, was pressed close to Dwalin and watched them with wide eyes.

Thorin looked also, and Bilbo saw the moment that Thorin began to love the child. He saw a softness in Thorin’s eyes, a gentleness in the curve of his mouth. He saw it as Thorin went down on bended knee, to be of a height with Frodo.

“I have long waited to meet you,” Thorin said, “and I am glad you are here at last.” Frodo bowed, but Thorin shook his head. “No, young one,” he said gently, “you must not bow. You are my heart’s kin. You need not bow to me.” Frodo nodded, though his mouth twisted into a confused frown.

They went inside then, king and Hobbits and Dwarves, but Bilbo turned back when Thorin was distracted in conversation with Dwalin. Tauriel had not entered the Mountain with them, and he sought her out and tried to ask, as delicately as he could, if she yet felt uncomfortable there. Unwelcome.

“Nay, Bilbo, do not worry yourself over me,” she said with a merry smile. “Go and rejoin your beloved.” Her smile was a lie, and Bilbo knew it, but Thorin had discovered Bilbo’s absence and came now to find his errant consort. Bilbo went willingly, but he resolved to speak of it to Thorin, for Tauriel had saved Kili’s life, and Bilbo would no longer allow her to feel unwelcome in Erebor.

They feasted and celebrated that evening, the Dwarves of Erebor, until Frodo fell asleep at the table. Then Thorin gathered Frodo into his arms and carried him to his new bed, and afterwards Bilbo and Thorin sat together beside the fire. They spoke without words, a conversation of longing and love. Thorin could not seem to cease touching Bilbo, and at length Bilbo suggested they should withdraw, for their sitting room was no longer quite private.

“That may take some getting used to,” Thorin admitted. His beard scraped against Bilbo’s jaw. It was distracting, and Bilbo said so, but Thorin merely chuckled and did it again. Bilbo tugged at a braid and said, quite firmly, that they had a perfectly adequate bed close by.

It was morning before they spoke of Bilbo’s journey, for they spent much of the night in other ways. Bilbo made light of most of it, the rain and the hardships that Thorin was familiar with of old, but he spoke more seriously of the orc attack. He knew that Thorin would hear of it from Dwalin, and he knew too that Thorin would be unhappy if Bilbo attempted to conceal how close to danger he had been.

“She took a blade for Kili,” Bilbo said as Thorin held him close, his grip so tight on Bilbo’s arm that Bilbo thought he might bruise from it. “It was a deep wound, Thorin,” Bilbo added. “Thorin…”

“I know what you would say,” Thorin said, but he said nothing further, and Bilbo had learned when to push Thorin and when to leave him alone to his own thoughts. So he did not say anything more to plead Tauriel’s cause, but instead burrowed ever closer to Thorin’s heat.

“I will speak to her,” Thorin muttered at length, and he spoke grudgingly, but Bilbo smiled and pressed a kiss to Thorin’s shoulder. He was glad, he told Thorin, and Kili would be too – glad and grateful, for he loved Tauriel dearly. Bilbo had seen the depth of it on their journey together, and he was glad Thorin would no longer begrudge Kili this. Tauriel would be welcome in Erebor, and would feel welcomed, although Thorin would never like Elves. But Thorin said that he would do this for Kili and for Bilbo, and it was enough. Thorin was a Dwarf, and they changed slowly, if at all. He would never truly welcome Elves into his Mountain, but a single Elf, beloved by his nephew, could perhaps be an exception.

He should show his gratitude for such a boon, Bilbo suggested to Thorin, and was amply rewarded for such an idea.

Afterwards they lay together for a while, dozing rather than sleeping. Bilbo was contented, like this. He had missed Thorin, in so many ways, and he did not wish to pass his first night back at home in sleeping. Thorin was hot against him, a furnace that burned, and his hands were gentle as he touched Bilbo, as if he would never let him go, as if he could not bear to pull away even for a moment.

But at length Bilbo did sleep, for sleep could not be denied forever. He slept for many hours, and when he woke it was to an empty bed and cold sheets.

He tumbled from the bed, found his dressing gown, and went in search of Thorin. He did not have to look far; the doors to his terrace garden stood ajar, and Bilbo could hear Thorin’s voice in the garden beyond.

Thorin was there, and Frodo also. They were walking around the garden, Thorin asking questions and Frodo answering them, pointing to different plants and telling Thorin what he knew of them. The garden had run a little wild in Bilbo’s absence, plants creeping out from the bounds of the raised beds, sending tendrils like fingers to reach for more space. It was overgrown – in need of a hair cut, Bilbo thought to himself with a smile, just like Frodo, whose dark curls nearly reached the bottom of his jaw now.

Thorin was attentive to Frodo’s words, his focus entirely on the young Hobbit, and it made Bilbo’s heart ache from gladness.

“My papa planted primulas for her,” Frodo was saying, “but I don’t think they would grow here.”

“I lack the knowledge to tell you that,” answered Thorin. He rested his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and Bilbo was gladdened to see it, and to see that Frodo did not shrug it off, for Thorin was a stranger to him yet.

Bilbo cleared his throat, and suggested that there were some varieties of primulas that might do well, here on Erebor. They turned to him, his family, and Thorin’s smile was brilliant to see. Frodo ran to him, flinging his arms about Bilbo’s waist, and began to tell him of all the things he had seen and done this morning. He was brimming with excitement, and full of questions. Bilbo laughed and declared that he could not possibly begin to answer any of them until he’d had breakfast.

“Lunch, my dear Bilbo,” said Thorin. He came close and touched Bilbo’s cheek, just for a moment. “You slept the morning away.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I did,” he said tartly, “but I don’t think I can be blamed for that. I was kept awake for more than half the night.” He sent Frodo inside then, to wash his dirty hands before they went in search of lunch, and then Thorin kissed Bilbo, gentle and chaste and lovely.

“I missed you,” Thorin murmured, when they parted. Then: “Frodo reminds me of Fili, a little. He has tried to grow up too fast.”

“We’ll give him a proper childhood,” said Bilbo, catching Thorin’s hand in his. “I know how Dwarves think of their young.” Children were common enough, for Hobbits, and although each was a blessing, it was not the same as it was for Dwarves. Bilbo rather thought it might be good for Frodo, to be treasured a little – so long as it did not spoil him, he warned Thorin, for he would not have that.

“Indeed not,” said Thorin gravely, his eyes twinkling, and Bilbo huffed at him and lifted his free hand to tug on one of Thorin’s braids. He felt the urge to kiss Thorin again and gave into it. Thorin appeared not to object, even though Frodo had returned to the garden.

Bilbo’s stomach growled, and Thorin laughed into Bilbo’s mouth and rubbed his nose against Bilbo’s.

“You must eat,” he said. “You’ve lost weight, Bilbo.” He let Bilbo go then, turned and swept Frodo up into his arms, and Bilbo watched, amazed, as Frodo laughed and let himself be swung around through the air. “And you,” Thorin said to him, “must eat also. Growing boys need lots of food, as I well remember from when my nephews were young.”

“Will I ever grow as tall as Kili?” Frodo wanted to know, and was most disappointed when Bilbo pointed out that most Dwarves were taller than Hobbits and it was unlikely Frodo could grow so much.

He seemed happy, here in Erebor, with Bilbo and with Thorin. Bilbo was not fool enough to think it would last forever, this first blush of excitement, the novelty and wonder of living in a great Dwarf kingdom – Frodo would miss the Shire, and his own kind, and he was still grieving for his parents. But it was a good start, and Bilbo was glad of it. Frodo would be able to root himself here, as Bilbo had, and he would be loved as dearly as Bilbo was.

“Come on, Uncle,” said Frodo then, still held in Thorin’s arms. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Bilbo, and he followed his odd little family back inside the Mountain.