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Chapter Text

Aman, Bilbo found, was beautiful. Valinor was perhaps by most considered the jewel of it all, and true it was marvelous, but he found he rather preferred Yavanna's pastures to it. The wide stretches of green were... well, they were rather lovely. And yet...

Aman, Bilbo found, was mostly closed off to him.

Oh, sure. He could wander the pastures, mingle with dead Hobbits (and oh how his mother had wanted to hear every little detail of Bilbo's Big AdventureTM, and oh how he kept some parts of it to himself until it was just the two of them— because— because some things he needed to admit to Belladonna before he even thought about admitting them to Frodo or Bungo or anyone else). He could visit the elves in the larger part of the Undying Lands, and the Maiar when Gandalf (Or Olórin, as everyone called him here, but that was nonsense he was Gandalf) invited him, and occasionally Valinor itself, because he was a ring bearer and and elf-friend and shamelessly persistent anyway.

But he could not visit the Halls of Mandos. He could not visit that strange place the souls of Men went to. He could not visit the Dwarven Halls of Waiting.

It was the latter restriction that hurt him most.

After all, he missed his friends. He missed that little company of thirteen dwarrow that showed up practically unannounced and ate his entire pantry and made a mess of his floors and practically destroyed his plumbing. He missed Ori and Óin and Balin, who had died trying to reclaim Moria. He missed Bifur and Bofur and Bombur (the first of whom had died not too long after the Battle of Five Armies, given, well, brain damage was bound to catch up to him even without the axe embedded in his head, the second of whom died of heart complications, and the last of whom had died of old age not long before Bilbo set sail). He missed Nori (who had died when someone decided it would be in their best interests to live in an Erebor without its Spymaster) and Dori (who had died of old age as well). He missed Glóin (though he may not be dead, yet, provided he lived through the shock of finding out his precious son was in love with an elf— a Mirkwood elf, one who just so happened to be Thranduil's son, and oh Bilbo wished he could have seen his friend's face then). He missed Dwalin, the old grump (he had died protecting Erebor from Sauron's troops). He missed Fíli and Kíli, whose deaths he'd had eighty one years, now, to cope with and yet still he hadn't managed to in full. He missed...

He missed Thorin, for whom eighty one years had not even blunted the sting of pain. Thorin, who he never got to know as much as he'd've liked to, given his proclivity to brood. Thorin, who he could not save from Gold Sickness. Thorin, who nearly killed him. Thorin, the dwarf he rather accidentally gave his heart to.

Oh, yes, he had loved Thorin— still did, for all the good that did him. He hadn't really realized it for a long while. He hadn't known why his death had hurt the most of all, had left him feeling winded and as if there were some gaping wound spanning his entire chest, had left him crying until all he could do was choke on his tear-swollen throat and gasp for breath that wouldn't come, cry even past the point he had no more tears to shed, falling then to fits of dry-sobbing. Hadn't known why, even when he could think of the dwarf without bursting into tears, could learn to breathe again, he still felt like that gaping wound hadn't so much as shrunk.

He did realize it, though, and that had to count for something. It had been a fairly normal day when he received a dwarven visitor he did not know, about fifteen years after the first time such an occurrence had happened, and this time at midday. He had opened the door, humming the tune of one of the many songs he'd heard from Bofur (whether that be on the Quest or during one of the dwarf's many stays, he could no longer remember), when suddenly the song died in his throat as all air was ripped from his lungs. It took him a solid five seconds of staring and the realization that, no, it was not Thorin Oakenshield, miraculously alive or perhaps a very opaque ghost, standing before him, until he was able to breathe again.

"Ah," said the stranger. "Yes. I thought that might happen. Dís, daughter of Thrain, at your service."

"I'm— I'm terribly sorry. Do— do come in," Bilbo had managed to say.

I'm so sorry if I seem rather out of it, he wanted to say, for you see, I've just now realized I was in love with your brother, who you greatly resemble, and seeing you whilst thinking it was him made that particular epiphany hit me harder than I think even Smaug with all his strength could ever manage.

(Dís didn't seem bothered by his abhorrent first impression, though, and didn't seem to need Bilbo to tell her any of that anyway. She was a remarkably impressive dwarrowdam who had finally decided to meet the Burglar her brother's remaining Company spoke so highly of, and she had sent word, thank you very much, seeing as she did, unlike said Company or said brother, possess a modicum of manners, but unfortunately it seemed the raven she'd sent had been waylaid.)

(Dís was so unbothered she even managed to befriend Bilbo, and would visit him once or twice more in the years following, writing him in the in-between. By the second visit he wondered how he'd ever mistaken her with Thorin; true, they have the same dark hair and blue eyes, but Dís's nose was shaped differently and her lips were fuller and the shape of her eyes not at all like Thorin's were. At the end of her first visit she had nodded and said she could tell why everyone was so taken with him. She didn't say then that she could tell why her brother by all accounts had loved this Hobbit, and she never did, but she most certainly did think it. They became rather fast friends, and what she did say, once, was that Thorin was lucky the two of them had never met when he was still alive, because it was unlikely he would have gone a moment without being verbally scathed. Bilbo had laughed at that, and oh, it was rather nice to be able to feel any sort of mirth when thinking about Thorin.)

So, yes. Yes, Bilbo knew very well he was in love with Thorin II Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thor, (far too briefly) King Under the Mountain. Thank you very much for your concern, good day.

But loving Thorin Oakenshield didn't allow him visit said (broody, annoying, gorgeous) dwarf in the Halls of Waiting. So sorry, there are rules against that you see, I suppose you'll just have to wait for Dagor Dagorath!

And so Aman was beautiful, and it was wonderful to see his family, and to see Frodo in a place that seemed to ease his soul, and yet... and yet...

And yet that gaping wound remained.

And there was nothing anyone, not even Yavanna, not even Estë could do about it.

~*~

Thorin hated it here in the Halls of Waiting.

He loved his family, and was grateful he was able to get Fíli and Kíli's forgiveness, as well as grateful to see his father and his grandfather and his mother and his grandmother, and Víli, and Frerin... Yes, he was grateful for a great many things. And yet... and yet...

And yet he hated it here.

He missed Bilbo.

Those two things were very much related. He hated it here because he missed Bilbo.

Bilbo, who looked more like a grocer than a burglar. Bilbo, who was dreadfully allergic to horse-hair and who tried to pause their entire quest for a handkerchief. Bilbo who hated using a sword but was more than capable of outwitting any foe he set his eye on. Bilbo who came on a suicidal quest not for the promise of gold but because he thought dwarves deserved a home (and, oh, it was so relieving to find a non-dwarrow who saw them as people, people who loved and cared about more than treasure, someone who thought them deserving of the happiness of home and hearth). Bilbo, who stood between Thorin and a great pale orc with nothing but a dagger he didn't know how to use and a healthy kick of adrenalin. Bilbo who broke them out of Mirkwood's dungeons. Bilbo who vouched for their odd little company. Bilbo who faced a dragon and lived to tell the tale. Bilbo who tried so hard to break the thralls of Gold Sickness, who tried so hard to maintain the dwarves's honor when the dwarves in question weren't so worried about that themselves. Bilbo who he nearly... (no, thinking about it brought a wave of nausea and guilt and self-hatred so strong Thorin couldn't cope with it). Bilbo who had cried as Thorin died. Bilbo who was kind and compassionate and witty and full of wry humor. Bilbo who had a tongue sharper than any sword and who wasn't afraid to use it, even on a king. Bilbo who saw more value in an acorn than he did in a trove of treasures.

Bilbo who Thorin had been too much of an idiot to realize he loved.

That particular realization had hit him harder than Smaug, in all his strength, ever could. And, truly, it wasn't him who made him realize it. It was Kíli, and it was said in jest, but Thorin had frozen because what? and then Fíli had looked at him like wait you mean to say you didn't know? and Thorin had had a mid-life (mid-death?) crisis then and there because, oh. Oh, yes. He did love Bilbo. Bilbo who wasn't really even a burglar, but who had somehow managed to steal his heart (though perhaps steal was a touch too harsh of a word given the whole storied history between the two).

So Thorin hated it here in the Halls of Waiting, where the only news that came of his Hobbit had been from dwarves, generally of the Company, as they woke one by one in the Halls built for them by their Maker. Here, where he couldn't hold Bilbo close and beg him for forgiveness and tell him he loved him (because even if Thorin didn't deserve Bilbo— which he, much to Fíli and Kíli and Frerin's chagrin, very much thought he didn't— he deserved to know).

He hated it here, and by this point, he wouldn't be surprised if absolutely everyone— from Durin the Deathless to a commoner dwarf from ages past to Mahal to the rest of the Valar to even Eru himself— knew about it.

~*~

Kíli knew he was being incredibly annoying, thank you very much. But, honestly, what else was he supposed to do! And besides, he was trying to be annoying.

So, alright. Perhaps some context.

He was in the Halls of Waiting, where all dwarrow went after they died. And died Kíli had, which, bummer, because he had finally found his One and the home Thorin and his mother (though mostly the former, who had been old enough to really remember the place) had told him about had been reclaimed from that damned dragon, and... and things were going good, until they weren't, and Mahal curse that damn gold and those stupid orcs and—

And he missed Tauriel. Keenly. More keenly perhaps that he should, given he'd known her so shortly. But. Well. She was his One, so he was allowed to miss her, he thought. He missed her, and her beautiful hair, and her delicate features, and her strength, and her keen eye, and her love of the stars. He missed her so damned much.

And so, he was annoying. Not to just anyone (save a few exceptions, of course, he and Fíli had a reputation), but to someone he probably should think twice about being annoying to (but where's the fun in that?). He was annoying to Mahal.

Really, it was his Maker's fault. He had a forge, and the dead dwarves were allowed to visit and talk to him. Really, he had set himself up for this. Granted, most dwarrow probably were too scared to speak to their Maker, and those that mustered the courage to do so certainly were too scared to annoy him. But Kíli was special, it seemed, and so he made it a point to visit Mahal daily and plead.

His pleas were simple. First, he wanted to know if Tauriel was in Aman. Dead, Mahal had told him with pity, She died a warrior's death, though, and took out a whole legion of orcs. To which Kíli had thought, Hot, because it wasn't as if he were in a place, emotionally, where he could actually process the fact that his One has died, and so it was better to focus on the fact he thought her taking out a legion of orcs by herself was... well. Hot. After that, his pleas changed (again, kind of Mahal's fault, because he set the precedent that Kíli could wear the Vala down with his pestering— er, that is to say, pleading). He wanted to see Tauriel: he either wanted to be able to visit her, or to have her be able to visit him (if she wanted to, and Kíli was almost certain she'd want to). That was more than reasonable, he thought. It wasn't him asking for all their time to be together (at least, not yet). He just wanted to visit his One. Really, what was the big deal with that?

Kíli didn't know what the big deal was, but apparently there was one. Mahal said no each time. Each time, Kíli had nodded seriously and, depending on how long he'd been there already, either continued on pleading or left with a pleasant goodbye and a see you same time tomorrow!

Mahal wept, Frerin (aka Little Uncle, aka the Cool Uncle) had when he'd found out where Kíli disappeared to each day.

Daily, Kíli (aka the cause for Mahal's aforementioned tears) replied with a grin.

Then, later, he'd found out Thorin honest-to-Eru didn't know he'd been in love with Bilbo (aka Mister Boggins, aka the Coolest should-be-Uncle) which, even Kíli knew that. And when Glóin arrived at the Halls, and said (after ranting about his son and Legolas Thranduilion, which had caused Kíli to whoop with joy, because, another one, and Narvi— yes the famed smith, who, yes, got along quite well with Kíli in large part given their shared experience of loving elves and who would, yes, often go in annoy Mahal right after Kíli left because teamwork— had echoed his sentiments) that Bilbo had set sail to Aman and was probably out there now. (Thorin promptly tried to barrel through the thick stone walls in what was apparently an attempt to break out of the Halls of Waiting, before knocking himself out and then contenting himself to self-deprecating brooding.)

After that, Kíli threw Bilbo into the mix of pleading, for added variety. He did, after all, care about his uncle, very much so, and he genuinely wanted the two of them to find happiness together (because it was clear to Kíli that Bilbo reciprocated Thorin's feelings; he wasn't actually a complete idiot, nor was he blind). And so Kíli made it a point to bring Bilbo up, too, alongside Tauriel and Celebrimbor (because as mentioned: teamwork).

So yes. Kíli knew he was being annoying. But after all— and this he said to anyone who pointed it out, with a wry grin that held resigned anger and deep sadness— he was stuck at 77. He damn well had the right to be annoying.

And it was either be annoying or waste away in an all consuming sadness, and, really. That would just be a waste of a perfectly good dwarf.

~*~

Fíli was bored. He was bored and he was upset and nothing seemed to make it better.

The Halls of Waiting were wonderful, don't get him wrong. He was ecstatic to see his father once again, and thrilled to meet his great-grandparents and really get to know his grandparents (and know the men of those two pairs when they weren't in the clutches of Kidîz-satas or a Ring of Power, respectively). He was happy he got to meet Frerin, an uncle he'd never known, and happy he had the chance to whack the uncle he did know upside the head before pulling him into a massive hug.

But...

But he hated being dead. It shouldn't've happened. He should have been able to see Erebor really, truly reclaimed. Should have been able to see his Uncle crowned, should have been able to shirk of Balin's lessons, should have been able to jokingly bemoan the responsibilities of being heir whilst secretly being pleased he was trusted even still to look after the welfare of his people. He should have pestered Thorin (his great idiot of an uncle who he loved so dearly) into admitting his feelings for a certain Hobbit he should have been able to become much better friends with (because he should have been able to convince Bilbo to stay, because Bilbo was as much an uncle to him as Thorin was). Yes, he knew Thorin was in love with Bilbo. He didn't know who didn't know that, except, apparently, Thorin, and except, probably, Bilbo himself.

And Thorin was so annoying when he moped. It wasn't his usual brood, because that Fíli could deal with, had dealt with his entire life. No, Thorin was moping, and miserable, and honestly that misery seemed to be contagious.

Speaking of annoying, Fíli didn't think Kíli had gone a day without going into Mahal's forges to beg him to let him visit Tauriel, or let Tauriel visit him, and Celebrimbor and Narvi should be reunited, and, hey, speaking of Bilbo, what about him? And when he wasn't doing that, and if Fíli or Víli or Thorin or Frerin or one of their ancestors weren't occupying his attention, he was looking wistfully at nothing. He wasn't moping like Thorin was, thank Mahal, but he was so clearly sad. Having a One was wonderful, Fíli could imagine, but it was sad for him to think Kíli was parted from his so soon. And Tauriel had seemed nice, for an elf. And she had saved Kíli's life, and clearly could put up with his younger brother, and so Fíli guessed he liked her alright. Which made it kind of worse to witness Kíli's sadness, because that made Fíli feel all the sadder for his nadadith.

If only I could change it, Fíli thought, perhaps a little bit sadly (Thorin's fault! Or maybe Kíli's. Certainly not his, thank you). If only I could go back and change it all.

(And, unbeknownst to him, someone both nearby and so, so far away perked up.)

~*~

Kidîz-satas: gold (pl.) sickness

nadadith: little brother

~*~

Estë strode with a rather large gait to the Halls of Nienna, her dear husband's-sister, a plan brewing in her head. A plan she knew Nienna would not only appreciate, but back. She walked quickly, ignoring the elves that jumped out of her way. She was rather occupied, after all, her thoughts whirling at such incredibly high speeds she was distantly surprised to note her hair wasn't lashing in that whirl.

As she neared the chambers she knew Nienna to occupy, she heard the voices of two of her fellow Valar.

"Nienna, he keeps trying—"

"Every day Kíli just—"

"—walking straight towards Aulë's Halls—"

"—comes right into my forges and talks my ear off for hours on end—"

"—with only a rather curt good day—"

"—He won't let me get more than a few words in edgewise—"

"—not caring he's not allowed—"

"—just keeps talking—"

"—Honestly, he's just as stubborn as any of Aulë's children—"

"—He's even roped Narvi into it all—"

"—which quite frankly is saying something, no offense, dear—"

"—None taken, darling— so even when Kíli's left I'm still stuck—"

"—Honestly what's worse is that he's so sad—"

"—dealing with stubborn pestering—"

"The only thing—"

"I'm damned sure the only thing—"

"—that will get him to stop—"

"—that would get him to shut up—"

"—is—"

"I have an idea!" Estë exclaimed, slamming the door open and walking into Nienna's chambers. Yavanna and Aulë were sat before Nienna herself, who, as always, had tears streaming down her face, and yet who had a distinct twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "A way to solve your little problems."

"Estë," Nienna greeted warmly. "It is good to see you outside my brother's realm. You say you have a solution to Yavanna and Aulë's... frustrations?"

Estë snorted. "An interesting name to give them," she snarked, "but yes. You see, I've tried practically everything. But no amount of familial comfort, nor even my own blessing, will ease any of those four idiots' pain. They're rather simply put unhappy here."

"They're dead," Aulë said dryly. "Or at least mine are. Can't blame them for being less than pleased about that."

"Bilbo is here, his soul should be eased. He should be at peace. So should the dwarrow— the Halls are designed to bring my husband's children respite."

"Yes. They're dead, and they're at peace. That's precisely the problem. The big idiots haven't forgiven themselves," Estë said.

"Well, then, get them some therapy!" Aulë grumbled.

"Though I could not argue that would not be beneficial," Nienna said gently, her voice rich with amusement, "if it were that simple Estë would have arranged that already."

Estë nodded her head in agreement. Good. She'd caught on— or maybe Nienna had come to this conclusion herself, and was just waiting for Estë to figure it out in her own. That would be something Nienna would do. "There's only one way to get them to get better," she said.

"Let them speak to each other?" Yavanna offered. "Let them reach closure there."

"Like hell Mandos would let Kíli anywhere near his halls, and I doubt he'd let Tauriel just visit." Aulë said.

"Yes, my brother is unlikely to be persuaded to change his rules any time in the next century. And even then, though your solution may be a temporary balm, Yavanna," Nienna said, "it is just that: temporary."

"So what do you suggest?" Yavanna asked. "At this point I'll take anything."

"Aye, same here," Aulë said, a tired look in his eye. "That Kíli lad certainly is stubborn, and knows how to talk. I'd be proud if it weren't me he was annoying."

"You promise you'll do anything?" Estë said with a sickly sweet smile.

"Yes," Yavanna said, cautiously, "Though that look on your face scares me."

Aulë grunted. "Again: anything would be better than to be stuck with Kíli nagging me. And even still, I doubt Narvi would let up now that he's gotten started but," Aulë shrugged, "Narvi is easier to deal with, so. Yes. I promise."

Estë and Nienna grinned at each other and oh, no, because whenever the two of them looked at each other like that, there was bound to be mischief.

"Good," Nienna said. "If I'm right in thinking what Estë will suggest, then I think we'll need some help."

"I'll talk to my husband," Estë said. "Nienna, you take Námo and Vairë. Aulë, Yavanna, I trust you can handle everyone else?"

"What, exactly, are we supposed to be doing?" Yavanna asked cautiously.

Estë grinned.

~*~

"You want to what?" Vairë asked, blinking.

Nienna smiled patiently. "It's rather simple. I want to have the Tapestry reweaved where Erebor is concerned."

"Yes, but..." Vairë looked at her husband's normally very reserved, quiet sister. "Why?"

"I'm sure you've heard of Fíli and Thorin's moping, and how Kíli spends hours each day pestering Aulë. And Bilbo Baggins is a force of nature even Yavanna cannot tame. If we make it better, they'll be much more... manageable. And perhaps they'll set an important precedent or two."

Vairë looked at her husband's sister with wide eyes. Then, slowly, she began to laugh.

"Well," she said finally, "I certainly support this motion. But you'll have to take it up with Eru."

Nienna's small smile did not falter. "Oh, I know."

And with that she bade her brother's wife goodbye, strolling through Námo's halls in search of him.

(If she paused briefly to give a forlorn looking elf a sharp pin and a wink, then, well. Nobody was around to see.)

~*~

"You want to what?" Eru Ilúvatar, chief of the deities of this dimension, exclaimed with rather more surprise than might be expected of a being of his caliber. He looked down in wide-eyed shock at Nienna.

"Oh, Eru, my creator," Nienna sighed. "They are so sad. Even my dear husband's-sister Estë knows of no other way to ease their pain. Certainly it would not hurt to change events so that they might have a better outcome?"

"I don't know—"

"Creator, I weep for them."

"You weep for everyone," Eru said, but it was weak. Already he could feel himself giving in.

"Yes," Nienna acquiesced, "but they make me sadder than anyone else. These tears are more than what I cry for any others."

And Nienna's face was more tear streaked than usual...

"Oh— I—" Eru huffed rather like a well-badgered parent. "Alright. But, there will have to be a few rules."

Nienna grinned triumphantly.

~*~

Bilbo Baggins was not sulking, thank you very much. That would be a rather undignified thing for the oldest-living Hobbit to do. He was merely sitting in the living room of the Hobbit hole in Yavvana's pastures that had been designated to him, looking rather sullen and half watching Frodo lounge in the grass outside. But he was not sulking.

And he did not pout when Yavanna appeared before him.

The Vala was otherworldly in a very worldly way. Her skin was the color of rich, freshly tilled soil, dotted with freckles the color of the pale pebbles that so often littered such nutrient dirt. Her eyes were ever-shifting, matching the color of leaves throughout all seasons and toils, from rotten brown to vibrant green to dappled gold to burnt orange and then some. Her gown was of grass, stretching out into the fields outside the door, and flowers of all kinds adorned her, giving off their sweet perfume. Her hair was made of rose bushes that billowed out around her, and which grew perfectly maintained roses of all colors. Precious metals streaked through her in places, for after all, the earth held its fair share of treasures. She was exactly as she should be.

Yet Bilbo wasn't exactly ecstatic to see her.

"If this is about my recent escape attempt—"

"It is," Yavanna said with a smile that wasn't as strained as Bilbo had expected it to be. "But not in the way you think. I will not hesitate; I doubt you have the patience for it." ("Quite right."). "You've been given a chance, Bilbo Baggins. A chance to change the course of history."

Bilbo raised a brow; he'd been through so much this somehow didn't impress him all that much. "Oh?" He asked.

Yavanna didn't seem surprised by his lack of shock and smiled fondly. "Yes. Bilbo Baggins, you've been granted a chance to save your dwarves."

Bilbo felt... well he felt rather a lot all at once, and it was all so jumbled he couldn't make head nor tails of it, and so he didn't try to. "Right. When do I go back?"

"Soon," Yavanna assured. "But before you leave there is something you must know. Eru has granted you this right, but there are some things that cannot— should not— be changed. Namely, you must find the Ring. And..." Yavanna's face softened into sadness. "And the Fellowship must form as it was. Frodo must be the Ringbearer, and it must be him and Samwise and Sméagol who destroy the ring."

Bilbo deflated. "Oh," he said, rather weakly. "I had hoped—"

"I know," Yavanna said with understanding. Not pity, certainly not, because Bilbo would not tolerate that from anyone, Valar or no. "But so much happened because of that quest that need happen. But take heart, Bilbo: I perhaps misspoke when I said the Fellowship must form as it was. It need not be exact; the original members need join, and unfortunately Olórin must fall, but there is nothing to say it need happen at the same time, need happen with only those original nine members. And some deaths may yet be prevented." She smiled at him, and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "I do not need to ask if you accept, do I?"

"No," Bilbo said, voice hoarse. "No, you needn't."

Yavanna smiled at him, warmly this time. "Good. You shall have time to say farewell to your family here. You shall remember everything you remember now, and by tomorrow morning you will be fifty years old and respectable once more."

"What an adventure that will be!"

~*~

Thorin Oakenshield was not moping, thank you very much. Kings didn't mope. He was simply sitting in silent consternation and deep thought. If his lips tilted downwards into a frown, well, then, that was because he was so busy thinking.

Maybe it was high time he just burrowed out of the Halls of Waiting. He wanted to see his— he wanted to see Bilbo, and he thought, quite frankly, he'd been waiting for that long enough. And who could stop him? Mahal? Manwë? Eru? He'd like to see them try.

He was just starting to think of ways to break out of the Halls in secret when someone appeared very suddenly in his rooms.

Thorin did not yelp. He did not, and whoever claimed otherwise was henceforth to be tried under charges of libel and also probably sedition. He simply... let out a noise as he readied into a battle stance. A perfectly warrior-like noise, thank you.

"Peace, Thorin Oakenshield," said the figure, and now that Thorin got a good look at her he recognized her as a Vala. He paused, racking his brain for the lessons Balin had given him.

"Lady Nienna," Thorin said at last, bowing.

For this had to be Lady Nienna. He didn't know any other Valar who would cry as the figure before him did. Nienna was beautiful in the way polished quartz was: plain, but still breathtaking in its own right. She had smooth, pale skin, and dark hair that fell in soft waves down her back. She dressed simply in robes of grey, which matched perfectly the shade of her eyes, which were slanted upwards ever so slightly. From those eyes flowed tears, silent droves that made Thorin himself want to cry, and indeed he felt as though if it weren't for the fact he'd been crying far too much recently her presence would have driven him to cathartic tears. Yet despite Nienna's constant weeping, her eyes were clear and bright, and her face was flushed from one ear to the other, dappling over her cheeks and nose. She was simple and elegant and somehow very comforting to Thorin. The tears misted away before they reach the hem of her robes, and distantly Thorin thinks warmly that Bilbo would have something to say about that being poetic.

"I see Balin's lessons paid off," Nienna remarked with a friendly smile and a soft voice. Thorin simply nodded, not quite sure what she was doing here.

"I... can I help you, Lady Nienna?"

"Hm? Oh, no. I am here to help you, Thorin Oakenshield." Nienna smiled, and this time it was as sad as he'd expect. "Too long I have felt your pain, Thrainul. And not even my husband's-sister Estë could do anything to help it. But now... now there is something. You have been granted a chance, Thorin Oakenshield. A chance to go back and change things."

"What?" He said, and it sounded a little hollow, but that might have had something to do with the fact his ears were roaring with the pumping of his blood, because his heart was beating oh so fast.

Nienna looked on him warmly. "Not everything, I am sad to say," and she huffed a laugh at that to acknowledge the joke that could be made by a less polite (less shocked) person. "But you have another chance to reclaim Erebor, and to do it right this time. Only two things must go as they did before," Nienna said, and Thorin's heart froze. "Nothing so grim" Nienna assured. "You simply must retrieve your weapons from the Troll Cave, and you must fall into Goblin Town."

"Why?" Thorin asked. Not meanly, just confused.

"The warning elvish steel gives is important, and the blades are of good make," Nienna said. "And I trust your companions who have joined you more recently have told you of the Ring? Your Bilbo found it in the Goblin Caves, and unfortunately he must find it again this time around."

Thorin's heart sunk at that. Glóin hadn't said much about the quest to destroy the ring, only that it had resulted in Gimli and an elf falling in love (though Glóin couldn't fool Thorin, who could tell he was, begrudgingly, happy for his son) and, more sadly, resulted in great tragedy, especially for Bilbo's young nephew. But... but maybe, this time, things would turn out better. So Thorin just nodded. His heart was heavy, and he hated that Ring for what had done to Bilbo and to people Bilbo cared about, but he would not let this heaviness even attempt to ruin this miraculous second chance.

If Thorin could do better, he would. And maybe, just maybe, he'd succeed. And maybe he'd even get a chance to court a certain hobbit.

"When do I leave?"

Nienna smiled. "Oh, in about five seconds or so. Good luck."

~*~

"Don't," Mahal said as Kíli strode into his forges for his daily pestering. "Before you try and annoy me even more, let me speak."

Kíli just smiled sweetly and said nothing.

"You've been given another chance, Kíli Víliul," Mahal said, "to go and reclaim Erebor. This time, hopefully, without dying. I'm not going to ask if you accept. You're going whether you like it or not."

"What?" Kíli asked, his voice rather higher pitched than he'd've liked it to come out.

Mahal barked a laugh. "You can change things, Kíli," he said. "And see Tauriel again, like you keep asking to, but better because you'll both be alive. And you can save your uncle and brother, and play matchmaker like I know you want to with Thorin and Bilbo. You have a second chance. And maybe when you come back— though mind you I'm expecting you much later in your life, son of Dís— you'll find things might be a little different around here."

"I— Thank you," Kíli said, eyes shining with tears. "Thank you."

And Mahal smiled softly. It was an odd look on him, and yet not. Mahal had dark skin that lit like copper on the high points of his face, which was rather dwarven in nature despite the Vala's very un-dwarvish height. His eyes glinted dark like wrought iron, and his hair and beard were all colors of gold woven masterfully together. He wore clothes embellished with mithril and precious gems. When he smiled, it was like looking into the mouth of a forge: there was nothing but bright, orangey light and waves of heat. Nothing about his appearance should be read as soft, and yet when he looked upon his child— his annoying, wonderful, compassionate, and loving child— it was.

Even the hardest metal could soften, after all.

"Don't thank me," Mahal said gruffly, but the softness was still in his face. "It was Estë's idea. Good luck, Kíli. Oh. And come up with something better than 'I could have anything down my trousers', would you?"

~*~

Fíli was well aware of the Vala in front of him, thank you. That was why he was staring at her, unimpressed (or at least doing his best to appear so), mildly confused, and not quite certain which one she was. Yes, he was aware of her. He was not sure how to address this odd situation, though, and that was the issue at hand.

"Hello, Fíli", the being said. He blinked at her. "I'm Estë."

Estë. Lady of Healing, he was ninety nine percent certain. He bowed.

"My Lady," he said. "Can I help you?"

Estë laughed. She was rather resplendent, and her air was comforting. She had hair that was long and golden, a shade or two lighter than Fíli's own, and pulled back into a single plait. Her eyes were a golden-green hazel color, glimmering with mischief and goodwill, and she was garbed in robes that were simple in cut but not in cloth. They swirled around her in pastel multichrome, never stilling, and flowed gently around her as though there were a breeze disturbing them, though the air around them both was in truth still and silent. There was something about her that put his heart at ease: perhaps it was the smell of the thick, cheesy pasta dish he could remember his father making, or the way her smile reminded him somehow of his mother's; maybe it was the way her eyes gleamed the way Kíli's used to, or the way her nose somehow resembled Thorin's; maybe it was the hint of ink and charcoal on the heels of her hands, as Ori's often had been stained. (And wasn't that curious? What about the young scribe and Fíli's old playmate was so comforting?)

"You cannot help me, Fíli," she said with a laugh. "I'm here to help you. That's my job; a job you've made rather difficult, I might say."

Without really thinking, he said, "Oh, I try." It didn't occur to him that he probably shouldn't sass a goddess, but Estë didn't seem offended by his sarcasm— in fact, she seemed to delight in it, once again.

"Well, I can't give you all the credit," she smiled. "Your brother and uncle contributed, as did Bilbo."

"Why are you here, Lady Estë?" Fíli asked. There was no unkindness in his voice, only genuine curiosity.

"Like I said," she said, "I am here to help. You have been granted a second chance, Fíli Víliul; you wished you could have changed the course of your uncle's quest, and now you've been given the opportunity to try and do just that."

"Really?" He asked, though it almost came out as a disbelieving bullshit; fortunately, Balin had trained him well. Also, he had found recently that every time he let out a cuss his grandmother would appear out of thin air and twist his ear. Frís was a force of nature that Fíli didn't want to risk summoning, and so it had become second nature to swallow his cursing.

"Really," Estë affirmed. "You will depart shortly, but before you go, know that there are some things that cannot he changed. Vairë can reweave much, but there are some events that must occur to achieve the best possible ending. And be careful what you do change, lest events spiral out of your control. That is not inherently bad, Fíli, but it something to be wary of nonetheless. Good luck."

"I—"

But Fíli didn't get the chance to ask any of the many questions he had, because, suddenly, he felt as though he were being pulled sharply and insistently away; it was a feeling uncannily like that of his falling, dying, atop Ravenhill all those years ago, and he felt fear clutch his heart. He did not know when he shut his eyes, but he could see pale red and the veining of his lids, as though a bright light was shining directly into his face. Well, he thought, shit. Here we go again.

~*~

In the Halls of Mandos, Vairë, the Weaver, wife of Mandos, cracked her knuckles and looked at the tapestry before her. With a move more graceful than it perhaps should have been, she plucked a string and pulled and, rather improbably, the tapestry before her unwound. She watched it go back and back and back, until, with a gentle touch, it stopped. Vairë took four strings, considered the Tapestry, and let an excited grin push across her face before she began to weave. 

And, in Fíli's room, Estë paused, and cursed. "Shit," she said, "I forgot to tell him about the others."

Chapter Text

Fíli opened his eyes the moment he was certain he wouldn't be blinded, revealing the sight of light dappling through the leaves of trees above him. It was a familiar sight, but he couldn't ascertain why until he looked around him. Rolling hills, a pleasant forest, and he and his brother camped out around a small fire. 

He blinked, and suddenly his memories flooded back to him. He was in the Shire. He was near Hobbiton. He really had been sent back. He had his second chance. He felt a grin split his face, then, and he couldn't help a few disbelieving laughs. 

Across the remnants of their fire, Kíli shot up, looking around with wide eyes. Fíli regarded his brother, a battle raging within him as Kíli pat himself down before looking at Fíli with a rather startled look. 

He should ask, right? Except what if Kíli thought he was crazy— but it was Kíli, he wouldn't think that... right? He should ask. But...

But he didn't get the chance, because Kíli asked first. "Do... do you remember?"

Fíli let out a relieved chuckle. It was perhaps an inelegant way to ask if Fíli remembered having done all of this before, and then dying, and then waiting near a century in the Halls of Waiting where he met and was reunited with numerous dead family members, but it was such a Kíli way to ask it he couldn't be bothered to tease his brother for it (at least, not at the moment). "Yes," he said, and felt the odd urge to laugh. "Mahal's balls, we—"

Kíli wrinkled his nose as Fíli's voice choked off, the latter at a loss of words. "That phrase feels weird, now that we've met Mahal."

"Met and ruthlessly annoyed him," Fíli said with a smirk and a raised brow.

Kíli grinned unrepentantly. "Well, you can't say it didn't yield results."

Fíli chuckled at that. "Fair point."

They looked at each other, then promptly shot to their feet and attempted to tackle each other in what could only be described as a feral attempt at a bear hug. Fíli clutched the back of Kíli's tunic, the fabric bunching in Fíli's fists, and he was laughing, and also crying? He wasn't sure exactly what he felt: there was definitely relief in there, and trepidation, and a steely resolve to make it go better this time, but they were all jumbled up together with multiple other feelings and thoughts and fears and hopes that they became a confusing blur. All he knew was that he was back, with his brother, and they had a second chance, a chance to make sure their past failings wouldn't come to pass again. Or at all? Whatever. 

Kíli was clutching him just as tightly, or perhaps tighter, and Fíli promptly stopped worrying about how he felt or how to phrase things now that he'd traveled through time. He was just glad he wasn't alone. Glad he had his brother. Glad he had another chance. 

They pulled back finally, and grinned at each other, though this one was a little more solemn. 

This time, they'd do things right.

~*~

'

Thorin blinked, his shouted Wait what do you mean five seconds? dying rather unceremoniously on his tongue as he took in his surroundings. It was a simple, homey inn on the outskirts of Hobbiton, and Thorin could not for the (newly reclaimed) life of him remember what it was called. It was around noon, and he knew he was about to head out and make his way into Hobbiton proper. The note Gandalf had sent him was clutched, now, in his hand, and the door was shutting before him, signaling the hobbit that had passed the message on had just left. Thorin felt like his knees were about to give out from under him. 

He was really back. He really had a second chance. He stumbled over to a chair by a fireplace and sat heavily, staring at the paper crumpled in his hands. 

He was going to see Bilbo again. And, oh. Oh. That was... he was going to need a moment, then. Because he wasn't sure he could face Bilbo without breaking down into tears and begging for forgiveness, and that would just confuse Bilbo and probably scare him off the quest.

Unless I tried to pass it off as apologizing for my Company, he thought with a small smile, but he knew that he wasn't that good of a liar. No he... he just needed to... To keep it together. He hadn't hurt Bilbo yet. If things went according to plan, he wouldn't have to. He'd have to mention his fears of falling to Gold Sickness to Balin and Dwalin and maybe his sister's-sons somewhere along the way, somewhere it made sense. Perhaps Rivendell? He had overheard Elrond talk about it, and so it would make sense if he acted as if the elf's words had bothered him.

And they would have to stop in Rivendell, as much as the thought made his skin crawl. Being held in Thranduil's prisons hadn't exactly made him any fonder of the race of elves, but it wasn't as if he could accidentally-on-purpose discover the moon runes. No, they would have to go to Rivendell. But he wouldn't make it easy on Gandalf. 

Thorin sighed, and read over Gandalf's message, as familiar as it was. It said, plainly, that he'd acquired a burglar, and that they were expected at his house for dinner. Thorin snorted. They most certainly were not expected for dinner, and Bilbo hadn't actually agreed to anything yet. He was sure that hadn't endeared the thirteen dwarves to him the first time around. 

He stood, then, and gathered his pack. He would try to arrive early, then, to give his— no, I can't think of him as that, I don't technically know him yet and besides he was never mine to begin with— to give Bilbo a warning. 

Hopefully, this time he wouldn't get lost in the quite frankly frustratingly poorly planned roads of Hobbiton.

~*~

Bilbo blinked into awareness. He had said his goodbyes to his mother (who had wished him luck and told him to, and this was quite mortifying, get that dwarf of yours and tie him down, and her wink had said she meant that in the dirty way, and Bilbo Baggins had considered throwing himself through the Doors of Night over that, thanks, because at least Melkor wouldn't talk about his sex life), his father (who had told him to make sure to get his affairs in order, this time, we can't have Bag End be looted again after all, and had wished him luck with a warm hug), and Frodo (dear, sweet Frodo, who had smiled at him and told him he wished Bilbo found peace this time around, and who had seemed genuinely happy for Bilbo, and Bilbo vowed to himself then and there he wouldn't let Frodo's quest go the same it had the first time. Frodo had to bear the Ring, he knew, but that didn't mean Bilbo wouldn't prepare him and help him in any and every way he could). And now he was back in Bag End, over eighty years ago. 

Bilbo shot up immediately (and oh! it was wonderful to be able to do that again!) and dashed to his calendar. He was a week before thirteen dwarves would show up on his doorstep, and—

"Oh, that won't do at all!" Bilbo said. "No, no, I have so much to do. I have to start cutting back on meals, and get my affairs in order, and get weapons to tide me over til the Troll Hoard and practice with them, and—"

(Far away, Vairë blinked, and, with good grace, took to reweaving again.)

"— of course—" Bilbo blinked, and suddenly the calendar looked much different. "A month and a week. Yes, that will do quite nicely, thank you!"

(The Weaver could not help laughing, then.)

Bilbo Baggins looked around the smial that belonged to him, but which was no longer home. No, Bag End hadn't been home since he'd left it, a contract flapping behind him in the wind, to go on an adventure. Home had become... well. Home had been lost to him with Thorin. Not completely, perhaps, or at least he'd been able to regain a sense of home once he'd taken Frodo in, but—

"Oh, it does me no good to sit around and feel sorry for myself," Bilbo chided to himself. "Not when there's so much to do. Now. My will."

And Bilbo Baggins got to work.

He was determined that Thorin and Fíli and Kíli would get to see their home grow and flourish, this time. And if he got his home along the way, too, well. He certainly wouldn't object to that.

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins was well prepared when the day of Gandalf’s approach (the twenty-sixth of April, by Shire reckoning) neared, and as such was already earning whispers from many of his fellow hobbits. He was losing Respectability already, it seemed, and unsurprisingly that didn’t bother him one bit. He would rather be prepared than try and be Respectable for only a short few weeks, anyway.

Over the month he’d been granted, he’d done much. First he set about getting his will in order, leaving Bag End to Drogo— who had only recently come of age and who had been very close to Bilbo already, thank the Valar— and, with a grimace, leaving his least favorite doilies and china to the Sackville-Bagginses (for he had to leave them something , lest they claim they weren’t given their due and set lawyers upon poor Drogo). He didn’t think he’d die on this journey, but, well, it was a distinct possibility. And should it be that his death meant Fíli and Kíli and Thorin would live, then it would be a distinct possibility Bilbo would welcome— after all, he’d always loved a good bargain. 

He’d also started to cut back on meals at a slow rate. Even with a month, he wouldn’t be ready for the days near the end of the trip where they’d eat once per day, nor the days in Mirkwood where they nearly starved entirely, but, well, he was certainly more prepared than the first time around. And besides, things weren’t so rough the first leg of the trip; he’d have more time yet to prepare for such things. As it was, he could get by comfortably on two or three meals a day, even with exertion, and so he figured he was as ready as he’d ever be for this aspect of the quest, at least.

And he was exerting himself. Oh yes, Bilbo was exercising . After all, he didn’t want to be so much of a burden this time around. So he took many a walk around the wooded area outside Hobbiton, strengthening his legs even more. He also commissioned a pair of daggers for himself, so that he wouldn’t be entirely helpless before he got Sting, and practiced with them as best he could. He was no warrior, he knew, but he got some training from the Bounders as it was, and he could defend himself well enough. He also got back into the practice of throwing rocks, and once again the birds and squirrels of the Shire, after a generation or two to forget, learned to go running when Bilbo Baggins stooped over to pick up a rock. He was rather good at stone-throwing as it was, and though perhaps hardened warriors such as Dwalin and Gloin would scoff at it, it was a skill that would be useful. At worst, it would serve as a distraction for enemies, but should he throw hard and accurately enough, it could potentially blind or even kill them. And so he honed this skill once more, and if it helped his arms strengthen as well, then, well, he would not complain. As a last pseudo-weapon he collected a few of his best conkers; hitting two chestnuts against each other could not be counted as battle of any sort, of course, but taking a chestnut to a joint or the face would hurt still, and in battle, any advantage would help. 

He also gathered a good rain-cloak, the oiled fabric of which would keep the rain out rather well, even in the deluge that would get even Dori to gripe, and would provide warmth as to boot. He also purchased a good few handkerchiefs that were more suited to traveling than the lacy, embroidered ones he had back at home were— he’d gotten some Looks when he’d purchased those, as well as when he’d purchased sturdier clothes and a jacket more suitable for traveling than any of his dinner jackets could ever hope to be. He was very good at ignoring those Looks. And so, on this front, too, he was well prepared.

Now he was sitting on his bench by his gate, smoking his pipe, and ignoring how fast his heart beat as he waited for Gandalf to walk up the path.

His eyes were closed when it happened, same as last time. They had shut as he soaked in the morning sun, puffing his pipe, and trying to maintain a façade of calm despite the fact his mind was jumping from thought to anxious thought at alarming rate, and the fact that his heart seemed to want to match his brain’s pace. A shadow fell over him as he let out a ring of smoke, which rather quickly turned into a butterfly and flew into his face. Right. He most certainly did not miss that . 

He coughed as the smoke flew up his nose and regarded the wizard— still the Grey at this point, which took a moment to get reused to— with a rather affronted look. 

“Good morning,” he said wryly, brow arched, but he had always found Gandalf’s response to be amusing and so he baited the Maia again. 

“What do you mean?” asked Gandalf a little imperiously. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on ?”

Bilbo blinked at Gandalf and took a puff of his pipe. “All of them at once I suppose.” Bilbo said. He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “Hello, Gandalf. Can I help you?”

Gandalf’s face lit up in a grin. “Ah! So you remember me! Good, good, I was rather afraid you would have forgotten.”

“How could I forget the wizard who had the most amazing fireworks the Shire has ever seen?” Bilbo asked with a shit eating grin. “And how can I forget the infamous Meddler , who so often whisked my mother up into adventures.”

Gandalf didn’t seem to find Bilbo all too amusing all of a sudden. “ Meddler ? Why I…” But he didn’t seem to be able to find the affrontedness he was seeking, much to Bilbo’s amusement. “As for if you can help me, that remains to be seen. I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.” He looked at Bilbo then with a browns-raised smirk of a grin. 

Bilbo arched a brow at that. “In Hobbiton ?” He snorted. “Why I don’t know anyone down there—“ he gestured with his pipe to the town below them— “who would have much interest in adventures . Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner.”

“And what of you, Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf asked. “Do you have any interest in adventure?”

Bilbo hummed and stood to collect his mail. He left Gandalf waiting in silence (because, really, last time around he had thirteen guests show up for dinner unannounced, which was terribly rude of him and Bilbo hadn’t quite forgiven him for it yet, even if it had led him to meet thirteen of the most extraordinary people he’d ever meet) for a second or two before looking back up at him. “I suppose it would depend on the adventure.”

Gandalf chuckled at that. “You are Belladonna Took’s son after all. It’s decided then. It will be good for you, and, likely, amusing for me.”

“I haven’t accepted yet,” Bilbo lied. “And you haven’t told me anything about this adventure.”

Gandalf hummed. “Yes, that is a job for the others.”

“The others?”

Gandalf smiled. “You’ll meet them later. I expect they’ll be around for dinner.”

Bilbo sighed. “And you couldn’t’ve told me earlier , I suppose? Never mind, yes, I’ll be expecting you then. Do try not to be late?” He turned and stalked back up to his door. “Oh, ah… Good morning.”

And with a self-satisfied grin Bilbo Baggins shut his door. He stood there for a moment, listening as the gate creaked open and Gandalf made his way to the door…

The door which Bilbo promptly opened, revealing Gandalf there with his staff hovering over where the wood once was, a sheepish look on his face. 

Bilbo arched a brow once more. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

Gandalf swallowed his sheepish look and donned a commanding aura that did absolutely nothing to impress Bilbo. “Leaving a mark so the others know to meet here.”

Bilbo hummed. “ Hm . Leave it higher up, then, so they might actually see it. And make sure it’s centered. I doubt your magic will fade all too well, and if it’s permanent, then I’d hope it’d be as aesthetically pleasing as possible. Good morning .”

And with that he slammed the door shut once more, before he could laugh and probably deeply confuse the wizard. He heard muttering outside, and then the scratching of his staff on the door— higher up, as Bilbo had asked. Good. Now. 

Time to mail the Thain, and Hamfast, and inform them both where he was going (as well as give the latter pay for two years’ time in advance) and that, should he not send word in a little over two years’ time from now, they should distribute his property as his will states. Hopefully he’d be back by then, or at least send for his things (though he barely let himself hope for that latter option, because… well). 

And then it was time to prepare nothing short of a feast for his dwarves. After all, they’d been traveling such a long way, and they weren’t all exactly in the most prosperous situation to begin with, and so an excess of food was a luxury they likely did not often get. Besides, he wanted to make a good first (second? Second-first?) impression, and dwarves were a lot like hobbits: the best way to their hearts was through their stomachs. 

And more than that, if he didn’t make sure his guests were well tended to, he was sure his father would roll in his grave. 

He stopped by the market on his way back from dropping off his post, selecting fresh bread and good cheese and lamb and fish a plenty. 

“Are you hosting a party Mister Bilbo?” asked Mister Worrywart as Bilbo purchased a few of his tubers. 

“Ah, no, some guests are coming by for dinner. Business,” he said, and it wasn’t technically a lie.

“Ah, then best of luck to you!”

And with that Bilbo was on his way back to Bag End, to prepare his feast. He had set a longer table out in the hallway yesterday, as well as mud proofed the floors. He’d be leaving it all to Drogo eventually (hopefully) after all, even if he shouldn’t die, and it was rather rude to gift a house that had mud stains in the best carpeting. He also had moved his mother’s glory box, as it was a rather sentimental thing (which, he certainly had the right to indulge in sentimentality at his age!), and prepared the guest rooms. So all there was to do was cook, and then, (if his memory served correctly) a few minutes before Dwalin was set to arrive, change into clean clothes. 

More like a grocer than a burglar indeed , Bilbo snorted to himself as he took in the blue silk waistcoat (he didn’t care for his gold one any more) and nice brown slacks. But he did want to make a good impression, and that relied on looking like a grocer to prove them wrong with the conker tucked into his jacket pocket. His dwarves did love an amusing surprise. 

It was only after he had finished with the microadjustments the telltale sound of the doorbell chimed. Bilbo steeled himself ( you can do this, Mad Baggins . It’s only your dead friend who probably won’t like you for a good while yet as he doesn’t yet know you, after all. ) and opened the door revealing, as he had predicted, Dwalin. 

The dwarrow was just as gruff looking as he had remembered, the top of his head bald, and the rest of his hair dark and bushy. His beard was untabamly tufty as always, and silver clasps gleamed on his ears. 

“Dwalin,” he said with his usual gruffness, “at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” Bilbo replied with a matching bow. “Do come in; there’s food on the table, and as I don’t quite know when the others will arrive, feel free to start now. May I take your cloak?” Dwalin grunted and handed Bilbo his cloak. “And if you’d like to remove any of your weapons, feel free to put them by the door.”

Dwalin looked at him skeptically, but Bilbo only smiled. It really was only a suggestion. And so Dwalin dropped his axes in the designated spot and said, “You said there was supper?”

“Yes, just through here,” Bilbo said, and he led Dwalin into the hall, where the table was laden with food. 

It took a lot not to smile in a self-satisfactory way as Dwalin’s face bloomed into what was, for him, a shocked look. First of all, that would be unnecessarily rude. Second of all, he shouldn’t know Dwalin enough to know that even was his shocked look. So he kept his smile to a polite one and gestured at him to take a seat. “I have bread still warming in the oven; I’ll bring it out now. Ale is in the casks there, and there’s wine set out, and if you’d like tea let me know and I can have some made.”

“Ale is fine,” Dwalin grumbled. 

Bilbo nodded. “Please do sit, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask!”

And with that he turned on his heel and made into the kitchen. There, that wasn’t so bad, he told himself. 

Yet , another part of him whispered. Which, hm , but true. After all, it wasn’t Óin or Ori or Balin whom he knew had died horribly in Khazad-dûm. It wasn’t Fíli and Kíli. It wasn’t… it wasn’t Thorin. 

Bilbo shook his thoughts aside. He’d had long enough to practice hiding his sadness, thank you very much. He wasn’t going to crack now over people who were technically strangers to him. So he pulled the bread— some plain rolls, some sliced with garlic and cheese melted atop in a way that was done only rarely in the Shire (and then only in the places the dwellings of hobbits were near those of other folk, to be honest) but which dwarves seemed to enjoy greatly. It was as he set these out on the table (which Dwalin still hadn’t sat at yet, instead looking around the smial, though Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to be too peeved with that) the doorbell rang yet again. 

“That’ll be the door,” Dwalin called. 

“Yes, thank you ,” Bilbo said, looking at him pointedly but amusedly as he walked past Dwalin. “And save the cookies for later; you’ll spoil your supper otherwise.”

He didn’t wait to see Dwalin’s reaction, instead trudging to his door, which opened to reveal Balin and oh , okay, Bilbo had to blink for a moment before smiling at his guest. 

“Balin,” Balin said, sweeping his arms as he bowed, “at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” Bilbo greeted in kind. “I trust your journey here wasn’t too difficult?”

“Ah, no, it was lovely, thank you,” Balin said as he came inside, passing Bilbo his cloak when prompted. “Though I think it might rain later.”

“Hopefully nothing more than a light shower,” Bilbo replied, hanging Balin’s cloak. “You may leave your weapons there if you wish; one of your fellows is here already. I believe he is there in the sitting room, but there’s dinner in the hall if you’re hungry.”

Balin nodded, but he had no visible weapons to disarm, and Bilbo truly didn’t mind if he kept a dagger or some such thing concealed somewhere. He simply closed the door and smiled as Dwalin and Balin greeted each other, though he was careful to maintain the façade of a welcoming (if not somewhat hovering) host rather than that of a fond friend. 

Balin laughed as he saw Dwalin, who had his hand shoved in the cookie jar (at which Bilbo shot Dwalin a somewhat amused, somewhat chiding look). “Evening, brother,” Balin said with a grin and a saunter. 

“By my beard,” Dwalin said, smiling and with a chuckle in his voice, “You’re shorter and wider than last we met!”

“Wider, not shorter,” Balin corrected goodnaturedly. “Sharp enough for both of us.”

The two laughed at each other, before clasping each other’s shoulders kindly, and, after a brief pause, bringing their heads together with a massive crack .

Bilbo bit back a grin at that. 

“Have you eaten?” Dwalin asked. “There’s plenty of food on the table. Quite a feast, actually.”

“I’m a hobbit,” Bilbo interjected. “We’re nothing if not good hosts.”

“Aye?” Balin said amusedly. “Lead the way, then, laddie.”

Bilbo obliged, but wasn’t able to stick around before the bell rang again. Bilbo bit his lip as he made the way to the door; this wouldn’t be the hardest thing to face tonight, but it… it wouldn’t be easy. 

He made his way to the door and opened it to reveal Fíli and Kíli, and it was all Bilbo could do not to cry. 

~*~

It was nightfall by the time Kíli and Fíli made their way into Hobbiton. 

“Huh,” Kíli said, glancing around. “Guess we’re just destined to get here at the same time.”

“We could have been here earlier if you hadn’t gotten distracted by those mushrooms,” Fíli said with a smirk. 

Kíli waved his hand. “Bilbo said hobbits like mushrooms, and if it’s anything like last time, we’ll benefit from bringing our host a gift.”

After all, Kíli wasn’t actually devoid of manners. Fíli just rolled his eyes as they approached the door, and made to pull on the string for the doorbell. Kíli quickly batted his brother’s hand away and pulled on it himself, grinning all the while. Fíli rolled his eyes and kicked Kíli in the shin, but before he could retaliate, the door was pulled open, and the two of them righted themselves. 

Now Kíli was observant, despite what his dear brother might like to claim. So he saw a sad-shocked look in Bilbo’s eyes for half a second before the hobbit blinked, as well as noted the fact said hobbit was not, as he had been the last time, dressed in his housecoat, but rather in hobbitish finery. Kíli bit back a frown. 

“Fíli,” his brother said, lacking his usual confidence in his voice, though his smile remained. 

“And Kíli,” he added. 

“At your service,” they said together, and bowed. 

Kíli smiled. “You must be Mr. Boggins.”

(Because forget what everyone else said, that was a funny nickname.)

Bilbo just smiled at him. “ Baggins ,” he corrected, and bowed. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service as well.” 

He stepped aside and allowed them in. Kíli pushed in, acting his part, and heard Fíli swagger inside behind him. Briefly, he caught his brother’s eye. 

This… is different , he said by look. 

Fíli just imperceptibly-to-anyone-else shrugged, and turned to face their host, (most of) his weapons in his arms. “C—”

“You can leave your weapons there by Master Dwalin’s,” Bilbo said with a gracious smile that seemed rather pointed. “And after that I can take your coats.”

Kíli just snorted at his brother’s face and placed his bow and quiver there, before looking for Bilbo’s mother’s glory box (it had been funny to see the shade of purple Bilbo’s face had been) only to find it wasn’t there. Kíli paused. 

“Er…” he said, “my boots are, uh…”

Bilbo raised a brow. “Yes, it seems you took a shortcut through the pigpens. I don’t mind terribly but if you’d like you can leave your boots there as well.”

Though Bilbo hadn’t verbally instructed Kíli to take his boots off, and indeed had said he wasn’t required to, something about the gleam in the hobbit’s eyes said take your boots off or so help me I will twist your ear until it’s upside down , and so sheepishly Kíli (and Fíli, he noted a little triumphantly) obliged. 

“It’s a nice place, this,” Kíli said, looking around the hobbit hole. Fíli made a noise of agreement behind him. “Did you do it yourself?

“Thank you,” said Bilbo. “But no, I didn’t build it. My father did, as a gift to my mother.”

Fíli nodded in approval. “A fine gift indeed.”

“We brought mushrooms!” Kíli said with a grin, thrusting the bag into Bilbo’s hands; the latter blinked in confusion. Kíli frowned. “Hobbits do like mushrooms, right?”

Bilbo blinked. “Ah— yes—” He smiled genuinely at Kíli. “Thank you, Master Kíli. I’ll cook these up— they’ll go rather nicely with the lamb!” He paused. “Oh! Where are my manners! Masters Balin and Dwalin are in the dining room, where there’s plenty of food. Feel free to help yourselves!”

And with that Bilbo disappeared into the kitchens. 

Fíli started at Kíli. “This is… really different.”

“Do you think he…?”

Fíli frowned, his brows furrowing. “I don’t know,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe? Or maybe Gandalf just told him what to expect this time?”

Kíli frowned to mirror Fíli’s. “Maybe…”

How do you ask someone if this is their second time living these events without sounding like a total crackpot ? he wondered. 

“Well,” Fíli said, “we’ll just have to—”

“Fíli! Kíli!” Dwalin greeted, and he took Kíli by the arm. “Thought I heard you two. Come eat!”

“Yes, mom ,” Kíli muttered despite himself. 

Dwalin sent him a look. “I’m not your ma, and you’d best consider yourselves lucky for that. She’d skin you for all the mud you got yourselves covered in.”

Fíli snorted, and the two of them were led into the dining room. 

“ Mahal’s beard ,” Kíli breathed. “That’s a lot of food.”

~*~

Bilbo was fine. He was fine . Sure, it felt like multiple arrows to the chest to see Fíli and Kíli standing before him, very much alive, but he was fine . 

He distracted himself from the urge to cry by sautéing up the mushrooms Kíli had been nice enough to bring (maybe he didn’t remember them being brought last time? After all, the dwarves had cooked their own food then…) and tried very hard not to get overwhelmed. He had just removed them from the stovetop when he heard the doorbell ring once more, and so he straightened himself out, re-donned his jacket, and made his way to the door, deftly leaping aside as eight dwarves came crashing down, Gandalf standing behind them. 

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said cheerfully, but it was rather fake . “You’re very lucky I overprepared for company; you could have told me there were so many of your friends joining us. No matter, no matter,” he said, helping Glóin to his feet. “Bilbo Baggins,” he introduced with a bow. “At your service.”

“Glóin—”

“—Bofur—”

“—Nori—”

“—Dori—”

“—Ori—”

“—that’s Bifur—”

“—Óin—”

“—and Bombur—”

The group bowed as one with a nearly deafening, “At your service!” 

(Well, save Bifur, who just grunted in what probably meant roughly the same in Khuzdul.)

“Do come in. There’s dinner in the hall, and I’ve just finished sautéing up some mushrooms Master Kíli was kind enough to bring. You can leave your coats with me, and if you like, leave your weapons there with the others. I do also ask that if your shoes are muddy you take the time to wipe them outside, or leave them there with Fíli and Kili’s.”

And so, one by one, a line of dwarves filed in, dumping enough cloaks in his arms Bilbo could hardly see over them. 

Gandalf, of course, waited patiently while Bilbo hung them, only speaking once Bilbo had turned to him with a huff. 

“I hope our guests haven’t been too offputting?” Gandalf said. 

“ Our guests?” Bilbo asked waspishly. He sniffed. “Hmph. But no, they’ve been perfectly fine guests so far.”

“Excuse me, Master Baggins,” Dori said with a polite smile, “I hate to interrupt, but would you mind if I made a pot of tea?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Bilbo said. “The kettle should be full, and the teas are in the cupboard next to where the pots are shelved.”

Dori nodded. “Thank you,” he said courteously, and bowed slightly before leaving. It was… odd to deal with Dori when he still had that mask of courtesy on (not that Dori wasn’t courteous in nature; it was just that his real courtesy was much different than his fake version), but he supposed it only natural. It was only Bilbo who was reliving things, after all. 

“You’re taking this quite well,” Gandalf said with a bit of… disappointment? Really ?

Bilbo turned to Gandalf and shot him a Look, and they began walking towards the hall, where the dwarves were gathering. “Hm? Oh, yes, as I’ve said they’ve been perfectly well behaved. Is this everyone?” He asked, knowing the answer already of course but doing his best to act as if he wasn’t reliving this moment. “Can someone clue me in on what this adventure is supposed to be, now?”

“Ah,” Gandalf said, “no, there is one yet missing.”

“He is late, is all,” said Dwalin, who was currently refilling his tankard. “He traveled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come.”

“In that case,” Bilbo said, “we’d best make sure to save him a plate. Oh!” He glanced Bombur setting the dish of mushrooms on a hastily cleared space on the table. “Bombur, was it? Thank you for bringing the mushrooms out!”

Bombur, blushing some, just nodded and took a seat at the table. 

Bilbo stood back and examined his dwarves as they made merry and ate well, fighting back a fond smile. It was easy enough to pass off as amusement when Gandalf looked at him with a raised brow. 

“Bilbo, do come eat,” the Wizard prompted. “Now when there’s still food left!”

Bilbo chuckled, but obliged, filling himself a hearty plate. 

“Ye sure you can eat all that, laddie?” Glóin taunted (and Bilbo didn’t take offense because it was just such a Glóin way to be, and he knew it was at least mostly friendly). “That plate’s bigger than your head!”

Bilbo arched a brow at him. “I’m quite sure, thank you, Master Glóin. Us hobbits could out eat a dwarf any day.”

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, is that so?” Glóin asked with a competitive gleam in his eye, which Bilbo matched with an equally competitive smirk. “Well—”

“Master Glóin,” Gandalf interjected, ignoring Bilbo’s glare. “I don’t suggest challenging Master Bilbo here to a competition of eating. After all, hobbits eat seven full meals a day, and so I’m quite sure it would be a competition you’d lose.”

“ Seven meals a day? ” 

And from there it devolved into a raucous mess of eating and talking and throwing food across the table. Bilbo sighed, but took it in stride, not able to resist feeling amused by the table manners of dwarves and not really caring about the suspicious look Gandalf was giving him. (He didn’t notice, either, the way Fíli and Kíli were studying him when not otherwise occupied with throwing and deflecting food of their own.) He was just happy to see his dwarves so happy again. 

And… Well. Dwarves certainly knew how to party. 

But eventually even they ate their fill, and Bilbo had a few volunteers (who turned out to be the Urs as well as Dori) help him put all the other food near the stove so it may stay warm for the missing dwarf. On his way back from the kitchen, he was stopped by Gandalf. 

“Quite a merry gathering, wouldn’t you say?” He asked. 

Bilbo smiled. “Yes. Not at all like hobbits are, but certainly entertaining.”

Gandalf hummed, and gave Bilbo a studying look.“I’ve been alerted the plumbing in your bathroom is… not working.”

Bilbo arched a brow. His forehead was starting to ache, all the times he’d done that today. But if Gandalf wanted to test him, then, well, fine. He’d be tested. “Tell them to use the plunger.”

Gandalf just laughed. 

“Excuse me,” the timid (yet oh so fearsome when he wanted to be) Ori asked. “What should I do with my plate.”

Before Bilbo could answer, Fíli snatched the plate with a grin. “Here you go Ori,” he said. “Give it to me.”

He promptly tossed the plate to Kíli, who had his pipe in his hand. Bilbo went to open his mouth to protest (more about the smoking indoors than the tossing of his china), but thought better of it and closed it with a huff of a laugh and a shake of his head. Soon the two dwarves Bilbo could see made a game of tossing about the dishes, rather like the game hacky-sack the dwarves would end up showing him. Bilbo just sighed. 

“Careful,” Bilbo said to Bofur who, as he did last time, was drumming up a beat with Nori, Dori, and Glóin using his silverware (silverware which Lobelia would then try to steal, ha !). “Don’t blunt the knives.”

(He knew exactly what he was doing. It was rather a wonderful bit of improv, after all.)

“Ooh,” Bofur said with a grin. “D’ya hear that lads? He said we’ll blunt the knives .”

It was Kíli who started them off. 

“ Blunt the knives, bend the forks— ”

“— smash the bottles and burn the corks —” Fíli continued. 

And then they began to sing together, and Bilbo just stood back and smiled, a true (if not a little watery) smile now that there weren't any prying eyes on him. The dwarves really were skilled at this, and it was a joy to watch them now that he wasn’t scared shitless they’d break century-old West Farthing china. 

“ Chip the glasses and crack the pla—tes; that’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!

“Cut the cloth, tread in the fat; leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Pour the milk on the pantry flo—or! Smash the wine on every door!

“Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl, pound them up with a thumping pole; when they’re finished if any are who—le… Send them down the hall to roll!”

Bofur had pulled out his flute at some point, it seemed, and Óin was amusing himself using a teapot as an instrument. Bilbo was laughing openly, now, unable to really help it. It was a catchy tune. 

“ That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates! ” They finished, and pushed Bilbo into the kitchen to assure him that no harm came to any of his dishes.

Bilbo just laughed and—

—and was cut off by a knock on the door. Everyone went quiet, so quiet Bilbo could hear the rush of blood in his ears. He hoped to Yavanna above his face hadn’t gone pale. 

“He’s here,” Gandalf said rather dramatically. 

This… this was going to be interesting. 

~*~

Thorin got lost again. 

He wasn’t proud to admit it, but the streets of Hobbiton seemed to be a challenge he just couldn’t best. As to why the hobbits had designed their streets to be winding and vague and prone to detours, Thorin would never know. Perhaps they’d done it to keep Gandalf out?

But no matter the intention of the Shirefolk, he got lost. And so he was late, again. Hopefully his Company had remembered to save him food, because being lost in the rolling green hills of the Shire was hungrier work than it really ought to be. 

Thorin sighed as, finally , he saw Bag End there atop the hill, and made his way towards it. 

There was the sound of merriment inside— his nephews— and then the whole company, it seemed— were teasing poor Bilbo. Thorin couldn’t help but smile fondly. A very jubilant Kíli had recounted the song and the occurrences leading up to it with great detail and great mirth as they left Hobbiton, before Bilbo had managed to catch up with them all, and Thorin could just imagine the frustrated little nose scrunch Bilbo did and— and oh , he really was in deep, wasn't he?

Suddenly Thorin felt the need to sit. He did so, on a conveniently placed bench. It— oh, Mahal, how could he face Bilbo after what he’d done? How could he face Fíli and Kíli after getting them killed, the Company after dishonoring them the way he had. He— 

You haven’t done that yet , a voice in Thorin’s head said. 

No, he thought. I haven’t. And I won’t; not this time. 

So with a great, shuddering breath, Thorin rose and made his way to the door, thanking Mahal he hadn’t wept. He smiled softly to himself as he heard the song end in uproarious laughter (and did he hear Bilbo’s laugh in that throng or was he just deluding himself?), and then, suddenly suppressing his grin, he rose a fist and knocked thrice, heavily, on the door before him. 

The mark is higher up this time , Thorin mused to himself. He looked to his left, over at the pasture with one tree where  Bilbo had said parties were often thrown. Curious . 

And then the door opened and, slowly, Thorin turned his head to greet whoever had opened the door and—

And his breath was stolen from him. It was Bilbo. Not dressed, this time, in a loose linen shirt and casual pants with suspenders. No, he was dressed in much finer clothes this time: a loose silky shirt that was open just slightly at the collar, his neckerchief apparently long forgotten, and over it a waistcoat of a beautiful bright blue, and brown pants that ended just above the ankle. He wore, too, a corduroy jacket of a deeper blue— one that almost matched the tunic Thorin himself wore and oh . His light copper curls were well brushed, and there was a flush across his cheeks. The tips of his ears were bright red. He looked… well. Thorin would let the sharp keening noise he couldn’t manage to fully suppress speak for itself (it was, fortunately, quiet enough that no one, not even Bilbo, seemed to notice). 

Thorin quickly blinked and got a grip on himself. “So,” he said, voice quiet and perhaps a little too soft. “This is the Hobbit.”

Bilbo blinked. “And you’re Th— the leader of the company, I gather? Oh! Pardon my manners. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” Bilbo bowed. 

Thorin returned the gesture. “Thorin Oakenshield, at yours. And yes,” he said, stepping inside the smial with his best attempt at a blank mask. “I am the leader of this company.” He turned his gaze to the wizard standing with a considering look in the entryway. “Gandalf,” he greeted. “You said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way.” He paused, and grimaced. “Twice.” Again . “And I wouldn’t have found it at all if it hadn’t been for that mark on the door.”

He turned, and standing there were Fíli and Kíli, young and not dead , and Thorin beamed at them. 

“Uncle,” Fíli greeted, looking a little confused. 

Thorin just laid a hand on each of their shoulders and tried to keep the tears out of his eyes. “It is good to see you both,” he said honestly. 

“Right,” Bilbo said after a pause. “Now. Does this mean someone will finally tell me what this adventure is supposed to be?” 

Thorin saw him shoot Gandalf a glare, and couldn’t manage to keep a smile from twitching across the corners of his mouth. 

“Perhaps,” he said, and started circling Bilbo. “Tell me, Mister Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo just turned his head to meet Thorin’s gaze, looking resolutely unimpressed. “Not any actual combat, no, but I can fend for myself well enough with daggers. And I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know.”

That… is new , Thorin thought, but couldn’t help the snort of laughter that bubbled up. Conkers. As if—

Bilbo, smiling serenely, flicked his wrist, and suddenly Gandalf let out a yelp of pain. The others ceased their laughter. 

“They’re not the most conventional of weapons,” Bilbo said, still with that calm smile but now with a spark in his eyes, as he tucked a conker back into his jacket pocket, “but they’ll do in a pinch.”

Thorin’s smile stretched wider despite himself. He dipped his head. “Indeed.” He glanced Bilbo over again. “You dress more like a grocer than a burglar.”

Bilbo arched a brow at that. “My apologies. Should I dress in all black and hang a sign around my neck that reads ‘ Burglar ’ for everyone to see?”

Thorin’s smile just grew, and he looked to Gandalf. “He will do,” is all he said. 

“Come, Uncle,” Kíli said. “We saved you some food. Mister Boggins made loads of it, see…”

But Thorin tuned Kíli out (an act he had much experience with), and tried to keep from frowning too much in thought. This… was not as it was before. Bilbo had seemed to expect them this time around, and he did not look so harried. More than that, he had taken Thorin’s comments (criticisms, though falsely so) in stride, even sassing him back. And Thorin didn’t recall Bilbo having had any skills in daggers at all before the quest.

Maybe the Valar changed that , Thorin thought. But he frowned. That didn’t quite make sense. He stewed in thought until a plate was set before him. He startled; he didn’t remember having sat down. He glanced up, only to see it was Bilbo who had set the plate before him; he nodded in thanks. This was different too— more than a weak broth as it had been last time— though Thorin couldn't find it in him to complain. He was hungry . Desserts were set on the table, too, at which Dwalin let out a protesting groan. 

“Told you,” Bilbo said with a smirk, earning a glare from Dwalin in response. Bilbo didn’t so much as flinch. 

Thorin frowned, irrationally jealous, and decided instead to stuff his face with the food before him. As he did so, his eyes glanced to a pie ( “Mahal’s beard, where’d you pull that from?! ” Bofur exclaimed, and Bilbo just winked and smiled cryptically), which was steaming and very appetizing— Bilbo slapped Kíli’s hand away as he reached for it, saying he should wait for Thorin, to which he smiled. And then he noticed the decoration on the pie: an acorn. 

“...Plant your trees, watch them grow,”, he said, choking on his own blood. He hurt. He hurt until all he could feel was numbness, and yet he could not help smiling at Bilbo. He weeps for me , he thought. What did I do to deserve that? “If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place .”

His jaw clenched, and he could not help but swallow despite the sudden dryness to his mouth. (He did not notice the way Fíli was studying him). He went back to his food. 

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin asked after a few bites. “Did they all come?”

“Aye,” Thorin replied, “Envoys from all seven kingdoms.”

“And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” Asked Dwalin. He looked at Thorin intently. “Is Dáin with us?”

The food very suddenly tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He wasn’t angry at Dáin, not anymore, just… sad. Maybe things would have been different if they had had Dáin’s support from the beginning… and yet Thorin could not fault him for not wanting to risk himself or his people on a quest that was (fairly, he could now admit) labeled suicidal. 

“They will not come,” Thorin said, and he hated seeing his company so disappointed. “They say this quest is ours and ours alone.”

“Right,” Bilbo said from where he was leaning against the arched doorway, just behind Thorin. “Now. Will someone please tell me what quest I am to be going on?”

Thorin could not help but smile at that; softly, true, but still. 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow,” Gandalf said, “you sound as if you’ve made up your mind.”

“Maybe,” Bilbo said dismissively. 

“Ah, let us have a little more light,” Gandalf said, and by his reaction Thorin gathered Bilbo had sent the wizard one of his infamous withering looks. He was handed a candelabra, which he set down carefully. The dwarves around him cleared a space, and Gandalf laid down a very familiar map. “Far to the East,” he intoned, “over mountain ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak.”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo read softly, peering over a (now very tense) Thorin. The back of his neck tingled with Bilbo’s proximity. 

“Aye,” Glóin said, “Óin has read the portents—” (Dori rolled his eyes bodily at that) “—and the portents day it is time .”

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain,” Óin supplied as Gandalf lit his pipe, “as it was foretold. ‘ When the birds of yore return to Erebor ,’” he recited, “‘ the reign of the beast will end. ’”

Thorin frowned. It would, but not without great cost. 

“The beast?” Bilbo questioned, sounding steelier than Thorin had remembered. 

“That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible,” Bofur said, with what Thorin now recognized as the cheer Bofur would put on in attempt to diffuse the tension around him, “chiefest and greatest calamity of our Age” He paused. “Airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks.” Bofur did not see the glare Thorin was shooting him. “Extremely fond of precious metals.”

Thorin winced bodily at that. 

“Yes,” Bilbo said sardonically, “I know what a dragon is, thank you.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Ori, standing suddenly (and Thorin didn’t miss the way Fíli’s eyes flew to the young dwarf, instantly softening). “I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!”

Thorin watched in fond amusement as Dori pulled his youngest brother down (Nori, conversely, was smirking in wry pride at the youngest Ri), and noted the way Fíli’s eyes lit up in a smile. Oh, his oldest nephew really was oblivious to himself (… not that Thorin was really one to talk).

“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us,” Balin said, throwing his voice over the crowd, “but we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best… nor brightest .”

“‘Ere!” Nori proclaimed. “Who are you calling dim?”

The rest of the table, too, took insult to Balin’s words, grumbling and proclaiming their offense. Thorin was about to speak, but—

“We may be few in number,” Fíli said over the din, his hands clenched into fists before him ( and wasn’t that odd , thought Thorin), “but we’re fighters, all of us. Down to the last dwarf.”

“And you forget,” Kíli said earnestly, though Thorin (who had much practice at this, too) could see the glint of mischief in his youngest nephew’s eyes, “we have a wizard in our company!” He grinned and threw a look to Gandalf. “Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”

Thorin smirked; he didn’t catch it last time, but Kíli was clearly trying to get the dwarves riled up against Gandalf rather than each other. It would be a surprisingly effective tactic, at least so far as building camaraderie would go. 

“Oh, well, no, ” Gandalf stumbled across his words, “I— I wouldn’t say—”

“How many then?” Dori asked sharply. 

“I— what?”

“Well, how many dragons have you killed?”

Thorin turned to Gandalf with a smirk and a raised brow (he didn’t see that, behind him, Bilbo mirrored his expression perfectly— but Fíli and Kíli did see that, and they shot identical grins to each other). Gandalf would be receiving no bailouts from him. 

“I— Well, I—” Gandalf coughed, choking on his pipe weed. 

“Go on, then! Give us a number!” Dori shouted. 

And as one, the dwarves rose and started shouting at each other. 

“Mind the pudding,” Bilbo said with a raised brow, but the dwarves paid him no mind. 

Thorin waited for the group to air their frustrations a second longer before standing himself. “ Itkitî !” Thorin roared. He paused, and recalled what he said last time; it seemed to work well enough then. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them, too?” He paused, and sat back down with a sigh. “Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug ,” and he spit the name, “has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the home of our people— and the wealth within it— now lies unprotected.” Thorin paused. He had had to force himself to mention the (damned precious troublesome wantit nogood) gold of Erebor. “Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”

“Du bekar!” Dwalin shouted even as the others called out with cheers. Thorin watched with fondness as they jostled each other in excitement. 

“You forget,” Balin called over the others, “the Front Gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”

Thorin had to make an effort not to look at Gandalf before the wizard spoke. 

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.” Gandalf conjured the hidden door’s key as if from thin air, a smile in his eyes. Thorin stared at it, mouth once more suddenly dry. It was his father’s. His father, who didn’t even know his own name before he died, who was tortured by the forces of Sauron so that they could take his ring. 

“How came you by this?” Thorin was aware of himself asking. 

“It was given to me by your father,” said Gandalf, and Thorin felt his heart squeeze in his chest. “By Thrain. For safekeeping. It is yours, now.”

Thorin took the key with shaking hands. 

“If there is a key, there is a door,” Fíli said, serious despite the obviousness of his statement. “Another way in.”

Gandalf nodded in approval, and pointed at the red cirth on the left hand side of the map with his pipe. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls.”

Kíli grinned and patted his brother on the back. “Another way in,” he said in a breathy echo of Fíli’s earlier words (and Thorin didn’t see how pale his nephews were, nor did he see the apprehension in their eyes).

“If we can find it ,” Gandalf said, “but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed.” He sighed. “The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it… But, there are others in Middle Earth who can.”

Thorin glanced at Gandalf with his best attempt at not glaring. Elrond was far better than Thranduil, as low of a bar as that was, but Thorin still didn’t like the lord all too much. The way he had spoken of the dwarves, of the sickness that ran in Thorin’s veins… it had upset him then, and it upset him now, now that he’d lived through the Gold Sickness. It was real , and horrible, and caused people to do things they would never in their right minds even think of doing, and Elrond had spoken of it as if it were just a minor annoyance that didn’t merit his genuine concern— or if it did, not for those who were afflicted by it. So perhaps Elrond wasn’t so bad as Thranduil, but Thorin didn’t like him. And though he’d decided already that they really would have to, he wasn’t looking forward to going to Rivendell, but ... It wasn’t as if Thorin could accidentally-on-purpose discover the Moon Runes— and even if he could, and could get away with it, there was nothing to say Gandalf wouldn’t just drag them through to Rivendell anyway . So… fine , Thorin would allow it. But he wouldn’t make it easy on Gandalf 

“The task I have in mind,” Gandalf continued, “will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage.” He glanced at Bilbo. “But if we are careful, and clever, I believe that it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar,” Ori stated, and looked to Bilbo. 

Bilbo hummed, and Thorin turned to see his chest— he’s so close — before looking up to see the twinkle in his— not his — hobbit’s eyes. “And a good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?” Glóin asked. 

“Am I what?” Bilbo asked with a grin. 

“He said he’s an expert!” exclaimed Óin. 

“Me?” Asked Bilbo. “Hm. No, not an expert.” He paused. “Though…” He held up the key with a slight grin; the table erupted into roars— mostly unangry. Thorin gaped, spluttering in shock, as Bilbo handed him back the key with a wink (and Thorin did not blush , thank you, because kings don’t blush ). “I’m not bad .” He shrugged at everyone’s startled looks. “Any fauntling can steal a pie from a windowsill, and it’s become rather a rite of passage amongst the young folk to steal crop from Farmer Maggot— a trend which I like to think I started, thank you very much. Us hobbits are light on our feet, and so long as the other is distracted , then…” he shrugged. “But I’m certainly not an expert .”

Gandalf smiled in pride. “As Bilbo said, hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And, while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.” He turned towards those in the group who still seemed on the fence about Bilbo. “I was asked to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There’s a lot more to him, I think you have seen, than appearances suggest, and he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know.”

Thorin had to bite back a smile at that. Oh, believe me, I know . 

Gandalf met Thorin’s eye with a quirked brow. Thorin regarded him for a moment, before turning to Balin. “The contract,” he said. Balin handed it to Thorin, who turned to— well. He couldn’t quite look at Bilbo, not, he thought, without giving himself away, or at least not dead on. Instead he turned his head until he could barely glance Bilbo out of the corner of his eye. “I cannot guarantee your safety, Master Baggins, nor that of any member of this Company. And neither can I guarantee your survival. Erebor is not your home. I would not hold it against you if you did not wish to come.”

Bilbo snorted. “Of course you can't guarantee my safety. I wouldn’t expect you to.” And he took the contract. 

~*~

Itkitî - silence; in the movies, he says atkât, though that generally translates into “the silence”, whilst Itkitî is be silent . 

Du bekar- to arms!

~*~

Can not guarantee my safety , Bilbo thought with a snort as he took the parchment from Thorin’s hands. (He was careful not to brush the dwarf’s skin, lest he start blushing like a tween with a schoolyard crush. Honestly, it had been bad enough stealing the key out from under Thorin’s nose without giving himself away. He really should find out how to pull himself together, because if any of the Company caught on to his attraction to Thorin, he’d never hear the end of it.) I’m not a child. I don’t need minding. 

Grumbling, he opened the parchment with a dramatic (and potentially peeved) flourish. He mumbled as he read over the contract— honestly, he didn’t remember it all too well, and he wanted to make sure that should he fail in preventing Thorin from falling to Dragon Sickness (for Bilbo did not plan to let Thorin go through that again), it was actually within his rights to claim the Arkenstone. 

“Terms,” he read, “Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one-fourteenth of total profit, if any—” he snorted. “—Fair. Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by… by…” And here he wavered before steeling himself. “Inflicted by or sustained as a consequence there of, including, but not limited to: lacerations…” Thorin was bloody, so bloody, even dead, the angry red of his cuts shining against his skin. Fíli and Kíli, close to each other even at rest, were the same. Bilbo felt a flood of shame. Myfaultmyfaultmtfaultdidn’tsavethemshouldhavebeenme echoed in his head. “...evisceration…” Gimli did not tell him much of the horror at the bottom of the lake outside Moria, only that records showed Óin fell to it— pulled limb from limb, tentacles digging into his flesh as he— as he— I should have been there, should have gone with them, Bilbo despaired. Kept them safe . “...incineration…” Smaug flew over Lake Town, and it burned, and even all the way in Erebor Bilbo could hear the screams. myfaultMyFaultMYFAULT , his head screamed. Frodo came back burned from the lava of Mount Doom and the familiar crescendo of MYBLOODYFAULT echoed cacophonously in the beat of his heart. 

“Oh, aye,” Bofur said in a forcefully light tone. “He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.” 

“I smell you,” came the serpentine voice of Smaug. “I hear your breath. I feel your air. Where are you? Where are you?!”

Bilbo must have looked as bad off as he felt, for Balin asked, “You alright, laddie?”

“Fine. I— I’m fine.”

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur added. 

“I kill where I wish, when I wish. My armor is iron. No blade can pierce me!”

Bilbo felt as if he couldn’t breathe. 

“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof !...” ( Smaug sneers, gilded and gruesome. He bursts out of Erebor with a cry of “Ah, revenge! Revenge! I will show you revenge!” ) “...Nothin’ but a pile of ash.” 

Smaug flies to Lake Town, the gold glittering and fluttering off him as his wings flap. “I am fire!” He calls, and his voice drifts back to Erebor on the wind. “I am death!”

“What have we done?” Bilbo asks, horrified, and all he can do is watch as desolation falls upon the innocents of Lake Town from the sky.

Bilbo felt like he was going to be sick. “Excuse me,” he managed to mutter before he all but dashed away, out the door and onto the bench. (He didn’t see Thorin’s look of concern, nor Fíli and Kíli’s furrowed brows. He did, however, hear Gandalf say “Oh, very helpful , Bofur.”). He gulped in the cool night air, hands clutching his knees almost painfully tight. 

They’re alive, and Smaug is still in Erebor, sleeping. Bilbo said. That won’t happen this time. Lake Town will not burn . 

Even to himself, those promises felt empty. Yes, Smaug was yet sleeping; but Bilbo could not guarantee anything regarding the great serpent would not turn out the same, could not guarantee that Lake Town wouldn’t burn this time round, could not guarantee… well. There were a great many things he could not guarantee, he found. He sighed, and wished he had grabbed his pipe on his way out. He could use a smoke. 

I was sent back to change things , he reminded himself determinedly, and I will do my best. Perhaps Lake Town will burn. Perhaps I will never be able to dissuade my dwarves from trying to reclaim Moria. Perhaps I will not be able to save Fíli and Kíli and Thorin. But I will try. I will do everything in my power to attempt to make things different. 

I will die if it saves them , he thought distantly. Though I do hope I won’t have to. 

The door behind him creaked open, and Bilbo sighed. “Gandalf,” he greeted.

The wizard settled on the bench next to Bilbo, and passed him his pipe. Bilbo took it gratefully.

“You had quite the reaction back there,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo didn’t need to look at him to know he had on his best thinking face. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, and it was true. “It’s only that everything has happened so fast in these last few hours, and it all caught up with me there.”

Gandalf hummed. “And have you made up your mind? Shall you join on this adventure?”

“Adventure?” Bilbo snorted. “Adventures are dalliances to Rivendell at the farthest, or venturing into the forest with no map. Fun, and sometimes trying, but generally light of heart and for nothing more than one’s own amusement.  No, I think this might count as more than an adventure.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf mused. 

“You have given me little tests all throughout the night, Gandalf,” Bilbo said, passing Gandalf his pipe back. He turned to his friend, aware his age— his true age— shone through his eyes but not caring one bit. “Might I give you one in exchange?” 

Gandalf nodded, though he had a curious look on his face. “That is only fair,” he said.

Bilbo harrumphed. “Quite right. So answer me this, Gandalf the Grey: if I go on this journey, can you promise I will return here to Bag End?”

Gandalf opened his mouth as if to lie, but then seemed to think better of it, instead letting out a mighty sigh. “No,” he admitted. “And if you do… you will not be the same.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bilbo said a little wistfully. “Alright, then. I shall come.” He raised a brow at Gandalf’s surprised face. “It shall not be an adventure, but something more. It might change me, and it might kill me. But their goal is an admirable one. They want to reclaim their home, and no one knows better than a hobbit the importance of home. I will help them in whatever way I can.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said, “The courage of hobbits shall never cease to amaze me.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Yes, and I’m sure you’ll say that many times in the days to come. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a contract to sign.”

~*~

Thorin did his best not to stare at the round door as he leant up against an arched wall of Bilbo’s home, Balin sitting across from him. There was a part of him that wanted to go out, make sure Bilbo was alright. But… he didn’t think he could do that, not without coming off as either too friendly or too cold. Acting certainly was not one of Thorin’s strong suits. 

At least he didn’t faint this time , he thought with a twitch of a smile. 

“I do hope we have not lost our burglar,” Balin remarked. 

“I do not know,” Thorin muttered softly.

Balin sighed. “I would not be surprised, nor would I fault him if he changed his mind. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toymakers…” He gave a wry chuckle. “Hardly the stuff of legend.”

“There are a few warriors amongst us,” Thorin pointed out with a soft smile. He regarded Balin; he knew his old friend had died in a desperate bid to reclaim Khazad-dum, had spoken with him in the Halls of Waiting. This would not be the only mad quest Balin would take on: it would only be the most successful of them. It was strange to see him, defeated and depressed, but alive. 

“Old warriors,” Balin said with a shake of his head.

“I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills,” said Thorin. He had meant it the first time, but this time… This time he said it with far more conviction. “For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart…” Thorin smiled, softly but genuinely. “I can ask no more than that.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Balin said, standing and taking a step closer to Thorin. “You have a choice . You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”

Plenty? a disbelieving voice in Thorin’s head said with a wry laugh. No, it was not a life of plenty in Ered Luin: it was a life of scraping by. Still, he appreciated Balin’s intent. Yet…

“You are right, Balin. The lives and livelihoods of our people outweigh the worth of gold tenfold. But I do not wish to reclaim the mountain for the sake of gold alone. It is home,” said Thorin softly, “There is no choice, not for me.”

Balin smiled at Thorin wistfully. “Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done.” 

It was at that moment the door opened, and Bilbo strode back into Bag End, the contract trailing behind him and the smell of pipeweed wafting through the doorway. Thorin regarded him with curiosity: this Bilbo was different from the one he had first met, for reasons which remained a mystery to Thorin, and so he wondered what path Bilbo would choose. Bilbo seemed to notice Thorin and Balin’s eyes on him, and he gave them a sharp but pleasant nod before making his way into what Thorin was fairly sure was his study. He emerged a handful of seconds later and strode towards the pair, before handing the contract to Balin with a graceful flourish; the door opened once more, and Gandalf stepped in as well, though the wizard immediately made his way into the sitting room, where the rest of the Company were gathered.

“I’ve signed it,” Bilbo declared. “Is there anything else I need to do?”

Balin looked the contract over, his brows raised and disbelief in his eyes, but a smile on his face. “No, everything seems to be in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo nodded. “Good. I’ll make up the guest rooms.”

Thorin found his eyes trailing after Bilbo as the hobbit made his way down the hall. When he looked back to Balin, he noticed a curious look on the older dwarf’s face.

“You seem to be staring after our Master Burglar quite frequently,” Balin observed.

Thorin fought to keep the blush off his face. He wasn’t so certain he’d managed, if the look on Balin’s face (confused but a little amused) was anything to go by. “He intrigues me,” Thorin said after a pause. It wasn’t a lie, necessarily. 

Balin chuckled at that. “Yes, I suppose any hobbit willing to join a group of strangers on a mad quest to reclaim a mountain leagues away warrants some intrigue. But the way you look at him goes past intrigue, Thorin.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thorin said, and there was a finality to his voice that clearly stated he did not want to talk about this anymore.

Balin arched a brow, but conceded. “Fair enough, laddie, fair enough. Still, it will be interesting to see how our burglar fares on this journey.”

“That it will,” Thorin muttered. “That it will.”

After that, he found himself wandering into the sitting room where the Company were sat, and took a space by the fireplace. He pulled out his pipe and packed it, the action of lighting it coming to him without thought. Which was good, given his thoughts were otherwise occupied…

He worried about the gold. He had had little time to do that before, first worrying about not making himself look like either a fool or a prick in front of Bilbo (quite honestly, Thorin wasn’t exactly sure of his success rate on that count), and then had been busy trying to navigate the nightmare that was Hobbiton.  And then his first worry had reprised itself, more prominently than before. 

But now he had time to think about the gold. He could feel the sickness in his blood calling out for it even now, leagues away from the cursed horde, threatening to consume him. He would need to find a way to block out its call, and soon: he could not fall prey to that madness again, for its cost was too heavy for Thorin to pay once more; he would not fall prey to that madness again, not when he knew what it would make of him. He worried. He worried what he might do should he fall to it this time, knowing what he knew. Would he try to hurt Bilbo, whether or not he’d committed the act of stealing the Arkentone this time ‘round; would he kill him and pronounce him traitor? The thought made him feel sick, as if the dinner he’d eaten was churning ceaselessly in his stomach.

No, he thought, no, it will not come to that. I will not allow it.

It took him a moment to realize Balin and Dwalin and a few of the others had begun to hum a deep, familiar melody. Thorin joined instinctively, welcoming this reprieve; it was a sad song, true, but it was still enough to keep him from feeling too sharply his worries.

It came just as naturally to start singing, and if his worries and sorrows blended into the melody… Well, who could blame him?

“ Far over the Misty Mountains cold… ”

~*~

A few minutes after the dwarves had ended their sad song, Bilbo had come to stand in the doorway. It was only when Fíli’s eyes met his, however, Bilbo spoke. “I’ve made up the guest rooms when you’re ready,” Bilbo said, his voice soft yet still cutting through the heavy, mournful silence that hung in the room. His face was unreadable, but there was a curious sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to share, but even still, there should be enough.”

Fíli suddenly felt tired, so tired. Beside him, Kíli let out a loud yawn.

“I think my brother and I will take you up on your offer now, Master Baggins,” Fíli said, standing. Kíli shuffled up beside him.

“Of course,” Bilbo said gently. “Follow me.”

He led them down the twisting halls of his home, pausing to allow Fíli and Kíli to grab their packs, before leading them to a sparsely furnished room. There was one bed, but Fíli wouldn’t mind sharing, not with his brother; besides, it would be foolish of him to pass up a real bed when there would be so little chance to claim one later. Fíli gave Bilbo a grateful nod as he set his pack beside a dresser.

“The bathroom is just a few doors down. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” Bilbo said.

“Thank you, Master Boggins,” Kíli yawned. “‘Night.”

Bilbo let out an annoyed huff, but his smile was good natured, if not even fond . “Goodnight, Master Kíli, Master Fíli.” And, with a nod, Bilbo shut the door behind him and padded off to look after the others.

“Strange,” Fíli remarked.

“Hm?” Kíli, already nestled under the blankets, blinked at Fíli with bleary eyes. “Who’s strange. Bilbo, or Thorin?”

Fíli sat on the bed, working on removing his many layers. He didn’t speak until he was in only his shirt and trousers, and even then he laid down before opening his mouth, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers for him, before he spoke. “Both,” he said eventually.

“Wonder if they were sent back, too,” Kíli said, and Fíli could hear the frown in his voice. “Everyone else is acting pretty much the same as last time, but they... Bilbo was expecting us, this time, and didn’t seem put off by us like he did before. And Thorin is…”

“Nice?” Fíli supplied with a snort. “Yeah, it’s weird.”

Kíli laughed. “You said it, nadad , not me.”

Fíli smiled. “Well, I don’t know if things are just intrinsically different this time, or if they’re like us. I think it’s too early to tell; we’ll have to keep an eye on them, and deal with things as they come.”

“ Intrinsically ,” Kíli scoffed. “Mahal’s beard, how’re you that blind about Ori when you use words like that ?”

“What?” Fíli asked, looking at his brother with a confused frown. What did Ori have to do with anything?

Kíli snorted. “Nevermind, Fí. But I agree. We should keep an eye on the two of them and see what we can see.”

They fell into silence, then, and it wasn’t long until Kíli’s snores filled the room. In the odd state halfway between sleep and wakefulness, Fíli wondered about his brother’s earlier words. What about Ori? How was he blind? He sighed, chalking it all up to some strange Kíli-ness , and then winced as his chest felt a smidge too restricted. Right. He’d forgotten about that.

He sat up, bleary eyed, and pulled his arms through the sleeves of his tunic, elbows pushing out until the fabric was bunched up to be loose enough that he had some form of mobility. His fingers fumbled with tired clumsiness on a set of clasps, until, finally, he’d managed to undo them all. Rather unceremoniously, he tossed the compressing band of fabric in the vague direction of his pack. He frowned as he shifted his arms back through his sleeves, laying back against his pillow heavily. It was strange to have to bind again; in the Halls of Waiting he’d appeared as he was, not with the sex of his mortal body, and so it would take some getting reaquainted with binding and with this body. A dark, sad feeling tangled in his chest, and Fíli sighed again. He was grateful for the second chance, really, he was, but this…

This part of things, frankly, fucking sucked.

He sighed, and rolled over, willing sleep to come sooner rather than later. He didn’t want to be conscious long enough for the dysphoria to truly sink in. He had too much to worry about already; he didn’t think he had the capacity for his body to be added to that list of worries. 

His sleep was fitful, and his dreams were full of dragonfire.

~*~

nadad - brother

Chapter Text

Bilbo awoke early the next morning with a groan, and suddenly felt rather glad he had packed before going to bed. Last night had ended on a well enough note, though— he grimaced as he stretched, his joints cracking— the couch was far less comfortable than he’d remembered. But he’d given his room to Thorin (and he did not want to think about that too much, thank you, because then he’d be distracted ), and there was nowhere else for him to sleep. As it was, his dwarrow were packed into the (fortunately) many guest rooms of Bag End, two per bed (with the exception of Bombur). He would rather his dwarves get the chance to sleep on beds now , when they could, given the opportunity would be rare on the journey ahead, and given Bilbo had been able to sleep on his own bed for the past month. Besides, it was simply good hosting!

And it did have the added benefit of causing him to rise before the others, which meant he could take stock of his pantry, pulling out food for breakfast as well as setting aside some non-perishables for the dwarves to go through and add to their food supplies at will. Fortunately he had gone through much of his pantry last night, and there weren’t many leftovers, so Bilbo didn’t have to worry too much about the food spoiling while he was gone— which, really, that would not do, not at all. With a deep sigh, Bilbo padded into the kitchen and put on his largest kettle; he didn’t have the rich, earthy kafe dwarves seemed to love, unfortunately, but he did have quite a good few blends of breakfast teas, which would certainly do in a pinch. It was, he thought, best to start journeys as happy and caffeinated as possible, so as to avoid any unpleasant crankiness— and goodness knows there’d be crankiness a-plenty in the days to come, so really it was in everyone's best interests to ensure there’d be only happy (if not perhaps mildly jittery) dwarves (and hobbit) departing Hobbiton. As soon as the water was ready, Bilbo made himself a steaming cup of tea, downing it expertly, before turning to the stove and preparing breakfast.

It seemed rashers frying on the stove worked rather well as a dwarven wake up call, for Fíli and Kíli stumbled into the kitchen as if led by their noses. Bilbo noted briefly that Fíli’s chest was unbound under his tunic, but did not comment— indeed, he felt a little touched Fíli trusted him enough already to not have to worry about binding in Bilbo’s presence; it had taken quite a while the first time around for Fíli to even bathe at the same time as Bilbo, to reveal that aspect of himself, even after Bilbo had seen Dwalin’s scars and Ori and Bofur’s unbound chests the first time they’d stopped by a stream. So Bilbo fought down a fond smile and said nothing of it. 

“Good morning,” he said cheerily. He received only brief grunts in response. “Breakfast will be ready shortly. There’s tea if you want it, and nonperishables if you want to add those to your stocks.”

“Master Boggins, have I ever told you I love you?” Kíli said sleepily. 

Bilbo huffed out a laugh. “I don’t recall you ever having said such, no. And call me Bilbo. After all,” he turned and shot Kíli a devious grin, “if you love me you should call me by my first name.”

Kíli laughed, and puffed his chest with pride. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Fíli. 

“You know he’s just saying that so you won’t call him Boggins , Kí,” Fíli teased.

Kíli gaped in mock affront. “How dare you doubt our love, Fí?”

Bilbo just rolled his eyes. 

“Whose love?” Dwalin said as he shuffled in. 

“Mine and Kíli’s, of course,” Bilbo said with a light tone. “It came as a shock to me as well, but apparently feeding him warrants his undying affections.”

Dwalin snorted, and poured himself a strong cup of tea. “Aye, that much is true. Food?”

“Soon, Master Dwalin,” Bilbo said, not bothering to hide the roll of his eyes. “You’ll eat as soon as everyone else is awake and at the table.”

Dwalin looked at Fíli and Kíli, regarding them for a long moment before speaking. “Alright then. Off with you. You have my permission— just this once.”

Bilbo shuddered in fear when he saw the grin on the two princes’ faces. They were devious and mischievous, and as the two of them dashed down the hall, Bilbo felt very lucky indeed that he was already awake; he most emphatically did not want to find out what being awoken by two hungry young dwarves was like. Especially not those two. Especially when he knew it was an annoying, rowdy affair when they weren’t hungry.

(The first few days of the journey had been... interesting for Bilbo, last time around, and he would say no more than that. Well. That, and the fact that it most certainly was not his fault Kíli had walked away with a split lip, thank you .)

The others trailed into the kitchen in small groups: first was Balin, who had an amused glint in his eyes and joined Dwalin with a pleasant “Good morning!”; next were Glóin and Óin, the former of whom was griping loudly but unintelligibly, the latter of whom was grumbling in grumpy agreement. Then were the Urs, Bifur scratching his forehead next to his ax, Bofur looking rather too happy for someone who was (rudely) awoken so early, and Bombur brightening when he saw the food stores laid out, quickly going through them with Bilbo’s permission; behind them came the Ri brothers, Nori looking far too innocent (Bilbo raised his brows at the thief and reminded himself to take stock of the room Nori had been in to make sure he didn’t steal anything too valuable), and Dori worrying at Ori’s hair (Ori looked resigned to his fate, but Bilbo caught him make a face at Nori when Dori was out of eyesight, and Bilbo had to stifle a laugh). Thorin was next, looking dead on his feet, though still managing to maintain a regal air ( how he managed to do that as he practically collapsed onto a stool in the kitchen with a tired groan and glared daggers at an unimpressed Dwalin, Bilbo didn’t know). Lastly came Gandalf, who looked as if he regretted ever having been sent to Arda as Fíli (now with his chest bound) and Kíli ushered him in the kitchen, flanking him and talking excitedly, not to mention with shit-eating grins. Bilbo couldn’t refrain from smiling a wicked smile of his own at Gandalf’s expense. 

“Good morning,” Bilbo said happily. He plated the breakfast foods— hash made with leftover meat, crisped seasoned chunks of potatoes with melted cheese, eggs (scrambled, hardboiled, and sunny side up), rashers of bacon, long links of sausage, stacks of toast, and more— before laying them out on the little kitchen table with a flourish, next to a stack of plates. He smirked as the dwarves’ eyes went wide. “Eat up, then. I doubt we’ll get the chance for such a large meal on the road, and besides, I’d rather not leave anything perishable in my pantry. Goodness knows how long I’ll be gone.”

Fíli blinked at the food. “I also love you,” he said finally. 

Kíli elbowed him. “Hey, back off. I loved him first.”

“What?” Thorin asked, brows furrowed as he blinked.

Bilbo laughed. “It seems the way to a dwarf's heart is through their stomach. At the very least, that’s the way to your nephews’ hearts.”

Thorin’s face was unreadable; Bilbo could have sworn he saw a warm twinkle in his eyes, but that… that would be ridiculous. He simply grunted in acknowledgement and grabbed a plate, turning away from Bilbo without a word.

Right , Bilbo thought, trying very hard not to feel absolutely crushed, he’s slow to warm to people. That’s fine .

Which it was. Fine, that is. Totally and completely. It’s. Fine . Bilbo filled himself a plate and moved to the corner of the room, quiet. 

It seemed, however, that Gandalf would not let Bilbo alone, sliding next to Bilbo where he stood in the corner. 

“No regrets, I hope,” Gandalf said with raised brows.

“No,” Bilbo said, brows furrowed. “I don’t know why you keep doubting me, Gandalf. I thought you wanted me to come along.”

“That I do, Bilbo” Gandalf said. “That I do.”

“Then why the doubt?”

Gandalf gave him a long, searching look. “Because there is something about you, Bilbo. Something odd, and unexpected.”

Bilbo swallowed nervously. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I suppose you of all people would see that.” He gave Gandalf a sharp look. “I—” A sharp pang came from his heart; it felt as though a string was tied around it, a string tugged sharply, then, in warning. It seemed he wasn’t to tell anyone of his… situation. Bilbo winced, and then sighed. “I cannot tell you what it is, Gandalf, or at least not yet. But trust that I know what I’m doing, and trust that I would not be coming along if I truly did not want to.”

Gandalf searched his eyes for a handful of seconds, before nodding, as if he’d found an answer in them. “Very well,” he said, and there was silence.

~*~

Two hours after Thorin was (rudely) awoken by his (horrible, demon) sister-sons, and after Bilbo had Nori return (some of) the souvenirs he’d borrowed , they left Bag End. 

Thorin observed from just outside the gate as Bilbo locked the round, green door. Bilbo just turned the key, sighed, and pat the door twice, before turning and making his way down the path. He only hesitated to slip his key into his mailbox. It was odd; Thorin would have thought that Bilbo would be more reluctant to leave his home behind, but the hobbit just seemed anxious to get on the road. 

Bilbo wore clothes that were still very… hobbit-y in nature, consisting of light brown trousers, a white cotton shirt, and a deep brown waistcoat, though they were clearly made for travel rather than the day-to-day frippery of the Shire. Thorin fought back a smile at seeing the handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket of Bilbo’s waistcoat. 

“Master Oakenshield?” Bilbo asked, looking at Thorin with puzzlement, and Thorin blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring. 

Ignoring the sound of Fíli and Kíli snickering behind him, Thorin simply said, “I trust all is settled?”

Bilbo nodded curtly. “The Thain has been informed I’m leaving, and my affairs are in order.”

“Good,” was all Thorin said, before giving the hobbit a curt nod of his own and turning to make up the road. “We make for the Green Dragon, for our ponies. Glóin and Óin will meet us there.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “The Green Dragon is that way.” He pointed down the road… in the opposite direction Thorin was headed.

Thorin sighed. “Mahal curse the town planning of hobbits,” he muttered darkly, though apparently not quiet enough, for Bilbo snorted. Thorin leveled him with a glare— not a mean or serious one, but an unamused one. Bilbo looked nonplussed and simply raised a brow in response. “Lead the way, Master Baggins,” he said finally. Fíli and Kíli made no attempts to silence their laughter. Even Dwalin was chuckling at him.

Thorin muttered something about betrayal, and no good nephews, and horrible friends, and followed Bilbo as they wandered the (ridiculous) streets of Hobbiton with minimal incident (if a screeching hobbit woman could even be counted as an incident… well, actually, given Thorin’s ears were still ringing…). It wasn’t long until they reached the Green Dragon, where, as Thorin had said, Glóin and Óin were waiting, fourteen ponies and a horse gathered around them. 

“About time,” Glóin joked. “I almost thought ye’d gotten yourselves lost!”

Thorin just grumbled about poor road planning, much to his nephews’ apparent delight. Yet despite his hating being the butt of his Company’s jokes, he found he did not loathe it completely; laughter would be all to rare in the days to come, he knew, and so how could he deny his kith and kin such levity when it was still there to be found? So he just sighed despairingly and resigned himself to his fate.

“Oh, joy,” Thorin heard Bilbo sigh. “Ponies.”

“Aye,” Thorin said, and couldn’t stop from smirking when Bilbo jumped, apparently not having heard him come up from behind. “Do you ride, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo snorted. “No Respectable hobbit would ever do such a thing.” He paused. “Then again, no Respectable hobbit would ever go off on a quest with a company of dwarves, so I don’t think I can be held to that standard anymore. I have ridden, if you must know, but it wasn’t exactly a cherished experience. Us hobbits prefer to walk, after all, and indeed we can make it far on just our feet.” Bilbo sighed. “But I suppose I’ll have to ride once more?”

Thorin couldn’t keep his amusement from bleeding into his tone. “Aye,” he said, a small smile on his face. “If you want to keep up.”

He turned and mounted his own pony at that, settling before glancing back at Bilbo. He, too, had mounted the same pony as he’d had last time (Myrtle, if Thorin remembered correctly), looking rather put out. Thorin chuckled softly, before turning away from the fussy hobbit. As he did, he met Dwalin’s gaze; his old friend was looking at him with a raised brow. Thorin tried very hard not to look embarrassed, though by the unimpressed nature of Dwalin’s gaze he failed rather miserably. He sighed. 

This would be… interesting. 

~*~

Fíli was observant . Indeed, that was one of his more lauded traits. It was a good thing to be, he found, both for its uses in being Crown Prince (because though they were not in Erebor, and though he was young, that was more than a mere title ; he did have duties to uphold— less than he knew he’d have once Erebor was reclaimed, true, and duties which he did occasionally shirk, but still ) and for its uses in making mischief among the wearied halls of Ered Luin. 

He was observant. Many people forgot that. 

True, he was not best at reading people— their emotions, their motives; that had always been Kíli’s wheelhouse, his skill. Fíli, however, was good at reading situations; the what people were doing, not so much the why. 

The situation currently was fucking weird . 

That was his professional opinion, of course, as a very observant dwarf. 

This was… well. It was too easy. Bilbo was too easy— wait, that didn’t sound right, what he meant was that Bilbo was too easy going . Too ready to accept this, too ready to leave Bag End, with its books and its armchairs and its sentimental value. It was a far cry from the first time around, when Bilbo had denied them outright before running after them as if the flames of Morgoth were licking at his very heels, a trepidatious yet jubilant expression on his face. 

And, more odd yet, everyone in the Company seemed to be… accepting. Which was good, objectively, but odd , seeing as this particular group of dwarrow weren’t exactly the most trusting of strangers. Fíli couldn’t explain how — again, people were more Kíli’s domain— but they were just… different . All of them, really, including— and especially— Thorin and Bilbo.

Humming in thought, Fíli pulled his pony up alongside Ori’s. “What do you think of our burglar?” Fíli asked with no preamble. 

Ori jumped, startled, then turned to Fíli with an amused glint in his eye. “If you’re thinking about pulling some prank on him—”

“Nothing like that,” Fíli said, and there most certainly wasn’t a pout on his face. “I’m just curious.”

Ori regarded Fíli dubiously, but spoke anyway. “I like Master Baggins. He’s amiable, and he has the most wonderful stories.” Ori smiled, and Fíli felt his face soften. “He promised to let me write down a few of his stories, actually. He—” Ori paused. “Sorry. You… probably don’t want to hear about that.”

Fíli nudged Ori with his elbow. “Nonsense. I always want to listen to you,” Fíli said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. He smirked at Ori (and, it should be noted, by some miracle missed Ori’s blush). “At least, listen to you talk. I make no promises about listening to what you say .” He turned his gaze to the road, again drawn into his own thoughts. “I just wondered. You seem to be getting along rather quickly.”

Ori hummed in consideration at that. “I suppose so,” he said. “He’s nice. And he seems familiar— if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we’d met before.” He paused. “But… that would be impossible.”

Fíli frowned, and found his eyes staring into Bilbo’s back. “Wouldn’t it?” Fíli wondered, voice barely above a whisper.

Curious.

~*~

They had been on the road for a good day, now, and Kíli was bored. So, so bored . So he took to watching the Company, because watching the trees got very old very fast . And… and seeing his family and friends all being around each other, happy , was as nice as it was amusing. But mostly the thing about the trees. 

Bifur was busy chatting with Bombur— Kíli was too far away to hear the topic of their conversation, but it seemed pleasant, if Bifur’s sharp laugh was anything to go by. Bofur and Glóin were exchanging old tales animatedly, with Óin rolling his eyes and butting in when his brother got too carried away with the details (or to boast exorbitantly about his own contributions, occasionally). Dori was lecturing Nori about something or another, whilst Nori was doing his best to not roll his eyes too noticeably (and failing, as far as Kíli was concerned). Ori was chatting animatedly with Bilbo about something or another, Fíli was staring moonily at Ori, and Thorin was (between sharing Gruff Companionable Silence with Dwalin) casting the odd look over his shoulder at the hobbit (and was that softness in his Uncle’s eyes, or was Kíli just deluding himself?). 

Speaking of Bilbo and Thorin… Kíli frowned in thought. They were odd. Off. There was something very much different about the two of them, when compared to the last time the quest to take Erebor had started. 

Bilbo was a lot less concerned about maintaining Respectability (which, given the Importance Given due to Stressed Syllables, Kíli gathered was a thing in the Shire) it seemed; he had simply ignored what hobbits bothered to stop and stare at him as he passed through Hobbiton with a pack of dwarves, and had even exchanged brief and biting comments with a hobbit woman who had said (screeched) Bilbo ruined the name of Baggins and that Bilbo shouldn’t bother returning; to which Bilbo only replied think what you will, Lobelia, but if you even attempt to take Bag End for yourself then you shall find that an angry Baggins with a Tookish streak can make the wrath of Melkor look like a fauntling’s temper tantrum with so cheery a tone Kíli’s jaw practically detached from the rest of his skull in shock. (Lobelia, on the other hand, had turned rather a strange shade of purple and muttered angrily before she promptly fainted). No, Bilbo wasn’t worried about handkerchiefs (though he did have one this time), or manners, or maintaining the appearance of a gentleman (which is to say the jacket tucked into his pack was not made of velvet, but of wool; the basic cut was the same). And he seemed more… assured. Bilbo was not the shy, awkwardly distant hobbit Kíli remembered him being at the beginning the last time ‘round. Indeed, he was more akin to the Bilbo post-Mirkwood, when he was confident of his own abilities and of his place amongst the Company. No, he was even more confident than that. It was odd, for sure. And then there were the daggers strapped to his side, as well as his conkers (which he had used on Gandalf of all people) and the bag of stones he had. Of the two, only the daggers were truly new (Bilbo had recounted some of his stone-throwing shenanigans between the Carrock and Beorn’s), and Kíli felt a frown try and push itself across his face when he saw them. 

As for Thorin, well. He wasn’t being a miserable asshole, which was startling enough as it were. No, he was either moping as his soul had in the Halls of Waiting, or he was frowning as in deep thought (well, okay, that wasn’t exactly new, nor was the deep brood that expression often fell into). And he kept Fíli and Kíli close by him, being outwardly affectionate with them. And he wasn’t keeping himself detached from the rest of the Company. And then there were the aforementioned looks he kept sending Bilbo when he thought no one was looking, looks so full of emotion Kíli found observing them felt like a trespass of some sort. Yeah, his uncle was acting weird .

And Kíli was ninety-five percent sure he knew the reason why . After all, he and Fíli were sent back— why couldn’t Thorin and Bilbo be? And certainly that would explain their oddities. 

But he couldn’t exactly go up and ask them “hey, is this your first time doing this, or are you like Fí and I in that this is technically speaking your second time on this exact quest; which is to say, have you also been sent back from Aman?”, and for a good few reasons. One, it was such an awkward question to ask; he’d only managed to ask Fíli because it was Fíli, and also he was shocked and euphoric that his nagging had actually done something really big and really amazing. Two, the rest of the Company were there, and certainly he couldn’t pose Thorin and Bilbo that question without any of them snooping. They’d have to find a place they could all wander off together for a good while, and make sure Nori or any of the others didn’t trail after them and eavesdrop. Three, if Thorin and Bilbo weren’t sent back as Kíli and Fíli were, how would they explain that question? Oh, don’t mind us, we’re just joking! Totally! No we’re not crazy, why do you ask?

Fíli wasn’t that good of an actor. Nor was Kíli, honestly, though he thought he was at least better .

So, in short: fuck . Because Kíli, again, was mostly sure Thorin and Bilbo had been sent back as well, but only mostly . And there were so many complexities and nuances that thinking about weaving through and around them made Kíli’s head spin. 

He needed to talk to Fíli. They were always better at coming up with plans together, after all. Kíli was good at reading and predicting people, and Fíli good at doing the same for situations; of the two of them, Kíli was better at thinking in terms of emotion, and Fíli in terms of logic. Thus the two of them together were more than apt at planning and plotting and getting things done. But he needed to talk to Fíli alone to be able to even start to plot with him, and, well, see “Complication Two” above; it would be nearly impossible for them to actually communicate for yet awhile, what with Thorin’s new clinginess, and with the presence of the entire Company and a meddling wizard to boot. Kíli shot a thoughtful look at his brother, who caught it and nodded. Well, maybe it would take a while to find a time to talk between themselves, but now they both knew to look for it. 

Kíli sighed. This was already a lot more complex than he wanted it to be. 

Thorin sent another of those looks to Bilbo, and very suddenly Kíli found himself missing Tauriel more keenly than usual.

This was going to be a long trip. 

~*~

Bilbo groaned. He really did hate riding horseback (ponyback?), thank you; it was unnecessarily uncomfortable, and really he could keep pace at a walk as they were now. But, but no, it wouldn’t do to complain all too much about it.  That said, that didn’t mean Bilbo wasn’t going to mope , and glower, and do his level best to look very unhappy with this situation. Gandalf was laughing at him. Bilbo shot the wizard a glare.

At least he wasn’t holding the reins like they were live snakes, this time. And at least he actually had handkerchiefs to keep him from being a snotty mess due to his reaction to the Valar-cursed horse hair. He sneezed, and frowned. Gandalf laughed again.

“What’s so funny?” Bilbo asked rather imperiously as he brought Myrtle up alongside Gandalf’s horse.

“Your face,” Fíli called back. He shot a playful grin over his shoulder, and slowed his own pony until he was beside Bilbo. “Your glares are giving Thorin’s a run for his money.”

Bilbo snorted. “I doubt that. I don’t have the brows to quite match his. Or the beard. Or the general gruffness.”

Oh, that gruffness , Bilbo thought to himself, a little dreamily, but that was quite frankly his business, no one else’s, thank you. 

Fíli nodded sagely, though it was rather off put by his grin, which had his mustache braids pushed up in such a way they swung all the more wildly as he rode (a sight which had Bilbo pushing back a few chuckles of his own). “Alas, we can’t all be so fearsome as my dear uncle.” 

“Where’d you learn the word alas?” Kíli snickered, and Bilbo was not at all surprised to see the young prince had come up beside his brother without Bilbo noticing. 

Fíli grinned. “Needed something to rhyme with a—”

“ Anyway ,” Bilbo said pointedly, shooting Fíli his best ‘reproaching-adult’ face, “Gandalf. You seem to find something rather amusing.”

“Ah,” Gandalf said, and his grin did not shrink. “Simply you seem to be taking to travel better than I thought you might, and yet I find I was right in my earlier predictions: you are providing most amusing to me, even if only for your excessive sneezing.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Well, I’m glad someone finds my allergies amusing. How would you like to feel as if your eyes were burning and you had cattails shoved down your throat? Not to mention the sinus pressure …”

Kíli laughed loudly. Gandalf chuckled to himself and trot off. Dratted wizards .

Bilbo shot Kíli a glare (not a serious one, not really). “I should hope you don’t catch cold, Master Kíli, for if you do you will find you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

Kíli shook his head sadly in an overly-theatrical way and let out a wistful sigh that was more a yell. “And thus our torrid affair ends. To think, such young, new love left broken by horse hair and congestion.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Are your entire family this dramatic, or is it just you three?”

“Why do you think Thorin’s dramatic?” Fíli asked with genuine curiosity.

“Speeches,” Bilbo said simply.

“That, and he always seems to make it a point to step in the best lighting,” Kíli mused idly. “Or stand with his head in profile to make the most striking image.”

“Yes, that too,” Bilbo conceded.

Fíli hummed. “Amad certainly is… passionate,” he said, and Bilbo bit back a snort at that understatement, “though I don’t know how dramatic she really is. Not exorbitantly so, anyway.”

“She was,” said Thorin, and Bilbo right jumped , because where in Yavanna’s good graces did he come from?, and how much of that did he hear? The corner of Thorin’s lips twitched upwards at Bilbo’s reaction. “Once. Before… before Frerin died,” he said, and Fíli and Kíli went uncommonly quiet. Bilbo suddenly felt rather an intruder in this moment, but he felt that fleeing now would not only go noticed, but be seen as terribly rude. So he sat, quiet, and stared at Myrtle’s mane before him. “The two of them used to get into such trouble, no matter if we were in Erebor or on the road. They would pull pranks or start fights, and either way the moment it ended they dramatically would declare the other at fault.” He paused. “Or me,” he said with a grin, “and perhaps once or twice they were right. Dís in particular, though, always had a flair for the dramatic. She once went on a whole tirade about the double standards she was held to in comparison to Frerin and I… over who had to bathe first. And she’d turn just about everything into a competition.” His smile went sad, then, and Bilbo had to tighten his hands on the reins to keep from reaching out and clutching one of Thorin’s hands in comfort he no doubt would not accept from a hobbit he didn’t know. “After Frerin died, though, she lost much of that flair. Then…” Thorin trailed off, then, seemingly lost in sad memories, and Bilbo was silent. 

“Not all of it,” Kíli said, suddenly. “Amad used to tell us about trying to get you to approve of Adad.”

Thorin winced, and rubbed his ear as if feeling a sudden phantom pain. “Not all of it,” he agreed. Thorin turned to Bilbo, and regarded him with curiosity (and oh what that did to Bilbo’s poor heart). “But what of you, Master Baggins? Are your whole family as dramatic as you?”

(He did not see Fíli and Kíli look at each other with wide eyes that wondered why Thorin was being so nice so early; if that meant, perhaps…)

“Me? Dramatic?” Bilbo said, startled. He paused. “Yes, I suppose so. My father was not very prone to dramatics. He was a Respectable hobbit; Bungo Baggins had no flair whatsoever, thank you very much. At least, that’s what most would tell you; when it came to his garden you might see otherwise, and then there was the fact he had Bag End built for my mother—  oh, my mother! Now, she had a particular penchant for drama, and was always going off on adventures and the like. It was the shock of the Shire when they married, and to this day many wonder why, because after all they were rather opposites.” Bilbo was aware he was smiling fondly, now, staring off into space. “Except that wasn’t quite the case. My father never went on any adventures, true, but he would always ask my mother to recount them, and indeed he would write the more exciting ones out. And for all my mother would go out on adventures, she always was happy to return home, and my father seemed to ground her. They… they were not opposites. They were both stubborn and passionate and caring and— and... They did not oppose each other; they complimented each other.” 

He was silent for a beat, remembering with sharp sadness the way his father would spin his mother around in a hug whenever she returned home after a longer adventure, and how she would pull him up to dance to songs she sang late in the night when Bilbo was supposed to be asleep; he remembered them in Yavanna’s pastures, settled and happy and loving, and how his mother would pull Bilbo off to wander the scenery before returning to Bungo, who scooped his wife up in a hug as he used to, and then gave Bilbo a fond pat on the shoulder. He remembered the way his parents would dance over wildflowers, no longer caring about who might see them. He missed them terribly, in a way that was both worsened and lessened by his time spent with them in Aman. 

Suddenly drawn back to the present by the soft snort of a pony, Bilbo blinked. “I suppose I take after the both of them, really.”

They rode in silence after that.

~*~

Amad - mother

Adad - father

~*~

Dusk crept across the sky, the world fading to purple around them. They made camp under a rocky outcropping, and Thorin felt his heart sink ever so slightly: this would be the night they heard orcs, the night the Battle of Azanulbizar would be recounted… and now, with Frerin at the forefront of his mind from his conversation with Bilbo and his nephews, he knew that the tale would hurt him all the more. Briefly, he wondered how Frerin was faring. How did this miracle affect the dead? Would they be living with double-memories as Thorin himself was beginning to, or would their minds be swept clean? Would they remember seeing not-yet-dead dwarves in the Halls, remember the words spoken and peace made?

Thorin suddenly missed his younger brother with a sharp keenness. Frerin brought such joy, such light, to any situation, and he was always a better thinker than Thorin— he always had a plan or scheme brewing in his head, always had contingencies and at least the barest idea of what to do should a situation turn south. And yet such forethought never led to brooding or anxiety as it did when Thorin attempted the same; always Frerin had a smile in his eyes and a clever word on his tongue. 

(And yet such forethought was not enough to save him, in the end.)

Frerin would know what to do about the dragon, about the gold sickness Thorin could feel deep within himself, churning in his blood, as if it were waiting for a chance to rear its ugly head once more. Frerin would know how to talk to Bilbo without too much familiarity scaring him away. Frerin would know how to keep his nephews close without worrying them. 

A bright laugh broke through his brooding thoughts. Fíli had apparently found something Ori said incredibly funny, and though his laughter had died down, his smile was still bright and warm. Ori was blushing as Fíli slung an arm around him, and Thorin could not help a fond smile; Fíli was truly oblivious to his feelings, it seemed, as well as the fact that Ori likely reciprocated them. Back in the Halls, Ori had secluded himself— it happened, sometimes, when a dwarf was particularly dissatisfied with the course of their life, or with the way they died, or both, that they did not leave their rooms, instead deigning to wait there until Dagor Dagorath, fading, though not completely. Ori had become one of those dwarves, not allowing any save his direct family and Fíli (occasionally with Kíli) into his room. And yet Fíli was blind to the love between them. 

This time it will be different , Thorin vowed, observing the way Ori’s face lit up at a compliment Fíli threw his way, and the way Fíli’s eyes shone with pride when he managed to make Ori laugh. 

And speaking of people blind to love… Thorin found his eyes, as they often had been the past forty-eight hours, drawn to Bilbo. He, too, was observing Fíli and Ori, sat close to Kíli and conversing with the three of them. His smile was broad, and his eyes fond, and Thorin found his heart feeling lighter for witnessing Bilbo’s joy. 

Night rolled around quickly, and before Thorin could truly process it, the Company supped and then began to settle down on their bedrolls. Thorin sighed, and leant back in his perch, still separate from the others— with the matters he knew would be discussed tonight, he needed the time to himself, needed the space to steel himself. 

And, sure enough, as the snores of the Company filled the night air (and were those moths Bombur was breathing in?), and as Bilbo made his way from the ponies (he’d wasted an apple on Myrtle, not that Thorin could bring himself to feel anything other than fondly exasperated at that) back to camp, the shrill shriek of orc scum sounded in the valley below. 

“Orcs,” Bilbo breathed. 

Thorin frowned; how did Bilbo know the cry of orcs?

“The lowlands are crawling with them,” Fíli said, but it wasn’t in the same teasing tone Thorin remembered. Indeed, Fíli’s face was serious as he puffed away on his pipe, and Thorin could have sworn his eldest nephew’s face was pale.

Bilbo frowned, and looked out into the valley; Thorin watched him with furrowed brows.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” Kíli said, “I doubt they’ll be able to sneak up on us. Loud bastards, they are.”

Kíli’s tone was forcibly light, and though it was clearly meant to comfort Bilbo, it did nothing but cause anger to well up in Thorin. Orcs were not a threat to be discounted so easily. Especially not to the Line of Durin, and those who traveled with them.

“A night raid by orcs is no laughing matter,” Thorin said, more sharply than he meant to. Perhaps Thorin’s self-imposed loneliness was not such a good idea; it seemed to leave his nerves more frayed than usual. 

Kíli looked at him, genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Thorin softened. “I know you didn’t.” He pinned Kíli with a heavy look, though, and felt his lips tighten into a line. He sighed, and made his way to the cliff that overlooked the valley. He would apologize to Kíli later, when he wasn’t so tired and high-strung. 

 “Don’t mind him, laddie,” Thorin heard Balin say. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

Balin began to recount the Battle of Azanulbizar, and, suddenly, it was as though Thorin was drowning in his own memories. 

⚔︎

The battle was longer than any dwarf had thought it would be, and filled with more chaos than Thorin, yet scant years away from his majority, could ever have imagined. Thorin did know now what time it was, nor how long, exactly, this battle had been waged, only that it had been hours since the Dimrill Gates had been breached, and legions of orcs had poured out like water from a ruptured dam. Ash mingled with the pale grey clouds above, broken only by weak streams of orangey sunlight streaming through onto the carnage below.  

As Thorin reared his sword, shield in hand, he could not help but feel a cold, miserable panic grip his heart. He had been angry, before, angry at the orcs who dared infest Khazad-dûm, the halls of his ancestor; he had been angry at the other dwarven clans, who had turned down the Line of Durin’s call to arms. But now, witnessing the chaos and bloodshed around him, Thorin could only feel a grim understanding, and, distantly, a keening regret that his little brother and his young cousin, Dáin, had been allowed to don their armor and draw their blades beside him. He felt, too, dismayed that he himself had been thrust into such pitiless, grim combat. 

But he was a prince of Durin’s line, and it was his duty to fight for his king and his kin, to fight for his people. He would not desert like some faithless coward, yet deep in his heart he could not blame those who did. 

His grandfather’s motives were admirable, Thorin could not— would not— deny that; after all he, too, shared them. They had lost Erebor— their home — to that thrice-cursed dragon, along with many of their people; for twenty-nine years they had wandered Middle Earth, pitied and reviled, without home and without help. Khazad-dûm had no dwarves in its halls, only the orc filth— and a Balrog, true, but one none had heard of in years, save for the confines of history and legend, though one which it seemed the other dwarven clans feared still. It had seemed as perfect of a plan as any, for the desperate dwarves of Erebor to take back the halls of Durin. 

And Thrór seemed almost obsessed with the idea of reclaiming the halls the (damned) elves called Moria; indeed, he and his closest confidant, Nár, had nearly left to see it themselves, stopped only by the will of Thorin’s mother and Thráin’s pleading that the Line of Durin stay together.

(He said almost , for Thorin yet remembered the way Thrór had gazed upon the treasury of Erebor, remembered how he had almost died by dragon fire for the Arkenstone. Thorin knew of the Kîdiz-satas, heard the dwarves whisper of if, and he knew that it was an obsession that could not be matched, not even by thoughts of reclaiming a sacred hall.)

And so Thorin fought, because his grandfather, his king , commanded it. And so Thorin cut down orc after orc after orc, a river of enemies falling to his blade, and tried desperately to catch a glimpse of golden hair in the valley around him. 

And then he heard a roar, and turned to see pale orc, one he’d heard called Azog, stand with his grandfather’s head dangling from his grip, and then Thorin heard nothing save the rush of blood in his ears as Azog smiled a horrible grin at Thorin and tossed Thrór’s head away as though it were worthless as the rock around the ore. Thorin was powerless to do anything but watch, grief consuming him, as his grandfather’s head rolled to a stop at his feet. And then a sudden, all-consuming rage overtook him, and all he thought of was vengeance , his feet carrying him towards Azog—

Only to be held back by a strong arm which belonged to a familiar face. 

“Father,” Thorin said, helplessly and wickedly satisfied— for with his father by his side, surely—

“Stay back,” Thráin hissed. 

But...

“No,” Thorin said, and he felt his anger simmer as wounded confusion took ahold of him. Desperately, he said, “I will fight with you.”

Thráin clutched his shoulder all the tighter, his face angry and determined. “Azog means to kill us all,” he said, and Thorin glanced to where Azog fought now, cutting through dwarves as if they were but smoke before him. “One by one, he will destroy the Line of Durin.” Thorin’s eyes met Thráin’s, and his father's eyes seemed to all at once show the gleam of desperate concern— or perhaps it was only because of Thráin’s following words he saw such emotion. “But by my life, he shall not take my son! You will stay here.”

And Thorin did. He watched as his father rushed Azog, before his attention was drawn away by an approaching orc, and Thorin lost himself in the deadly rhythm of battle once more, aware only of the enemies around him and the burn of his muscles as he felled whatever orc was unfortunate enough to approach the oldest prince. 

And then Azog was there, and his father’s warning fled from his brain. Not that it mattered, truly; for the moment Azog laid eyes on him, the orc leader had grinned an evil, determined grin and stalked towards him. And Thorin was no coward; he would meet the fiend in battle, and avenge his grandfather!

Azog’s face twisted in a frown, and then he was twirling with a mighty bellow, his mace swinging around him. Thorin raised his shield reflexively. But— no— the blow would be too hard— and so Thorin let his shield be pulled from his arm; though the blow still sent a sharp spike of pain up through to his shoulder, he knew that it would be worse if he’d tried to fight it, for all that a shield was both aegis and weapon to a warrior who knew how to wielded it, it’s metal was unforgiving— both to those who wielded it and to those whom it was wielded against. It was better, Thorin knew, to be without his shield than to have a broken arm; for he could dodge such arching, heavy blows if he were quick enough, and find another shield besides. But if his arm were broken here, it would undoubtedly mean death. 

He wasn’t quick enough. 

Another blow from Azog’s mace and Thorin’s sword was struck from his hand, and the force of such a blow sent him tumbling down the rocky hillside behind him. He scrambled back desperately as Azog descended upon him, hoping, praying, that this would not be how he met his end. His eyes fell flurried onto the field around him, desperate for a weapon, for something , something with which he could defend himself from the orc so intent on killing him. 

He saw only an oaken branch. 

Better than nothing , he thought with a strange hysteria. 

He held the branch against Azog’s mace and—

And miraculously it held, not so much as splintering, and the heavy wood absorbed the blow more forgivingly than any metal shield Thorin had ever held. 

Again and again, Azog bore down on him. Again and again, Thorin blocked or deflected the orc’s blows, making a slow but steady path backwards until— finally— he came across a sword. And as Azog raised his mace once more, Thorin swung his blade in a wide arc. 

The blade cut through flesh and bone alike with sickening ease, and Azog’s arm hit the ground with a thump. Thorin knew he should not feel such sick satisfaction at Azog’s howls of pain, knew he should not feel the dark pride that coiled in his chest, yet he could not help such feelings. And then orcs were befalling him, three pulling the giant pale orc back through the Dimrill Gate, and the dwarves began to rally to Thorin. 

“Mem nor Thrór!” Thorin bellowed, sword raised high and oaken shield in hand. “Du bekar!”

And together, what remained of the dwarven soldiers— and thank Mahal , Thorin saw a familiar flash of gold within the ranks— threw themselves against the remnants of the orcish legion, and Thorin once more lost himself to the rhythms of war, his sword an extension of himself, his shield armor and weapon in equal measure. He did not let himself worry after his father, whom he had not seen since his charge at Azog; he did not let himself worry after Frerin, who he lost once more in the writhing mass of battle. He simply pushed through the burn of his muscles, adrenaline and sheer willpower overcoming his fatigue. And then—

And then the battle was over, and too few of his people remained. But Thorin did not rest; he walked the battlefield, eyes searching, scouring, for now he did have the time to worry— both over his father and his brother. 

Fate would have it Thorin would not see his father that day. But—

“No,” Thorin choked, and his sword clattered to the ground. He took a step forward, and his shield, too, dropped. “No.” 

Blond hair, achingly familiar, was splayed on the ground, sullied with blood and with the thick, viscous mud of a battlefield.  Frerin’s eyes were wide, and already glossed with pain but— 

“HELP!” Thorin called, his voice thick with fear and with grief. He fell to Frerin’s side, taking his brother’s hand in his own as he pulled his younger brother’s head into his lap. It was colder than it should be. It— “Frerin, Frerin, it’s— it’ll—  HELP — It will be alright, nadadith, it—”

“Thorin,” Frerin choked out, and he smiled weakly. “Nê—”

“Lu’!” Thorin interrupted. “Frerin—”

But Frerin’s smile only grew sweeter, though his grip on Thorin’s hand clenched tighter. “Nê.”

“Frerin—”

“Dís was right,” Frerin laughed. “This was a… a horrible idea.”

“Frerin, 'kasamhili,” Thorin choked. “Nê— Nê imrid.”

“Akhafi in..intuhul,” Frerin remarked with yet another smile.

A wet, desperate laugh left Thorin at that. “Namhâl 'atmizu, zamahanakhi ubsat.”

Frerin laughed, too, but it was strained, too strained, and blood flew with his spittle when he coughed. Thorin opened his mouth to call again for help, but Frerin shook his head, his grip tightening even more, now. “Lu’,” he said. “Lu’. Tâti… Tâti bingalad.”

“Frerin—”

“Thorin,” Frerin said, and how was he still smiling when he was so clearly in so much pain? “Kâzirizu harm?”

“Kun,” Thorin said, his voice barely a whisper. “Kun, nisullakan.”

“Nê birâdruth.” 

“Frerin...”

“Ikhlik,” Frerin pleaded. “Ikhlik.”

Thorin nodded silently, slowly.

“Bira… birashag—ammi,” Frerin said. Thorin opened his mouth to protest, to tell Frerin he had nothing to be sorry for— truly, if anyone should be sorry, it was Thorin — but Frerin just gave him a look that told him to stop while he was ahead. 

“Adjini ag zâsakhizu gagin,” Thorin said, finally. “Mahal—”

“Lu’.” Frerin said, now with a glare. “Ikyilab, lulkh.”

Thorin bowed his head.

“Thorin— ma—fasa— fuck —” Frerin gasped, and it was clear he could no longer speak the gutteral sounds of Khuzdul without choking on his own blood, “Thorin. I— love you, brother. Tel— tell Dís—”

“I will,” Thorin said, and if his brother could not speak their sacred language, then neither would he. “I will. I love you as well, little brother.”

“Only five years,” Ferin grumbled, but his smile was back in place.

They were silent, after that, and then Ferin was silent evermore.

⚔

Thorin blinked out of his memories, streaks of cold on his cheeks. Was he crying? He hoped he did not make any noise; he would not— could not— be seen as weak. 

He hadn’t cried the last time. Instead, he had listened to Balin tell his tale, feeling distant from himself all the while. But he hadn’t been able to do the same this time, drawn into himself, his memories, rather than pushed away from it, away from himself. He did not know why; perhaps it was having thought of Frerin earlier, perhaps it was Thorin knowing death far more intimately this time around… perhaps it was because he missed Frerin all the more, now, having seen him hale and whole in the Halls of Ancestors for so long. 

But, at the end of the day, it did not matter the reason, for no matter the why , Thorin had been made to relieve the death of his brother. No matter the why , he longed to be distant from himself. 

“...But there was no feast,” he heard Balin say, “nor song that night; for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.” Balin’s voice wavered as he tried to keep the worst of his pain from showing, but Thorin heard, for Thorin felt that same pain. As surreptitiously as he could, he wiped the tears from his face, and clenched his jaw. He would show no more weakness this night. “And I thought to myself then,” Balin continued, “there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king .”

A pang lanced through Thorin’s heart at that; for what had he done to deserve such loyalty from Balin? Loyalty that had in his past life gone unrewarded, unwarranted, as Thorin fell to the same madness that had claimed his grandfather. He clamped down on that pang; he would do better, this time. He would not disappoint his dear friend. 

He felt the eyes of the Company on him, now, and so slowly he turned to face them. On their faces he saw nothing but sad, understanding respect. He saw their loyalty cemented. It touched him more deeply than it had the previous time, and he bowed his head, slowly, in thanks and in acknowledgment. 

The silent spell was broken when Bilbo spoke, a hard edge to his voice. “And the Pale Orc? What became of him?”

Thorin felt his jaw set. “He slunk back into the hole from whence he came. If that filth ,” he spat, “yet lives...” His threat went unspoken, heavy in the air. 

Azog’s days are numbered , he thought with grim determination. They had to be. And so, with that dark promise in his head, he strode back to the outcropping of rock where he had sat previously. The camp fell into silence, save the chirping of bugs, the breaths of his companions,  and the crackling of fire, and Thorin let out a soft sigh. 

On an outcropping opposite the dwarven camp, far and yet not far enough away, an orc hissed a command to its underlings in the foul Black Tongue. Its eyes never left the distant, solitary figure of Thorin Oakenshield. 

And yet farther away, in ancient mountain halls, a dwarrowdam slipped into sleep, her mind— which spun so tirelessly, especially now— stilling. 

And then— a memory came, unbidden, to her unconscious mind.

She was in a hall, bleak and grey and warm and bright, standing before a great tapestry. She made to look at it, but her eyes weren’t what  they used to be— waitwhat — and the more she looked at it the more the scene before her seemed to shift, to flicker, showing thousands of things all at once and yet nothing at all, and—

“Peace, Daughter of Thráin,” said a voice to her right.

Slowly, with aching bones— whyweretheyaching — Dís turned to face the woman who spoke to her. 

Perhaps ‘woman’ was not quite right, she thought as she beheld the figure before her. The being before her was not dressed in exorbitant clothes, or weighed down by heavy jewelry; she was beautiful, but there was nothing particularly strange or exotic about her, save her towering height. Her skin was a light brown, freckled across the bridge of her nose, and her coarse hair was black as night, pulled back into a long, flowing braid. Her eyes were a warm brown, and she dressed plainly in a blue-grey dress that was tight about her arms. But something about her was otherworldly; a grace that not even the elves possessed, a power about her not even Tharkûn held. Even as she looked at Dís, her hands guided the shuttle to her great loom, upon which hung thousands upon thousands of tiny strings twirling together as they rose up to meet it— though, strangely, they splayed out and faded from existence just inches before they met the floor.

No, perhaps ‘woman’ was not quite right. This was one of the Valier. Dís had never been the most religious of dwarves, never thought to bother with the names and provinces of all the Valar, but a name came to her anyway.  

“My Lady Vairë,” she said, bowing her head; and as she did, she caught a glimpse of her hands. They were wrinkled and spotted with age— that’snewthat’swrong except, no . No, it wasn’t new, nor was it wrong. Dís was old . So old, older than—

“There is no need for that, Dís,” Vairë said, her voice warm as her eyes. “Our time together is short, so I shall not tarry. Tell me; what do you remember of the end of your brother’s quest to reclaim Erebor?”

 Dís felt a flood of emotion fill her. “Wh—”

“I do not ask for my sake,” Vairë said gently. “Please. Trust me when I say it is for yours.”

Dís felt sorrow flood her very being, felt her jaw clench and tremble from the strain of holding back tears she’d long since lost the ability to shed. But Vairë bade her speak, and, deep within her heart, she knew that doing so would be important. So she spoke. “I… Thorin fell to the gold sickness, breaking his promise to the men of Esgaroth by denying them gold to rebuild after Smaug fell upon Lake Town. Thranduil, too, came seeking some of the riches  of Erebor, chiefly the Gems of Lasgalen. Bilbo stole the Arkenstone from Thorin, tried to trade it for peace. Dáin—” a new wave of sorrow, fresher— “Dáin and his armies arrived, but before dwarf could battle men and elf, the armies of Azog came, and Thranduil and Bard sent their warriors to the aid of the armies of the Iron Hills. Thorin died. My— my sons died—” Dís found, suddenly, that she could not speak without the urge to cry overwhelming her, and so she did not speak any more than that.

Vairë was silent. Then: “The events you speak of may yet not come to pass. Four have been sent back to try and change that pattern of my Tapestry. I cannot make you one of them, but…” Vairë smiled. “Though the pattern of the Tapestry might change, the string shall not— not yet, at any rate. I cannot send you back, but perhaps I can allow you this one memory. What you do with it is your choice, Dís. I wish you luck.”

Dís, once again young, once again with a living brother and living sons, shot awake in her bed in Ered Luin.

~*~

Kidîz-Satas - gold sickness

Mem nor Thror! Du bekar! - Sons of Thror! To arms!

Lu’ - No

Nê - Don’t

‘kasamhili - please 

Nê imrid- Don’t die

Akhafi intuhul - I don’t feel well

Namhâl ‘atmizu, zamahanakhi ubsat - If I we’re you, I’d go to a healer

Tâti bingalad- It’s not worth it

Kâzirizu harm? - Could I ask you a favor?

Kun - yes 

nisullakan - of course 

Nê birâdruth - Don’t be(come) melancholic

Ikhlik - try 

Birashagammi - I’m sorry

Adjini ag zâsakhizu gagin - I hope to see you again, soon. 

Ikyilab, lulkh - live, idiot