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Chapter Text

ONE:

Bree was as exciting as Bilbo Baggins expected. riding in through the gates of the town next to Barius Chubb, with the second wagon behind them. It was the first such mission Bilbo had gone on since the deaths of his parents, two years earlier and he was secretly curious and excited at his small adventure. The blood of respectable Bagginses as well as adventurous Tooks flowed in his veins and sometimes, his mother’s heritage reared its head. 

It had helped that his Uncle Isengrim Took, the Thain of the Shire, had asked him. The loss of the former Thain, Gerontius, had hit the Shire hard after his long and wise tenure of the post and the death of Bilbo’s parents had possibly hastened his end but he had clung on until Bilbo’s independence as he reached his majority was legally assured. And now, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, despite his lingering grief and reticence, he had been persuaded to help represent the Thain on this trading mission to Bree, along with his cousins Adalgrim and Flambard Took. His cousins knew he was smart and patient, yet sassy enough to stand up for himself when required. And he looked nothing but the absolute perfect gentle hobbit. 

“First time?” Barius murmured but Bilbo shook his head.

“My mother brought me when I was…fifteen, sixteen?” he murmured. “I remember feeling very small and shocked by the jostling in the market. We stayed in the Prancing Pony but we ate in our room…neither of us felt completely comfortable on the main part of the Inn.” The other hobbit nodded.

“There are a lot of Big Folk here and they get on well with the Bree hobbits…though I guess they are used to the interactions,” he commented. “They’re…well, they’re not quite as respectable and reserved as we Shirefolk.” Bilbo inspected him narrowly, automatically fiddling with the brass buttons on his elegant golden broacade waistcoat. 

“Well, I am a Baggins of Bag End and I am certainly not dropping my standards of manners and hospitality, even if it makes us appear like rather backwards country cousins!” he announced, his voice sharpening. Barius chuckled and clouted his shoulder.

“Nor should you,” he commented with a broad grin. “And I know you’ll need to search the market for presents to take back-as well as the trade we have been sent with.” He gestured over his shoulder to the laden down wagon. “If you want to hop down, I’ll make the delivery with Ade and Flam then we’ll meet at the Prancing Post for dinner.” Bilbo grabbed his pack and nodded as they pulled to a halt.

“I need to see the blacksmith,” he commented. “Jago Boffin showed me a very fine knife he had purchased here and I think one similar would make a good gift to Isengrim as a thanks for sending me on this journey.” Barius chuckled as he jumped down.

“I wouldn’t buy him a thank-you gift until you’re sure that he deserves it!” he commented as Bilbo waved and walked off in the direction of the market. Adopting a smile, Bilbo walked forward…for about six steps before he was barrelled into by a man. He looked down, muttered and walked on, still muttering. The hobbit stared, shocked by the rudeness but decided against making any comment. However, he paid much closer attention to the other customers and had to dodge a few times to avoid being knocked aside. It seemed the market in Bree was very much set up with Men in mind…until he rounded a corner and found the Hobbit stalls. He sighed with relief.

“Good afternoon,” he said, greeting the vendor at the pie stall. “Those look like fine wares!” The dark-haired hobbit facing him grinned and puffed up in pride. 

“Only the finest in fruit pies-peach and raspberry, apple and blackberry and pear and cinnamon, all freshly baked. What can I tempt you with?” Bilbo’s eyes widened, his sensitive nose twitching at the aromas and he sighed.

“One of each,” he said honestly. “My friends and I will be here until tomorrow or maybe the day after and if they approve, I shall certainly be purchasing more!” He winked at the Hobbit, who was more than willing to share his personal sweet pastry tips, allowing Bilbo to swap a few of his own. Parting amiably, the hobbit tucked his purchases away and moved on, finding ribbons and small trinkets for his young cousins before turning towards the end of the market, hearing the clangs of metal being struck. He paused at the nearest stall.

“Is the blacksmith that way?” he asked to confirm his suspicions and the elderly hobbit on the cloth stall nodded, his face pulled into an expression of distaste.

“Aye-but I’d watch him,” he commented. “He came here a year ago and he’s a shady sort. Watch his prices and always haggle hard.” He leaned closer. “He has a dwarf to do his work. Looks dangerous to me.” Bilbo frowned, inclining his head.

“That’s…unusual,” he managed, trying to process the information. “But that is the only blacksmith in Bree?” The hobbit nodded.

“Oh, the quality of work is good-well, dwarfish make is acknowledged to be quality-but many of us don’t like going there…” he murmured. “Something not right with what’s going on there…” Bilbo nodded.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised and headed up towards the building at the far end of the narrow street. He could feel the heat from a few yards away, wondering how anyone could be stuck sweltering in this place, day after day. But he walked forward with a determined expression on his face and instantly saw the solid shape at the anvil, strong arms hammering away at a red-hot piece of metal. Maybe half a head taller than he was, Bilbo immediately realised this was a dwarf. He was focussed on his task, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and two thick iron bands tight around his wrists. He was grubby and sweaty, his long jet mane with a few grey streaks matted and grimy. A ragged tunic covered his body and leather trous that had seen better days sheathed sturdy legs. Heavy boots covered his feet.

“Can I help you?” The dwarf had spoken without lifting his head, his voice deep and bitter. Bilbo started, for he had been staring and he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. The dwarf turned his head and the hobbit just had time to register striking blue eyes and a short jet beard before he pulled himself together.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he introduced himself. The dwarf shrugged.

“Thorin,” he growled. “Halford the smith is at the Inn.” Forcing himself to smile, Bilbo met the unwavering cerulean gaze.

“I am interested in commissioning a blade, a belt knife,” he began. “And I was wondering…” The dwarf sighed and laid his hammer aside, shoving the metal back into the fire.

“I am not permitted to accept commissions, only take on work from the standard list of tasks,” he said gruffly, ducking his head. “Anything off the list must be negotiated with the smith.” The way he bit the words was as much of an insult to the man’s status as you could imagine. Bilbo cleared his throat.

“But he’s not, is he?” he asked. “You’re clearly the smith here. So at least, could you give me an idea how long it would take?” Thorin looked at him and clearly warred within himself.

“Not long,” he admitted. 

“I would like it decorated-as a present for a friend, a thank you…” Bilbo added, his eyes lighting.

“A handsome gift,” Thorin commented bitterly. The hobbit smiled.

“He has trusted me with a task and it only seems right to thank him for his trust,” he explained. Thorin stiffened, memories rising in an unwelcome surge. He looked away.

“Indeed,” he said neutrally, his brows still dipped in a frown. Bilbo thought he would be handsome if he scowled less, maybe a little thin for a hobbit’s taste but those eyes… He shook himself. 

“Are you busy?” he asked and Thorin’s face closed. 

“Busy enough,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t accept Halford’s first or second offer-he will try to cheat you. Be prepared to walk away. The true price…well, it should be a third and a half lower than what you are first offered.” Bilbo smiled.

“Thank you,” he murmured as the dwarf pulled the metal out using the heavy tongs and lifted his hammer.

“You’re welcome,” he said shortly and returned to his work.

Turning away, Bilbo was torn between the impression that the dwarf was just really unfriendly and the fact there almost certainly was something funny going on. The other smiths he knew in the Shire were all diligent and skilled, fiercely protective of their business and omnipresent. The fact this ‘Halford’ seemed to do none of the work but overcharged and spent his time in the public house didn't speak well for what was going on. He had half a mind to ask around and see what was really happening. Then he pulled himself up, sternly walking ahead. He was here on the Thain’s business and he was certain, after a year in Bree, that any illegality would have been sorted out. He nodded. It was time to meet his friends-and commission a blade.

He found Halford in the Prancing Pony, beating the rest of the party to the actual parlour though he found the others were freshening up. The man was sloppy and unwashed, his eyes slightly hazed by alcohol and a plate of food almost finished in front of him. Bilbo introduced himself and explained why he was here. He didn’t mention that he had spoken with the dwarf, instead offering that he had asked around the market and the man sat up straighter, belched and focussed. The bargaining was hard and Bilbo was glad he had the advice he had received. Eventually they agreed on a price that Bilbo considered wasn’t completely horrendous and they shook on it, advising the hobbit to come to the forge in the morning when his order would be made. Nodding politely, he made to rise then paused.

“I hear your wares are dwarven made,” he commented with a smile. Halford spat on the floor, his yellow teeth bared in an unpleasant leer.

“It’s a selling point,” he sneered. “But he’s a lazy oaf, barely human and needs constant supervision.” There was an ugly edge to his words and he drained his ale as Bilbo bit back his instinctive retort-then what are you doing here mid-afternoon?. Instead, he nodded politely. The dwarf was working hard when Bilbo had approached-and he knew his back had been to the door and hobbits trod lightly. There clearly wasn’t a good relationship between the two and it was clear that Thorin wasn’t treated well by the smith. The Tookish part of Bilbo really wanted to discover why a dwarf who was clearly skilled, was working with such an unpleasant master while the Baggins half reminded him that it was none of his business and he was leaving in a couple of days.

“Bilbo!” Adalgrim’s voice was a welcome rescue and he nodded to the smith, shook his head again and walked to join his friends for a relaxing evening of food and drink.

-o0o-

The next morning, after a quick first and more substantial second breakfast, Bilbo headed out to the blacksmith’s once more, his expression determined and stride confident. The shutters were open and he could see shapes moving within so he paused, then slowly approached, an amiable smile on his face. Thorin saw him first and his eyes widened in recognition before he nodded the slightest greeting.

“Ah-Master Baggins!” Halford bellowed from the back, shoving past and leaning forward with his yellow grin. Bilbo noted the man hadn’t changed from the previous day, the stains from his dinner still obvious as greasy smears on the grubby fabric. The forge was lit but the heat wasn’t so oppressive in the early morning cool. “You’re prompt. I like that! So it was a blade, wasn’t it?”

“A decorated belt knife,” Bilbo corrected him.

“And the price-I think we agreed on sixty…”

“It was forty,” Bilbo reminded him, his eyes hardening though his voice remained very pleasant. Halford feigned surprise.

“Did we? Oh, I may have misunderstood…”

“We shook on it,” Bilbo told him. “Twice. Though if you wish to renege, I am sure that my trading partners here will be immensely glad to hear that your word is worthless. They won’t want to risk having deals broken on a whim and I’m certain your suppliers…” Halford’s eyes widened, shocked at the response of the soft-spoken, nicely plump hobbit whose hazel eyes were twinkling with determination. 

“No, no…I meant no offence,” Halford said, his teeth gritted, “Of course I recall the deal. It was fairly negotiated, even though I was a little merry. Good tactics, little sir-good tactics indeed!” Bilbo found his teeth gritting at the patronising words. "Now if you’ll just hand over the money, we can start…” Thorin glanced up and gave the slightest shake of his head before turning back to whatever he was doing. Bilbo’s smile was forced.

“That was not the agreement-and I am certainly not about to hand over any money without seeing the finished item,” he said shortly. “It is so much harder to get any corrections or issues amended once the money is already in the pocket of the maker.” The steel in his voice left nothing to be discussed. Halford’s pretence at pleasantry dropped away.

“As you wish,’ he growled. “Give your order to the dwarf-I’ll be out back.” And he stalked out. Bilbo exhaled and offered a small sigh.

“Thank you, Master Thorin,” he said quietly. “I am very grateful.” The dwarf looked up, his expression unreadable.

“Explain what you wish, Master Hobbit, and I will endeavour to do justice to your gift,” he said in a clear voice. The intensity in his blue eyes was blinding and Bilbo felt himself blush. But he managed to get the details out and the dwarf didn’t say a word, mentally listing the requirements and the suggestions for decoration. Then he nodded. “It will be done by teatime, Master Hobbit.” Bilbo smiled.

“Thank you, Master Thorin and see you later,” he managed brightly, turning away before he made more of a fool of himself. Honestly! He was acting like a guileless tween, blushing at a pair of eyes! And he had a meeting with the Council of Bree with the others in half an hour-hardly enough time to stop himself being flustered-to discuss the trading relationship for the next season. Shaking his head, he walked off, unaware of the eyes of the dwarven smith following him until he vanished.

-o0o-

It had been a longer meeting than anticipated and Bilbo found his head spinning. The food trading had been fairly straightforward but it was the trade Shirewards that was more difficult. The usual-cloth, exotic foods, wooden goods, coal and wood-were all easy but there was still a shortfall. More goods were posited and Bilbo had mentioned ironworks-but the Council had swiftly dismissed the idea.

“That smith, Halford, is a devious and untrustworthy fellow,” the Lead Councillor-a man named Gerard-explained. “We ordered new swords for the door guards and he was very difficult about the price, demanding payment in advance. A number of the goods were shoddy-though half were of good quality and well made. He blamed his assistant, the dwarf, for the substandard wares but refused to replace them without further monies. Interestingly, no one was seen working but the dwarf until the new and acceptable swords were handed over. We will not use him again.” Bilbo sighed.

“He tried the same tricks on me,” he said, “but I won’t pay until I see what I am paying for. And if we traded, you would be the purchaser, would you not?” Gerard nodded. Bilbo sighed.

“Why does Thorin work for him?” he asked directly. “He is a far superior smith and he could easily set up on his own-with far more respect.” There was a pause and the Councillors all shared a glance before looking back at the Hobbit.

“Not our place to say,” he admitted. “You would have to ask him.”

“He’s tighter lipped than a clam at high tide,” Bilbo murmured. “I don’t know if he would even deign to answer.” 

“Then it’s not your business,” Adalgrim reminded him and he sighed. “Okay…back to business…”

It was dusk and he was walking back to the Forge at speed, feeling guilty that he was later than planned. The hatch was still open and he panted in, offering an apologetic smile.

“I am so sorry,” he said by way of greeting. “And thank you so much for waiting for me.” Thorin looked up tiredly, eyes hooded by weariness. 

“I was certain you would come,” he said gruffly and presented a magnificent dagger to Bilbo. Eyes widening, the hobbit reverently lifted the weapon, feeling the excellent balance, the skilful working and the delicate etching on the blade and handle. Then he smiled.

“This is wonderful,” he said. “Absolutely superb work. Thank you so much, Master Thorin!” The dwarf ducked his head in acknowledgement of the thanks which Bilbo acutely got the impression were a rare pleasure. 

“You are welcome,” he said and a slight smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Bilbo smiled and then gasped, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out a purse containing the agreed price. He handed it over with a smile. “I’m sorry-how rude of me. Here’s the agreed price.” And then he sighed. “May I ask you a question?” Thorin stiffened and then nodded.

“I may not be able to answer it,” he said neutrally though he still sounded tired. Bilbo listened and was certain he could hear no sign of Halford.

“Why do you work for him?” he asked. Thorin swung his head round to inspect him, an incredulous look on his face. “I mean, he obviously treats you badly and gives you no credit. He’s a swindler and a drunk. And he’s not a very good smith, is he?” Thorin shook his head.

“I have no choice,” he murmured, barely audible though his hands fisted until his knuckles grew white. The heavy iron bands around his wrists moved and the hobbit could see some marks beneath. 

“Do you need help?” Bilbo asked suddenly, leaning forward. The dwarf snapped round.

“And what help could a halfling offer?’ he snapped, his anger sudden and harsh. But Bilbo sensed there was more there-shame, embarrassment and misery-all masked by the attack. 

“I would have you know, Master Dwarf, that I am half of nothing! I am a Hobbit-and though you may have inches on me in height, I can see you do not have them in girth. Your clothes are ragged, you clearly don’t get enough chances to wash and rest and maybe eat and you seem very isolated and alone. What happened that you are in such a predicament?” He sighed at the defensive look in the other male’s face. “If you need help, I am here until tomorrow lunchtime, staying at the Prancing Pony.” He gripped the fine blade. “I really do want to help because no one should feel so trapped and unhappy when there is an offer of help.” 

Then he turned and made to walk away. But as he was retreating, he heard footsteps and darted sideways, into the shadows as Halford stumbled into the back of the Forge.

“Did he come?” the man asked and there was a grunt. “Late. Stubby little ponce. You got the money?” There was another grunt and the sounds of coins. There was a pause and then suddenly the sounds of a heavy blow. “IDIOT!” Halford raged. “How many times have I told you to leave something that needs repairing?”

“I am a Master Smith: I won’t hand over substandard or shoddy work,” Thorin reminded him in a low voice. There was a second blow, the sound of something slamming into flesh causing the hidden listener to wince. There was a low grunt that he was sure was Thorin.

“And do I need to remind you that I own you?” Halford hissed. “The bands on your wrists and the brands on your flesh show you are property-and mine. There isn’t anywhere you can run where you won’t be hunted and returned. And you can hardly go back to your people when you handed yourself over to spare them, can you?”

There was a silence, though Thorin’s breaths were audible.

“Say it!” Halford hissed.

“No…Master…” the dwarf ground out. 

“And don’t you forget it!” Halford sneered and there was the sound of chains. “Now stay here. If I catch you outside again, I'll have the wardens after you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Master,” Thorin growled. 

“You know, I could beat you, maim you, even kill you…and under the law, it is legal,” Halford hissed. 

“You could try,” Thorin replied, the voice dripping hatred.

“And if anything happens to me…well, you know what happens to escaped slaves,” Halford sneered. Bilbo inched closer and could see the man leaning over Thorin. “They will hunt you down  like the worthless dog you are and then your execution will be prolonged and brutal. And that will dishonour you and your house and your people…”

“I have no honour,” Thorin told him gruffly. “That was forfeit when I surrendered.” Halford sniggered. 

“Clean up this mess,” he snapped and slammed down the hatch. “And remember what I said. Maybe I’ll write to your people and see if they want to buy you back?” There was a silence and Bilbo knew the answer from the dwarf’s bleak words. Silently he walked away, thinking hard.

Thorin was a slave.

Bree was allowing a Man to keep a Dwarf slave.

And the Shire was doing business with them. 

The Council of Bree was tacitly condoning slavery, tolerating the abuse of a dwarf who had clearly been given no choice. 

Good gracious. This really wouldn’t do.

Chapter Text

TWO.

By the time Bilbo had made it to the Prancing Pony, he was furious. His Tookish blood was completely riled up at the thought that another person could be kept as a slave, no better than a beast of burden and considerably worse than any pet. That Thorin-a skilled smith-should be treated badly and obviously be so despairing broke his heart and the hobbit was determined to try to do something. After all, if the people of Bree tolerated a dwarf slave, what was to stop them accepting hobbits as slaves? But as he paced his room, he knew that anger alone wouldn’t help Thorin. He had to get the other away. 

It was obvious that appealing to the Council would avail him little. In fact, everyone in Bree was complicit with the act and as a Hobbit of the Shire, he felt the act of keeping a slave was abhorrent and wholly against Yavanna’s wishes. And while he knew all the arguments, having read them in his books-that whoever was being treated as an animal was less than his owner, that he somehow deserved or should feel grateful for being enslaved-such arguments never held any sway with Bilbo. Let alone that what he had read of dwarvish culture showed them to be a highly intelligent and creative people-a little martial for Bilbo’s sensibilities but loyal to their families and brave. And dominated by their honour…the same honour that Thorin had bitterly confirmed had been taken from him.

He mulled over the words. 

I have no honour. That was forfeit when I surrendered.

There was a tale there-one that was painful for the dwarf to reveal but which Halford was fully aware of. Somehow, it gave him power over his slave and the tone Halford had used had raised the hairs at the back of the hobbit’s neck. Bilbo wondered if the Man bribed the Council to tolerate him. Almost certainly, given his behaviour. And as long as he controlled a capable smith, he would be allowed to stay.

But what could Bilbo actually do? It was plain that though some people were offended by the situation, no one would actually step forward to rock the status quo. There was clearly no law against slavery, as there was in the Shire and no authority to demand that the dwarf was freed. But Bilbo’s heart and conscience would not permit him to walk away. His mother, Belladonna Took, would have boxed his ears until the ends of the world if he faltered. This was not something a decent hobbit should ever be complicit with-no matter that it pertained to events beyond their border. Bilbo had met the dwarf: if he walked away, he was as guilty as the people of Bree.

So there was only one option, one that made his skin crawl but that made sense, given the smith’s sole focus on gold. And Bilbo was a wealthy Hobbit, for all his fastidious manners and relatively inexperience outside his home. But he was kind and determined and the idea he would ride away leaving another being in such a desperate situation was unthinkable.

He needed to talk with his fellow hobbits.

-o0o-

Bilbo had barely slept and was up, bathed and dressed well before First Breakfast. He paced up and down so much that Adelgrim had to eject him from the room so he took a brisk early walk round the town, passing the little road to the Forge and casting an anxious glance at the shut up building. Panic gripped him. What if Thorin didn’t want to come with the hobbits and preferred to remain with Halford? What if he offended the dwarf, Halford and the people of Bree? But at least the other three were in complete agreement with him and his plan and they would back him up with the Thain if there were any consequences. Then he paused and closed his eyes, allowing the warm light of the morning sun to caress his features. For a moment, he could hear his parents’ voices.

Bilbo-you are a brave and decent young hobbit and we have always taught you what is right. Do not be afraid to stand up for the right thing, no matter the risk. Because you should always strive to be a person you would want to know, a person you would want to trust…and the person you want to meet in the mirror each morning.

He took a deep breath, then headed back to the Inn to have a proper breakfast. The other hobbits were there and watching Bilbo with degrees of anxiety and curiosity. Of all the cousins, Bilbo had always been one of the more adventurous when he was a child, sneaking out to meet the Elves, coming back covered in moss and leaves and twigs and fireflies. But in his tweens, he had calmed down, though he was still very curious and interested in other cultures. And then his parents had died, both swept away in an illness that had ravaged their small land and caused terrible sadness for the Hobbits. The Shire had only just recovered but Bilbo hadn’t-not really. The cheerful hobbit had become withdrawn, sticking to the smial that his father had built for his mother and had retreated to becoming a miniature version of his father…until this trip. He looked up.

“You look at me as if I’m about to stab someone,’ he commented, spearing a mushroom and deftly folding a strip of toast around it. Adalgrim nearly choked on his scrambled eggs.

“Um…no…” he coughed. “But you were eyeing that tomato as if it was about to jump you…”

“You really were,” Barius confirmed, chewing his bacon. He snagged another couple of rashers. Flambard broke into his fried egg with a sigh of satisfaction. 

“You can say what you want about foreign travel-but this is a proper breakfast,” he pronounced and took a big bite. “And you should eat, Cousin Bilbo. You need your strength for this. We are all going to be with you in case any…nonsense happens.”

“There could be nonsense?” Barius asked, frowning.

“Flam-eat your egg,” Adalgrim told him with a smirk. “We’re Tooks…”

“I’m a Chubb!” Barius protested.

“Your grandmother was a Took!” Flambard pointed out.

“That makes me the least Tookish of all of you!” the Chubb retorted, his honey blond hair tousled. 

“You know, being a Took is a state of mind and if you have one single drop of Took blood in you, you can achieve it!” Adalgrim told him. “And you think anyone can stand up to four Tooks?”

“Three and a quarter!” Barius put in.

“Four!” Flambard retorted and grabbed another slice of fried bread.

“Good black pudding,” Bilbo commented, dipping it in his egg. He was smiling, his nerves a little soothed by the familiar bickering. This was the last good breakfast they would get until they were back in the Shire, even though it was a straight and reasonably easy road. “Adalgrim is half Baggins and half Took-same as I am. Flambard-you are half Took and half Boffin. Barius is a quarter Chubb, Took, Baggins and Boffin. Hobbit families are so intertwined that if you look carefully enough, everyone is part Took.” He looked up and gave a secret smile. “The secret we have is not letting anyone else know that!” They all burst out laughing and willingly accepted seconds when the barmaid offered. Finally replete, the quartet rose.

“You sure?” Flambard asked, wiping his mouth. Bilbo nodded.

“I want to be the person I can meet in the mirror tomorrow morning,” he explained quietly and Adalgrim clapped him on the shoulder.

“Grandfather used to say that as well,” he admitted. “Aunt Belladonna?” Bilbo smiled.

“Let’s go,” he said and they walked out of the Prancing Pony. Trying to walk as if they were not a hobbit lynch mob, the four walked evenly and purposefully through the market, occasionally glancing to the left and right but mainly straight ahead, their eyes locking on hatch of the forge, which was still shuttered. Bilbo felt a flicker of anxiety run through him. It should be open by now: what was wrong? Then he shook himself. It wasn’t as if there was any strict timetable, though he was concerned by the coincidence that the morning he planned to act, the way was closed. 

Adelgrim rapped on the hatch with his knuckles, then again.

There was no response. So Adalgrim repeated the action.

“We’re closed.” The voice was Halford’s, which concerned Bilbo more. 

“We have a business proposition, which may prove extremely lucrative,” Adalgrim called, keeping his voice stern and professional. They had agreed that he would do the talking, as the most experienced in representing the Thane-but also because he had no prior dealings with Halford so the Man would not recognise his voice. There were the sounds of movement within and finally, the hatch slid open.

“Ah-little masters,” the Man said, his eyes flocking over the four smaller shapes. They all had to force themselves not to tense up at the derogatory address, meeting the calculating and covetous eyes of the grubby man facing them. “What can I do for you?”

“We wish to speak with your assistant,” Flambard said. Halford’s face fell into a snarl. 

“I hardly see what profit that holds for me,” he snapped and reached for the handle of the hatch. Bilbo flipped up a gold coin.

“Does this answer your question?” he asked pointedly and after a very short battle with himself, Halford snatched the coin and gestured. Thorin was standing back, head up and shoulders drawn back proudly-but Bilbo could read shame in his eyes. There was a livid welt on his cheek that Bilbo realised was the aftermath of the previous night’s altercation. The Man glared at him. 

“Speak,” he snapped as Bilbo leaned forward.

“Thorin-are you happy here?” he asked, feeling his cheeks warm at the stupidity of the question. The dwarf frowned, as if the words did not make sense.

“My feelings are of no matter,” he said.

“Are you treated well?” Bilbo asked. Thorin looked at him now, a look almost of betrayal.

“I am content,” he said flatly, his tone careful. 

“How much do you earn for your work?” he asked. The flinch was unmistakeable.

“I am recompensed adequately,” Thorin lied as Halford shifted.

“Is this going to take much longer?” he sneered. Adalgrim looked up, his clear grey eyes determined.

“We wish to offer your assistant a new job,” he said firmly. Halford laughed, the sound cruel and Bilbo knew then that this wasn’t going to be easy. The Man walked over to Thorin and grabbed an arm, wrenching it up to display the heavy steel band round his wrist.

“You see this?’ Halford sneered. “In case you half-witted halflings don’t understand, these are slave bands. This dwarf belongs to me. Paid good money for him. He has no say what he does, who he serves, what he eats, what he gets paid…he’s mine, with no more rights than this hammer!” And he lifted the nearest hammer and brandished it at the four hobbits.

“Then if he is property, he is for sale,” Bilbo said softly. “And we wish to purchase him.”

He really wished he hadn’t been looking at Thorin at that moment, for seeing the look of betrayal and pain that crossed the handsome face had broken something inside the hobbit. Halford laughed.

“I really doubt that four little halflings could afford this specimen!” he sneered. Adalgrim lifted his chin.

“We are all members of the Took family,” he revealed. “The family of the Thain. Our pockets are deep, Master Halford. Name your opening price.”

Bilbo turned back to look at Thorin, listening to the opening figure with a wince. As a hobbit, Bilbo was particularly wealthy, for his parents had been blessed with generous gifts and inheritances and Bungo, Bilbo’s late father, had invested wisely. His accounts were full and he knew he could cover the costs but even then, the figure Halford asked for was outrageous. Yet Adelgrim remained calm and made a low counter offer. Halford sneered but made another-lower-bid. Flambard, Barius and Bilbo all pulled out documents, prepared the previous night and sighed. Only two pieces of information needed to be completed before the smith could sign. Adalgrim continued the barter and Bilbo could only imagine how Thorin felt. There was something about the dwarf, his bearing straight and controlled, the cast of his features, that suggested his dignity was precious to him-no matter how much had been stripped from him. And the fact he was being haggled over like a piece of meat must be one of the most degrading things a person could endure.

Thorin. The word gleamed at Bilbo, freshly written in black ink on the contract. Today’s date was filled out last night as had been Bilbo’s signature and that of Adalgrim as witness. He wondered if the dwarf understood what was actually happening, why Bilbo was spending a substantial portion of his fortune on a person he had traded maybe a dozen or so words with and had met two days earlier?

“Done!” The sound of Adalgrim’s palm slapping against Halford’s drew Bilbo back to the present and he filled out the requisite amount, grateful that Adalgrim had reduced the number substantially. Still, it was a lot but he had prepared the funds before they had left the room. 

“Thorin-do you have a family name or other descriptor?” Flambard asked, his eyes hovering over his copy. There was a pause.

“My family is lost to me,” the dwarf said in a strained voice.

“Anything?”

There was another pause.

“Oakenshield.” The word was reluctant, softly spoken like an admission of guilt-not that the hobbits would recognise it or know to whom it related. Nodding, the three scribes completed the last piece of information and handed the contracts for Halford to sign. Finally, the hobbits handed over the money. One contract was given to the Man to prove the sale: the others remained with Bilbo, who folded them away into his coat. 

“Please collect your possessions and come with us,” Bilbo invited him, willing his face not to betray any pity. Instinctively, he knew pity would be the last thing that the dwarf would appreciate. Thorin looked away, backing away from Halford, who was still counting the golden coins that were weighing heavy in the purses the hobbits had handed over. As Bilbo watched, he snagged a ragged tunic-dark blue and evidently once fine-as well as a patched blanket and-in a gesture of defiance-a handful of tools. Halford glared and swiped at him but he backed out through the door and his heavy steps approached the hobbits. Every eye turned to Bilbo and he took a deep breath.

“I think we should leave,” he said as Barius nodded. 

“I’ll get the carts ready,” he offered.

“We’ll settle up at the Inn,” Flambard added and headed off with Adalgrim, taking one copy of the contract with them and leaving Bilbo with Thorin, standing outside the forge. Willing himself not to stammer, the hobbit turned and walked a few steps, then paused. 

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked the dwarf. Thorin looked puzzled.

“Why?” he asked, not referring to the food. Bilbo sighed.

“I have no evil intentions,” he assured the other, taking a breath. “Look, we can talk about this once we’re away from this place. Please, come with me.” For a moment, Thorin looked as if he would refuse-but he nodded in reluctant acquiescence and followed as Bilbo scanned the hobbit stalls, bartering spiritedly with the hobbit at the food stall. He got a great deal on a half dozen pies and several rolls and small cakes. But he also bought a couple of cheese and meat pasties and smiled as they were wrapped up in a piece of brown paper. Then he walked down to the next stall, taking a flask of ale and humming to himself. He glanced up and then pressed the flask and paper-wrapped package into the dwarf's hand. Thorin was already shaking his head.

"Breakfast," Bilbo told him as he looked back, stricken before his face closed.

“I can't..." he began as Bilbo planted his hands on his hips and glared at him.

“I’m wagering that you haven’t even had first, let alone second breakfast," he told the dwarf tartly. Something flickered in his blue eyes as Bilbo noted a few more tiny details about the dwarf. The way he folded his powerful arms across his broad chest. The hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes that should not be there. The bruise that marred his cheek, given to him by a man that Bilbo knew in his heart this dwarf could flatten with little effort…had he wanted to. The proud tilt of his head, even though he felt he was dishonoured. There had been too few meals and too little concern for this dwarf in however long he had endured his slavery and it hurt Bilbo’s heart to imagine it. “As a friend, I cannot in any conscience allow you to go hungry. Hobbits share food, whatever we have. You can eat when we get to the wagons.” 

Then he headed down the road and there was a pause before the heavy footsteps sounded again. He knew that Thorin was following but he had no idea what to say. Quietly, they slipped into the stables and Bilbo relaxed as he saw Barius was yoking the ponies to the second, loaded wagon.

“All done?” the other hobbit asked cheerfully. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“Not even slightly,” he sighed as Thorin paused. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked warily. Exasperated, Bilbo gestured to a bale of hay and humphed. 

“Sit down and eat your breakfast!” he snapped. 

“You are serious?” Thorin realised as Bilbo nodded.

“Thorin, you are not a slave,” he told the dwarf. As predicted, the handsome face closed, an impressive scowl masking everything. He raised his wrist in anger.

“This says I am!” he snapped. Bilbo pulled the other set of contracts from his pocket.

“And these say you are not!” he retorted. “We drew these up last night. All four of us have signed. I just need to add your name and then it is official: you are freed.” Thorin stared, his arm dropping. 

“What?” There was shock and treacherous hope in that small word. Bilbo sighed, opening the papers and pulling out a small quill and inkwell. Swiftly, he wrote Thorin’s name on each copy and them gently blew it dry. Barius had finished harnessing the second cart by the time the ink was dry enough to fold the copies. Methodically, he handed one copy of the purchase and the release to Thorin and then he offered a small smile. 

“There,’ he said. Slowly, as if in a dream, the dwarf stared at the papers before he gave a low groan.

“I-I can’t…" he said brokenly, his head bowed. Instantly, Bilbo was up. 

“Thorin-hobbits don’t accept slavery,” he said gently. “I paid that man to make sure you could be freed. I couldn’t look at my face in the mirror, knowing that you were imprisoned against your will and I did not do everything in my power to free you.” He leaned forward. “You are free. You can go home.” Thorin’s shoulders sagged and for a moment he looked the picture of despair before he slowly sat up and faced the hobbit with his mask back in place.

“I cannot go back to my family,” he said quietly. “I am dishonoured. They would not acknowledge me and…” He stopped. Bilbo paused.

“You can…come to the Shire, if you want,” Bilbo offered hesitantly. Thorin’s eyes hardened, the blue growing remote. “You could work…respectably…while you choose what to do next.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to insult you but you are a great smith-much better than Halford, I suspect. You did all the work…except the shoddy swords that were sold to the Bree Council…” There was a slight nod in acknowledgement. “Currently, the forge in Hobbiton is closed-old Musskin Snowmane retired a couple of years ago-and the nearest is the one in Frogmorton. And-and though I know it must be demeaning to take such prosaic work when I am certain your…former life was very different. I know little of your race, I am afraid, but I guess that smith work must feel demeaning because the skills of your kin are acknowledged as extraordinary. But I also know in the short term you could earn enough to at least get some clothes, weapons and provisions…”

Thorin’s face was a study, his eyes moving through anger, shame, shock, astonishment and finally hope and a hint of gratitude.

“But won’t your people be shocked and…wary of you bringing some unknown dwarf back with you, wearing slave bands?’ he asked directly. 

“They already think he’s odd,” Adalgrim announced, arriving with their packs. Flambard nodded.

“Thanks,” Bilbo said sourly. 

“I think no one would bat an eyelid,” Flambard added.

“Except Lobelia and Otho who would love to get me run out of the Shire for being too unHobbitlike,” Bilbo grumbled. Thorin stared at him. 

“Though Uncle Isengrim wouldn’t hear of it,” Adelgrim added. “The choice is yours but you are welcome in the Shire.” There was a pause. Then he nodded.

“I…would be grateful,” he said slowly. “And for my own peace of mind, I need to repay the money you spent in releasing me.” Bilbo opened his mouth but Thorin shook his head. "If I am free, then let it be on my own terms. Let me behave with what honour I can glean and repay you for what you did for me.” 

Bilbo stared at him and  then he nodded.

“If it makes you feel better, then of course," he said quietly. And then he smiled. “Now, will you please eat your breakfast?”

Chapter Text

THREE:

It made absolutely no sense.  There was no way that Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, (former?) Crown Prince in exile of the Kingdom Erebor, could understand what had happened to him over the last few hours.

But here he was, sitting in one of the wagons of a quartet of Halflings…Hobbits, they didn’t like being referred to as Halflings, must remember that…who had purchased his freedom with no desire for any recompense, other than seeing another creature freed from cruel servitude. And perhaps he should understand that, being born a Prince of the line of Durin, but attitudes towards other races hadn’t been the most…welcoming…in his youth. Of course, they dealt with the Elves of Greenwood and the Men of Dale because they were allied Kingdoms and the roots of this ties went back. It was folly not to maintain amiable relations with your nearest neighbours but even in the Mountain, there were always sneers. Elves were tree-shaggers, Men were weak and Wizards spoke in riddles and were unreliable. He wracked his brain to see if he could recall anything on Halflings but apart from a brief mention by Balin in a lesson on geopolitics that he had been ignoring because was exhausted from a tough sparring session with Dwalin and Warmaster Fanion,there was nothing. He had learned more by observing the hobbits in Bree, noting the short, friendly and easy-going little people who were generally kind, generous and uninterested in harming anyone. Somehow, it was always the Men who caused the trouble.

He closed his eyes. The hobbit, Bilbo, had refused to let the caravan leave until Thorin had eaten the food he had provided and somehow, the dwarf had felt better after consuming more in one meal that he had eaten in either of the previous two days. After that, they had been prepared to set out for home, but there had been a question whether Thorin wished to sit up front on the board or in the wagon with the goods. Glancing at the hobbits, he had scrambled into the back of the wagon, made himself comfortable and closed his eyes as the sway of the wagon began.

He could hear the hobbits chatting up ahead and in the following wagon, their soft voices musical and gentle. A lot was discussion about family or food and he tuned out, wondering what he could do next. He was heading away from Bree, away from Halford and his abusive and controlling environment that he had endured for the previous year but into another unknown-the Shire home of the hobbits. At least there were no men in the Shire and that thought eased a fraction of the tension from his body. And since when did he feel anxious at the prospect of facing Men, at the prospect of change? But he knew.

It had been that day, that fateful day so many years ago yet fresh in his memory as if it had been yesterday. The day the dragon came. The day Smaug annihilated his home. And he had read the signs: his grandfather’s excessive love of gold, heaping more and more into the treasury and forming a more and more irresistible hoard to call a fire drake; the growing hostility to other races as his paranoia grew and the sense of anxiety that had prickled his neck since daybreak. He had ducked lessons and gone on a patrol of the defences, leading him to be on the very ramparts above the gate as the boiling wind blasted over the flanks of the mountain, as the flames raked Dale and he raised the alarm, screaming the word ‘DRAGON’ as the monstrosity circled round and arrowed straight at the gates of Erebor. 

So much death: the heat, the screams as defenders were crushed by masonry or the dragon’s immense paws or incinerated by its fire. Swept aside like dust, Thorin could only look and run after the calamity as the dragon barged deeper into the mountain, tsunamis of flame blown down into the mountain, collapsing homes and searing hundreds of innocents from existence. And then he had found his grandfather, clawing pathetically at nothing, for he had dropped the Arkenstone into the treasury as the dragon arrived. All that could be seen was a whirlpool of gold, the love of the metal preventing King Thror from leaving even though the dragon was making his nest and had taken possession of the gold. In the end, Thorin had bodily lifted his grandfather and hauled him from the mountain, joining the exodus of dwarrow from the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth. Most had naught but what they held and Thorin, still pushing his dazed and resisting King and his father, equally distraught and incoherent, was searching desperately until he saw Dwalin, escorting the smaller shapes of Frerin and Dis, fortunately wrapped in cloaks and warm clothes. He could still hear the screams and smell the charred flesh of the dead and dying as they broke into the cold shadow of the mountain and stared up-to see the familiar shape of Thranduil on his Elk mount, his arm at the crest of the hill. And for a second, Thorin had hope.

“HELP US! HELP US!” 

He felt his eyes meet Thranduil's saw the coldness in the Silvan Elf’s gaze. Thror had refused Thranduil the white gems he coveted, the reason for the refusal spurious and though Thorin knew the act had been wrong, there had been nothing he had been able to do to reverse his grandfather’s judgement. But now, he saw the Elven King weigh up the scene, knowing the enemy they faced and what was in it for him..and he turned away. Betrayal had stabbed Thorin in the gut, anger filling his mind and hatred of the Greenwood elves that he swore he would never forgive. Now was their last chance to counterattack…but their only hope was gone. Dale was in flames, the Men scattered and now the Elves had betrayed them. Their home was lost.

And Thorin had been forced to lead, for Thror and Thrain were both beyond reason. So the future, the hope of Erebor had been laid on his young shoulders and he had no option but to rise to the occasion. The dwarrow were shell shocked, unprovisioned and many hurt. They could not go home and in desperation, he had led them on, through disappointments and disasters, through the cold nights and deaths-so many deaths, from wounds and injury, cold and broken hearts and hunger. They had camped out, slowly making their way across the merciless hostile lands. Every death had been a wound on his soul, because he felt it was his fault and only the wise counsel of Fundin and Balin had stopped him giving up completely-that and the presence of his younger siblings Frerin and Dis. He had no luxury to wallow in self-pity or grief like his sire and grandsire because when he had finished leading his people, he had them to reassure and comfort. Devastated by the loss of their home and their sudden fall, Thorin had always ensured they knew they would be protected and safe, ensuring they were warm at night and fed-even at his expense. And the trust and love in their eyes was enough to give him the strength to go on. He pushed himself harder than anyone, making his way through the desperate and shocked people. Sometimes, he met anger, sometimes grief and always shock, that they could be ousted so easily from their home. He met every challenge equably, trying to reassure the dwarrow and accepting the anger and rage of the older Lords and warriors at his woeful performance as a leader and his apparent failure to retake Erebor, instantly find a new home and the shortages. There was nothing he could say because there was nothing to be said. 

Even when Thror had finally reasserted his authority, he laid much of the load on Thorin’s shoulders, allowing his grandson to deal with the burdens of finding food and shelter. Thorin had found that the dwarves were not welcome in Greenwood-not even allowed to pass through and so they had taken the long way north, crawling along the edges of the trees, camping for several days until moved on by the Silvan Elves.  As they headed towards the northern mountains, they found Man villages and farms and reluctantly, Thorin and some of the others had worked, to earn food or necessities for the homeless dwarrow. And all the while, as Thorin toiled to keep the people housed and fed, his grandfather and father had plotted one after another insane plans: to retake Erebor, to attack Mirkwood, to take the Grey Mountains for themselves, even to attack the ancient mines of Moria and claim them as a new home.

Thorin and wiser, cooler heads had counselled the King to seek sanctuary with his cousin Nain, Lord of the Iron Hills. Thror had rejected the notion out of hand, not even considering allowing the weak and those with close kin to leave the exodus to achieve safety, preferring all of his people committed to the purpose of rebuilding the glory of Erebor-and the goal of Moria, the greatest dwarf Kingdom of Khazad-Dum. And for that, he would need all his people, not just those who had nowhere else to go. The arguments had raged and harsh words had been spoken, accusations of treason and curses upon dwarves who had always been loyal but who were shocked by the callous disregard of their King. Thrain would say nothing against the insane orders, watching as divisions were sown between the people when unity was needed more than ever. But knowing the order was wrong, this time Thorin had arranged for those who wished to go to their kin to leave under cover of night, accepting the castigation of his King and his father for his actions. Everything he did was in the best interests of his people, starving and dying in the wilds and being accused of disloyalty, of treason by an increasing deranged King was a small price to pay. Attacking Moria was a dream, a hope that Thror peddled to his desperate people as the time passed and they wandered the north, stopping a few months or years here and there, a ragged remnant of the proud people they had once been. He blinked, the brief memory of the sword pressed against his throat when Thror had learned of his part in sending those who wished to the Iron Hills. Thorin knew he would not be banished…though it had been close…but the dishonour and shame had still been hard…

“Are you okay?”

The words jerked him back to the present and the shape of Bilbo, who had scrambled back  and was perched on top of a box of spices. He blinked.

“I am fine,” he admitted calmly, not wanting to betray anything. Bilbo smiled, the expression open and kindly.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward,” he apologised. Thorin inspected him, his expression guarded. “But when I realised what was happening…” The dwarf grimaced.

“You heard,” he stated, his deep voice toneless. A blush flamed on the hobbit’s cheeks.

“Not intentionally,” he admitted. “But hobbits have very good hearing and…” He sighed. “I’m sorry.” Thorin looked up into the embarrassed face.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, not meaning the eavesdropping. Bilbo shrugged. 

“You are a person like me,” he said slowly. "With the same rights and hopes and dreams. What kind of hobbit would I be if I saw a fellow being in need and I did nothing?” 

Pain and shock stabbed through Thorin’s head, the revelation almost unbearable. This young hobbit was expounding a set of values that were admirable but so alien to those he had encountered throughout his life. He knew his own people would not step in to help a member of another race who was in trouble and the consideration he had encountered in his travels from others had been as scant. He shook his head.

“I think…you may be in the minority in that regard,” Thorin murmured. Would he have helped if the situations were reversed? And the coil of shame in his gut confirmed the answer. Bilbo smiled.

“I can only be me,” he shrugged. “Can I ask a question?” Thorin inclined his head, his expression still wary. “How long have you been…?”

“A slave?” The words were rough and Bilbo looked away.

“Away from your family and people?” he said awkwardly. 

“Three years,” Thorin murmured. 

“And won’t they be relieved that you are safe?” the hobbit asked quietly. He shook his head.

“I made my choice,” Thorin murmured and closed his eyes. “It can never be taken back.” And with that, he refused to answer any more questions until Bilbo finally gave up.

-o0o-

Food was distributed at lunch and as twilight drew in, they found a suitable camping place. Barius and Flambard dealt with the ponies while Adelgrim and Bilbo made the fire and set to cooking, working together in Hobbit-like ease and chattering cheerfully over the food preparation. Thorin jumped down, helped gather firewood and then prowled the perimeter, like a caged wolf, eyes scanning the darkening trees and the line of the rolling wolds against the fading sky. The lands were rolling and stretched away into the darkness, the sounds of wildlife and the hooting of owls eerie in the gloom. 

“This is not a good defensible position,” Thorin commented, crouching by the fire. Flambard sat down and shrugged.

“No one really bothers hobbits,” he admitted. “The Thain and the Bree Council don’t want interruption of trade. The Rangers watch over us as well. And we are no threat to anyone.” Thorin inspected him remotely, blue eyes glittering with exasperation. 

“Not everyone cares about your local trade,” he reminded them. “And there are those who are less than law abiding.” Adelgrim nodded.

“We have never been bothered-and we have been trading with Bree since the Shire was founded…” he pointed out but Bilbo inspected their guest.

“We can’t really go any further tonight,” he pointed out. “Minty, Myrtle, Blossom and Daisy are all tired and the road is a little tricky…” 

“I’ll take the watch,” the dwarf said evenly. There was a pause as the others shared a small look. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, feeling mild irritation at his cousins. He knew exactly the look they were giving to the dwarf, the look of mild suspicion and wariness that was poor payment for the offer he had made to protect them. “That is much appreciated.” Then he rose and inspected the pot, inhaling the aroma of the stew. “I think we’re nearly there,” he added. 

After a good meal and a long and lively discussion over which cousins would be courting who in the coming seasons, the hobbits curled up round the fire, sleeping peacefully and Thorin took the watch. He wasn’t sure what to make of their suspicions: how could he blame them for being wary of his offer when he himself had raised the spectre of danger? What did they truly know about him, since he had been reluctant to offer anything other than his name, though he owed them far more than that? Yet revealing anything was just like ripping the scabs off a particularly deep wound, knowing the pain would come and the blood would well up and he would have to go through the whole healing process all over again. 

But these creatures weren't his enemy. None of them had done anything other than help-with more or less enthusiasm, to be sure. They all seemed carefree and unworried about the harsh realities of the world-and in truth, the lands between Bree and the Shire tended to be quiet and safe, for there was an unspoken oath of protection that covered the area. The Elves of Rivendell expressed concern about the hobbits of the Shire and the Rangers patrolled the borders, casting their protection over the unarmed and oblivious Shirefolk. But out here in the wilds, there were other dangers, men and orcs and wolves. Not every road was safe and the unwary and the unlucky could pay the highest of prices…as Thorin had. 

He rose and walked around the perimeter, pausing to stare into the darkness and taking station away from the little puddle of light that bathed the sleeping hobbits. His gaze lingered on Bilbo, the hobbit who had saved him and freed him, expecting nothing and waving away all thanks with quiet modesty. And he could have gone-the hobbits would not have stopped him. He could have walked away, seeking solitude and some space to work out what to do now with the wreckage of his life...but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Because he still clung to the last vestiges of the Prince he knew he had been, the faintest shreds of his honour that were the only souvenirs of his youth. 

A twig cracked and he tensed, crouching and reaching for a branch. He didn’t have a proper weapon-unlike that horrific night-but he had stealth and he couldn’t hear more than one set of breathing. The shuffle of leaves and dry grass came closer and he reared up, the branch raised-and then he froze, looking down at the shocked shape of Bilbo. He reeled back, eyes wide and the branch fell to the dry ground with a thud that was loud in the silence. Bilbo looked white.

“I probably should have cleared my throat,” he said shakily as Thorin backed away. He shook his head.

“No…” he murmured. 

“Of course, I didn’t want to wake the others,” Bilbo continued, standing by the dwarf, looking up into the neutral face. Thorin’s mask was back in place, expert and impenetrable…except his eyes, which offered the smallest clues to his shock and shame at almost attacking his rescuer. He pulled the taller dwarf to the fire and settled down. “What happened?”

“I-I can’t say…” Thorin murmured. His baritone voice was shaken, the reluctance to speak obvious. The hobbit looked at him and his hazel eyes softened.

“It was at night,” he guessed. “An ambush. People who meant no good and overpowered you…” He glanced up. Thorin’s face was expressionless. “You said you surrendered.”

“I did,” he breathed. Then his shoulders sagged. “I was travelling with my family-my sister and nephews and cousin. It was a dreadful night, rain lashing and winds howling. We could see nothing and we sought whatever meagre shelter we could manage. There was no visibility-but a group of outlaws and slavers found us in the small hours. They outnumbered us four to one and they overpowered us. My sister and her sons were their targets-but our women are few in number and I would die before I allowed her to suffer…or her sons. So I bargained and gave myself up for them. My cousin-my friend-was roaring to take my place. But I was the only one who could go in their place. It was my duty as their kin. I watched them ride away to safety as they closed the bands around my wrist and burnt the brands into my flesh.”

“You did an incredibly brave and noble thing,” Bilbo told him quietly. 

“I surrendered to slavery and forfeit everything I was that hour,” Thorin murmured. 

“And your family? Won’t they be worried for you?” the hobbit asked, his eyes uncomprehending.

"My father will have made my brother his Heir,” Thorin reluctantly ground out.

“And your sister? Your nephews? Wouldn’t they like to know that you live? That you are safe?”

Thorin shook his head.

“All I am…is a reminder of something lost,” he forced himself to say, his voice thick with pain and bitterness. "They are better off without me, better off forgetting who I am and recalling who I was.” He pressed his hands to his face and then took a shuddering breath. Then he looked up, his eyes desolate. “Get some sleep, Master Bilbo. I will keep watch-and call you if I meet anything untoward…” Recognising that he wouldn’t get any more information that night, Bilbo allowed himself to yawn and then nodded, offering a small smile.

“You know, I will do everything I can to ensure that you regain what you have lost,” Bilbo promised him as he rose and headed back to his place. For a long moment, Thorin watched him before he rose and scanned the dark once more.

Thank you-but there is nothing you can do, he thought despondently. I made my choice and nothing can restore what was lost.

Chapter Text

FOUR:

The weather was grey and overcast as the wagons rolled down a long shallow slope, the long grey-green grasses of the low downs waving in the cool northerly breeze. The expanse of the Eastern Road stretched away, down into the shallow valley and up the next long hill, heading almost directly west. The Shire lay a few days away, nestled in its warm and sheltered dell, known only by the gentle inhabitants. Barius was whistling cheerfully and Bilbo was singing along, a familiar Hobbit country song that stretched to about seventy verses that any Hobbit should know by heart. The others were also whistling and spirits seemed to be high.

Thorin was dozing in the back of the wagon, exhausted by his night shift guarding the party. When they had woken, the Hobbits had expressed surprise that he had maintained a vigil all night but he had merely nodded and prowled like a caged wolf as they had drifted away to complete their morning washes and get breakfast. The dwarf had helped as much as he could, harnessing the ponies and gathering spare firewood for the evening before they left-but he had been shocked that the Hobbits had insisted he eat before they left. He had observed that Hobbits were fond of their food but what he hadn’t completely understood was that they were relentlessly generous and very poor at accepting a refusal. His own pride at having so little to contribute was scourging him mercilessly-he felt his meagre contributions hardly covered the food they were determined to ply him with-but he found it was easier to accept the hospitality. Especially when Bilbo asked.

The Hobbit-clearly the youngest of the party-was the person who determinedly spent the most time with the dwarf and Thorin wasn’t sure what to make of him. Outwardly, he appeared like a normal Hobbit-softly plump, neat and fastidious and amiable. There was a kindness in his features and the way his honey coloured hair curled around his face was attractive but Thorin could read nothing but friendship-and some naivety.Though as he observed, he gathered that Bilbo was alone, embraced by his family but still a little aside. The gentle jibes about being considered ‘weird’ were clearly a more serious matter than they sounded and sometimes, Bilbo went quiet and pensive after an exchange. Respectability, it seemed, was as important to Hobbits as Honour was to Dwarrow. Musing over the conundrum, he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

He woke as Bilbo landed by him and rested a hand on his shoulder. He tensed as the smaller creature leaned close.

“I don’t want to worry you but there are men on horses closing,” he murmured. “They’ve been following for a couple of hours, gradually closing. At the top of the last rise, we had a look back. I think one of them is Halford.”

Thorin tensed, his eyes widening and he swallowed.

“Do you have any weapons?’ he asked grimly, eyes hardening.

“Simple pocket knives only,” Bilbo replied, his eyes widening. Sighing, Thorin shook his head.

“It won’t do,” he said and took a deep breath. Bilbo leaned closer.

“What are you worried about?” he asked. “What is happening?” Slowly, Thorin sat up.

“My former…employer…cares little for the law,” he said slowly, his voice hard with hatred. “I cannot be sure if he was there at the original attack or not but he deals with slavers. Is friends with slavers.” His hands fisted. “I suspect he decided he had let me go for too low a price-and maybe wishes to get his livelihood back…” 

“You think he’ll attack us to steal you?” Bilbo hissed. Wincing, the dwarf nodded.

“Kidnap,” he corrected baldly as Bilbo blushed.

“Sorry-I didn’t mean…” he began, his eyes filled with shame at the term that had implied their passenger was less than a person but Thorin managed a grim half-smile.

“You may not be inaccurate-because that is what Halford believes,” he reminded the other grimly.

“But you’re a free man!” Bilbo protested as Thorin nodded then raised his still-banded wrists.

“What is easier to ignore? A piece of paper tossed casually in a fire or the brands on my flesh and the steel shackles around my wrists?” he asked, his tone bleak. But Bilbo’s face hardened in anger.

“No-that will not do!” the Hobbit declared. “You are our guest, our friend and we will not allow this man to treat you like this.” He looked up at Barius. “Keep going as if nothing is going on. But we have no passenger. He left us just outside Bree and headed south…” The other Hobbit turned his blond head and gave a single nod.

“You shouldn’t take any risks for me,” Thorin advised him. “These Men are violent and ruthless. You are unarmed and an easy target.” Bilbo crouched lower.

“Some Men attacked a Hobbit caravan eight years ago,” he revealed. “Five Hobbits were taken. The Elves of Rivendell and the Rangers hunted them down. The Hobbits were returned within two weeks. the Men who hunted them were all slain.” He took a slow breath. “We help any who ask us-or who need it-because we are protected, by Yavanna’s Grace, by the kindness of others. Risks must be taken because we cannot allow ourselves to stand by and let people be hurt.” He stared into Thorin’s eyes. “You will be safe,” he promised. “Now lie down and I’ll hide you among the goods. They won’t search our wagons.”

“Bilbo…”

“Trust me,” the Hobbit pleaded and finally, Thorin nodded, allowing the smaller creature to carefully pack the goods around him, concealing his meagre possessions around him and ensuring the wood he had gathered was also strewn carefully across his concealed shape. Finally, Bilbo casually tossed his jacket across the hidden dwarf before clambering back besides Barius. 

The Men were closing now, the thud of their hooves loud and rhythmic amid the quiet of the afternoon. The Barrow Downs were rolling to either side of the road, the location isolated and spooky but the Hobbits handed around a paper bag of raspberry nougat as they were overtaken. Adalgrim and Barius pulled the wagons to a halt and waved a cheerful greeting.

“Afternoon!” Adalgrim greeted. “Where head you?” The Men wheeled around the wagons, eyes sweeping over the four Hobbits. Halford was among them, his face devoid of all pretence of civility.

“Where is he?” he demanded. The Hobbits stared, eyes wide and faces carefully confused.

“Who?” Barius asked. The Man loomed closer.

“The dwarf!” he spat. Bilbo frowned.

“May I ask why you seek him when he is no longer in your employ?” he asked politely. “I didn’t get the impression you were friends…”

“I was cheated!” Halford spat. “I let him go for too low a price…”

“A fair price,” Adalgrim reminded him. “Negotiated in front of three witnesses. And on a legal contract signed in quadruplicate-a copy of which is lodged securely with the Bree Council to ensure the sale was legal.”

There was a pause and the other Men shared a glance with the former smith. It was clear the tale they had been fed differed from the version these Hobbits were offering. There was a moment and then Halford adopted a sickly expression that was meant to appear reassuring and failed miserably.

“I meant no offence, little masters,” he said swiftly, the tone obsequious. He-as his companions-knew that the trade between the Shire and Bree was valuable and if anything befell the delegation, he would be hunted by the Men of Bree-as well as the Rangers who passed through the area and made sure everyone was aware that the Shire Hobbits were under their protection. “I just regret my friend Thorin and I parted on poor terms. I confess I was a little the worse for wear and I may not have been as generous as I owed him.”

I think you were more than generous with your insults, your cruelty and your fists, Bilbo thought, his face neutral.

“Do you know where he is?” a second man asked. His face was rugged and cruel, a poorly-tended beard wild over his chin and neck. Adalgrim gave a regretful sigh.

“We offered him passage to the Shire but he refused,” he explained. “I think he was angry.”

“He’s a rude and unfriendly creature,” Halford told them smugly. 

“We offered friendship but he wanted to leave,” Flambard added, his soft voice thoughtful. “He wanted to make his own way in the world…”

“Prideful,” Halford condemned to grunts of agreement. 

“Maybe he just misses his home and family,” Bilbo offered sympathetically. “A very hard wound to deal with. Especially since he said he wasn’t able to return because…he had lost his Honour.” There were snorts of derision from the Men.

“What would animals like that know of Honour?’ the second man sneered. “They’re just brutish creatures, with no more emotion or concept of decency than a pig.” Bilbo felt himself tense with fury at the cruel dismissal and he couldn’t imagine how Thorin felt at hearing such savage condemnation of his qualities as a sentient being. In fact he was amazed at the self-control the dwarf was showing in remaining absolutely still and silent at such appalling abuse. 

“When he decided to leave, we gave him food and wished him good fortune,” Barius sighed. “I hope he finds what he is looking for on his road ahead. I hope he finds happiness and peace…” There were nods from the other Hobbits and the Men shared a look.

“So where did he leave you?” Halford demanded. Bilbo shrugged.

“A few miles outside Bree, where the south road heads away,” he explained. “We parted ways there and then we headed home.” There were a pause as the Men rode around the wagons and then Halford nodded.

“Thanks for your help, little masters,” he sneered. “So you see? You paid for that ungrateful troll and all you got was nothing. He spurned your help and left you with empty purses and a sour taste in the mouth. Maybe you should think twice before interfering in other people’s business! Especially with dwarves!” The last word was spat and then the horsemen wheeled away and galloped back east, along the road in search of their quarry. Barius clicked his teeth and the wagons set off at an appreciably faster pace, wheels clacking as they sped down the slope eager to put more distance between themselves and the encounter. Adalgrim cast Bilbo a calculating look and the younger Hobbit gave a helpless shrug.

“What was that?” Adalgrim hissed as Bilbo sighed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, though his gaze drifted to the concealed Thorin. A nasty suspicion came over him that there was a deeper connection between Halford and the dwarf that he had understood, that there was a darker history there. But then he squashed the suspicion. Faced with the foul spectre of Halford, it was easy to let your imagination plumb the depths of depravity and be seduced that everything he touched was as corrupt and disgusting as he was…but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t believe that the noble, proud dwarf had allowed the Man to make him anything other than his worker in the Forge, a source of income that more than supplied the man’s needs.

So why were they so desperate to get him back?

There was a pause and slowly, Thorin emerged, moving the jacket and branches aside carefully until he was staring up at the Hobbit. The anger flashing in the crystal blue eyes and the expression on the dwarf’s face had Bilbo scooting back, watching the solid shape sit up and shuffle back until he was sitting back against the side of the cart.

There was an awkward silence and Bilbo knew a Hobbit would be talking by now-but Thorin was far more self-possessed, close-lipped to the point of surly and clearly someone who was not prone to sharing his thoughts and worries with anyone else. And maybe, having been treated as no better than a piece of equipment for over three years, he had learned to be withdrawn and hold his tongue…but Bilbo got the strongest feeling that this was who Thorin was. There was something very controlled about the man facing him-but an overwhelming sense of sadness. 

“I’m sorry he said those things,” Bilbo offered. Slowly, Thorin looked up and his brows furrowed.

“You did not say them. Nor did you agree with them-in fact, you defended me to those pursuers,” he pointed out in his deep voice. 

“But it must have been hard to hear such things said unfairly about you,” the Hobbit offered. There was a pause-and then Thorin sighed. 

“It was nothing that I haven’t heard on a daily basis for the last three years-and intermittently, for years before…” he reluctantly confessed. He caught the Hobbit’s expression. “Even before this, I sometimes needed to find work among the villages of Men, to help support my family, especially when we travelled,” he slowly said. “Men view my race as inferior, no matter how skilled we may be with metal and gems. They scorn us and cheat us. And when we have to take such work, we are always the last in line, always the first to be cheated or let go. And insults are the currency of any communication with them.”

“You don’t deserve it, do you?” 

Thorin gave a small, wry smile.

“Actually, I do,’ he admitted bleakly. “I gave up my Honour by surrendering. And though it was no choice, I couldn’t allow my sister and her sons to be taken. They are our future.”

“So why you?” Bilbo asked.

“I was the head of the family travelling,” he reluctantly revealed. “It was my responsibility. Men aren’t attracted to our women, save as a novelty. My sister-sons are young and have long lives ahead of them that don’t deserve to be ruined by slavery. I was the obvious choice. I have skills that could be used. I have a brother who could take my place as my father’s Heir. And I have no mate to miss me, no One to grieve my loss. I was the only choice.”

“That must have been hard,” Bilbo sighed. After a moment, Thorin nodded.

“I knew, when I stepped forward, that I was losing them forever,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “Being taken as a slave, dragged fighting and resisting into chains, could perhaps be forgiven. But bargaining to surrender for others, to voluntarily stand forth and give away everything I was-even for my kin-well, the dishonour is irretrievable.”

“That’s stupid!” Bilbo exclaimed. “If anything, what you did was braver and more honourable! You stepped forward, giving yourself up to shame and slavery to protect and free people you loved. How-how could anyone see that as dishonourable? It’s a heroic sacrifice!” Shaking his head, Thorin stared at his knees, his hands fisting in frustration.

“It is our way-particularly for one of my line…” And then he clenched his jaw. He had said too much, betrayed himself…but Bilbo harrumphed, as if he had ignored the words. The Hobbit hadn’t, of course-merely filing the information for a later date-but he could recognise when their passenger wasn’t keen on talking about something clearly so painful. 

“Can you tell me a little about your family?” Bilbo tried, and saw him tense. “Nothing secret or personal, of course! But you have a sister and brother and nephews. Could you maybe tell me what they are like? You must miss them horribly and sometimes talking about the people you love, recalling their smiles and antics can help keep their memory close.” He offered a small smile. “My parents died two years ago in a terrible sickness. In the space of two days, we went from a family of three to me being…alone. But I was fortunate because I have those around me who can remind me of who they were, of their foibles and smiles and the sayings that we all laughed over. And their memories help keep them alive and make the loneliness a little less hard to bear.”

Thorin looked up, shock leaking into his eyes. He hadn’t considered that this Hobbit, who seemed so calm and welcoming, could be nursing such sorrow. And though he was surrounded by extended family, the loss of those nearest and dearest to him must have been a devastating blow. Slowly, he nodded.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said awkwardly. Bilbo offered a watery smile.

“And I for yours,” he said quietly. “But while there is no hope left for me, your family still lives. And where there is life, hope remains.” He sighed. “You cannot give up. Nothing is impossible.” Thorin shook his head.

“Try dealing with dwarves,” he warned the Hobbit darkly. 

“I think I have to defer to your experience,” Bilbo conceded cheerfully. “Though if they are all as stubborn as you, I suspect it must be a very frustrating experience.” There was a pause and Thorin found a tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“You have no idea,” he sighed. The Hobbit shrugged.

“I don’t want to make you do anything you feel uncomfortable with,” he explained. “But we Hobbits cherish our families-and I have many cousins, lots of them young, and thinking on their antics when I am feeling alone warms my heart. Of course, it may be different among your people and I don’t mean to pry…but you must love your nephews very much to sacrifice so much for them.”

“I do,” Thorin admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “Both of them are…mischievous. Yes, I think that is the most diplomatic way of putting it.” He gave that small smile again. “Fili is the elder with Kili five years his junior. And together, they act like a pair of children, egging each other on and teasing and pranking others-though they are older than I was when our home fell and I found myself responsible for all our safety. They don’t know that burden and I would never wish such weight to be placed on ones so young and free-spirited. Dis indulges them, though she keeps them in line as well-well, she keeps us all in line…” His voice softened. “And they always bring laughter and joy to any room they enter.”

Listening to the rich voice, warmed with pride and affection, Bilbo felt his own heart warm as just for a few moments, he glimpsed the true Thorin hidden deep under his mask and felt a kinship to the dwarf. He had no clue what would lie ahead but he vowed, deep in his own heart, that he would do everything he could to help regain Thorin’s family. 

No one deserved to lose their family for the crime of saving them.

Chapter Text

FIVE:

It was with no small hint of relief that the wagons rolled along the road, over the Brandywine and into the familiar and green safety of the Shire. The unspoken agreement to speed up the pace after the encounter with the Men, so the days were much longer and the breaks shorter. No one looked suspiciously on Thorin’s offer to stand guard at night and Flambard and Barius offered to share the duty but the dwarf was adamant: he could guard them at night in payment for the passage he was being granted during the day.

But now they were winding their way up to the Thain’s Great Smials in Tuckborough, gratefully pulling in and finally handing their burden over. But there was surprise and wariness when the passenger clambered down and stared proudly at the Hobbits. Bilbo handed Thorin his bundle of possessions and then jumped down, his own pack slung comfortably over his shoulder. Adalgrim glanced over and then nodded.

“Go and talk to Uncle Isengrim,” he advised. “He will need to know.” Bilbo nodded as Thorin stared. “And you should go with him,” the Hobbit advised him bluntly. “If you wish to stay in the Shire, it will help to meet our Thain.” Thorin frowned.

“Is he your King, your leader?” he asked directly as the Hobbits stared. 

“We don’t have Kings or Lords,” Flambard explained quietly. “The Thain is the leader of the richest and most powerful family, the Tooks. They are respected and listened to all over the Shire-their authority is granted through the respect they have earned and the leadership and fairness they show. Likewise the Master of Buckland-one of our Brandybuck cousins. The Mayor of Michel Delving is the only elected position and even then, it’s always a respectable and upstanding Hobbit who is trusted with the position. We Hobbits tend to admire those who work hard, don’t cause trouble and don’t do anything irregular.”

“Cousin Bilbo works hard at his books but he’s a bit of an oddball, living alone and this…well, it may not enhance his reputation,” Barius teased Bilbo, who blushed.

“I’m half Took, you wretch,” he grumbled. “We both know this is nothing to what my ancestors have gotten up to. No one will care”

“Except Lobelia and Otho,” Adalgrim teased him and the younger Hobbit huffed in dismay.

“And nobody will enjoy hearing about their disapproval more than I,” he groaned and then shook himself. “Well, my Uncle deserves to hear what happened from me, not some miserable gossip. So he shall.” And then he smiled. “Though I think my Uncle will be interested in the tale.”

So Thorin found himself fallowing Bilbo’s almost silent steps through the magnificent home of the Thain. Used to the magnificent Halls of Erebor and the less sumptuous but still homely stone halls of Ered Luin, the Hobbit holes were a shock-though not unpleasant. Dwarf halls were angular and soaring, carved from the living rock to cunningly display the beautiful grains and inclusions, the patterns catching the light of a thousand lamps as they illuminated the mountain-but Hobbit holes were round in cross-section, the walls lined with wooden panels and plaster. Everything was polished and clean, the plaster white and gleaming and curtains flanking every neat and beautifully glazed window. There were chandeliers in the higher  hallways and carpets and rugs on the floor. Everything was dry and warm and very homely. Ornaments were arranged on shelves and mantlepieces and there were maps and portraits on the walls. 

Unerringly, they walked to a large chamber and found a comfortable and very round Hobbit eased back in his chair, his greying dark hair neatly styled around a kindly but astute face. Bilbo walked forward and the older Hobbit immediately rose to take Bilbo’s hands and pull him into a warm hug.

“My boy-how are you?” he asked, his voice gruff with age. Bilbo grinned.

“I am well, Uncle,” he said. “And grateful for the kindness and trust you have me in letting me go on this mission!” Immediately, the older Hobbit shook his head.

“Nonsense, nonsense!” he said easily. “My sister’s son would relish this journey and it has done you good to get a change of scenery! You look much happier than when I last saw you, Bilbo…” Touched but not thrown-for he knew that his entire family had been worried for his health ever since his parents had been lost-Bilbo smiled and then fumbled in his pack, pulling out the gift he had purchased. Solemnly, he handed over the knife that Thorin had made and watching Isengrim’s eyes widen. 

“To thank you for your trust-and the trip,” Bilbo smiled, his eyes twinkling. The Thain held the blade up to the light and his eyes widened at the keen edge, the magnificent workmanship and the runes lightly etched along the hilt.

“This is superb!” he commented. “Bilbo-you shouldn’t…”

“I should!” his nephew retorted equally swiftly. “What kind of Hobbit would I be if I failed to return with gifts?” There was a moment’s silence-then both Hobbits burst out laughing.

“But seriously-this is magnificent work-and dwarf made, if I am not mistaken,” Isengrim commented.  Bilbo nodded and gestured to the shape of Thorin, standing awkwardly straight a few feet back.

“Uncle-this is Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf who made your dagger,” he began. Isengrim frowned and looked the stranger over thoughtfully. Then he bowed his head.

“You are welcome, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said gravely and gestured to a chair. “Please take a seat. I realise my nephew has brought you here for a reason.” Nodding, Thorin complied and glanced to Bilbo, who sat casually in the chair at his side.

“Uncle-were you aware that Bree condones slavery?” Bilbo asked seriously. There was a pregnant pause and then the Thain shook his head. 

“No,” he murmured. “But I am now.” He frowned and looked concerned. Sometimes, his role as Thain conflicted with his personal beliefs-at least superficially. He was charged to look out for the safety and prosperity of the Shire and he was not authorised to make unilateral decisions with far-reaching consequences, unless he discussed them with the other heads of family. “However, I do not have the power to force others to adhere to our ethics either.” His nephew looked unhappy.

“Thorin was enslaved,” he revealed cautiously. “It was known but they were not…comfortable. Like a family secret that everyone knows, no one likes but they decided not to speak of…” Isengrim rubbed his chin and shook his head. 

“I do not believe the Council of Bree are evil, just…lax,” he murmured. “I will speak to the Master and we will need to go and discuss this with them. And the family leaders. Bree is our closest trading partner and this news is very disturbing.”

“I am sorry,” Bilbo murmured.

“I am not,” Isengrim told him equably. “The moment you condone viewing one race as inferior, you are on the slope to seeing all…” Then he turned his attention to the rigid shape of the dwarf, sitting still by the younger Hobbit. “So what happened, son?” Bilbo lifted his chin, his eyes determined.

“I freed Thorin,” he said unrepentantly. The Thain looked at him. “I bought him…then freed him. The others witnessed the sale and the documents to free him.”

“And how much did that cost you, Bilbo?” Isengrim asked him as the younger Hobbit gave a small smile.

“I’m not penniless, Isengrim,” he reassured his kinsman. “And I won’t even have to tighten my belt. Rents are due soon. I have sufficient in the Bank at Michel Delving. It is worth it-because I couldn’t live with myself if I had walked away.” He smiled-perhaps the first genuine smile since he had lost his parents, Isengrim thought as he glanced at his nephew-before his expression cooled and he turned to the dwarf.

“And you…Thorin?” the Thain asked softly. “Why have you come here?” The dwarf gave a weary smile. 

“Because your…Bilbo…offered me the opportunity to come to the Shire,” he said slowly, measuring his words carefully. “I owe him a debt. I hoped to find some way to repay it.”

Isengrim’s eyes swept over him calculatingly. 

“He mentioned that you had need of a smith and he suggested that I could find work here,” he said evenly. 

“You do not have family you wish to return to?” Isengrim asked, his tone still neutral. Thorin stared flatly back at him, his eyes glittering with the faintest flash of pain.

“Sometimes, what we wish and what is possible are separated by a chasm too wide to ever cross,” he said flatly. 

They will not take you back. What have you done?

“Are you a threat, Thorin?” the Thain asked. “Are you a danger to the Shire-and my nephew?”

“I am bad luck,” the dwarf said grimly, his shoulders tensing and awaiting the rejection as Bilbo leapt to his feet.

“Isengrim-I will vouch for him!” he blurted out, his voice urgent. Thorin blinked. “He deserves our help, a chance to earn enough money to reprovision himself and then…he has a choice. I believe…” He rose. “I believe that he ended up as a slave through an act of bravery and sacrifice. He lost his family and his people for that act. I am willing to make sure that he gets the chance to regain what he has lost.”

Thorin was frozen, inspecting the younger Hobbit as if he had never seen him before. He had steeled himself for rejection, to be driven away from the suspicious Hobbits and out into the wilds alone. He had prepared for the rejection, the first of many that would be the story of the rest of his life. And he had anticipated the pain…but it never came.

The Thain stared at his nephew and then exhaled slowly. 

“You’re Belladonna’s son alright,” he said, though there was a mixture of pride and exasperation in his voice. “My sister would never shy from doing the right thing-and I know she would be proud her son has the same mettle.” He stared at the shape of the dwarf, his voice hardening and snapping Thorin’s attention back to him. His face was hard, his eyes cold. “Do you understand what my nephew offers? He is willing to guarantee your behaviour in the Shire? To put his reputation and name on the line for a stranger. To offer you the protection of his family name during your time in the Shire.” His voice dropped. “He is a decent Hobbit and if you transgress our laws, you will harm him, as well as yourself. Are you prepared to accept that hazard for your tenure here?”

Slowly, Thorin turned to look at the younger Hobbit. There was fire in Bilbo’s gaze as he faced his Uncle down and then he turned to the dwarf. He nodded once, a slight plea in his hazel gaze and Thorin slowly exhaled.

“I accept,” he said heavily, realising as he spoke the words that he had accepted another set of chains-but far heavier and more perilous than the steel of the slavers. The Hobbit was risking his standing, his Honour to allow the stranger to live among them and grant him the chance to set his life back up. “And I will do nothing to harm him. I owe him…my freedom. It is a debt of Honour.”

Isengrim bit his lip, his green gaze lingering on the steel bands still ugly around the dwarf’s thick wrists and sighed. 

A slave has no honour. Nothing. But you did, once, I can read it in your eyes and your bearing. But what did you do to lose it, I wonder? And what kind of man are you now? I know you say the words, but what has slavery done to your heart? Can I trust you to keep the word you desperately wish to believe is still worth something? 

I will not let you harm my nephew, my beautiful sister’s precious only son.

Even if he wants to give you the chance to. Because somehow, he believes in you.

But his mother would never forgive me, Yavanna rest her soul, if I deny him this. If I prevent him offering help to someone who actually needs him.

“I will hold you to this,” he said heavily. “I will write to Musskin Snowmane and inform him of the new tenancy. Bilbo…you will have to arrange accommodation…”

“Bag End,” the younger Hobbit said simply. “Lobelia and Otho are always complaining it’s too big for me alone-so I can take in a lodger.” Isengrim snorted and shook his head.

“I’m not sure that’s what she had in mind,” he commented. “In fact, I am pretty certain that solution will in no way be to her liking…” 

“Oh, I do hope so,” Bilbo said, cheering up. His Uncle sighed.

“Go home, Bilbo,” he said and waved his hand. “I am trusting you, nephew. And you too, Thorin. I know my kinsman’s motives are pure-but you? For now, I will trust you because he does. Do not disappoint me.” Then he bowed his head and Bilbo rose, nodding his greeting and left. Wordlessly Thorin walked after him and remained silent until they emerged into the afternoon. Bilbo exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Thorin said gruffly but Bilbo flashed him a small smile.

“I think I did,” he said mildly. “Hobbits are generally friendly and generous but they can be wary of strangers and especially the unexpected.” Thorin’s face grew resigned.

“So I will not be accepted,” he realised.

“You will-because I am vouching for you,” Bilbo told him, leading him to the stables. “People will still look at you-because you aren’t a Hobbit-but they will give you a chance. As long as you don’t do anything too disgraceful.” Thorin shrugged.

“Define disgraceful,” he suggested. Bilbo spoke to the groom and paid for two ponies.

“Anything that could be a threat to the sensibilities of the people, that could be criminal or subversive or dangerous,” Bilbo said, handing the reins of the nearest pony to the dwarf. “It’s a long walk and I’m quite keen to get home before dark.” Thorin sighed.

“You do not have to house me,” he said stiffly. “I can easily sleep in the Forge, Halford insisted I slept there. There is no need to…” Bilbo mounted clumsily.

“There is a need-because the Forge isn’t very cosy at all and it’s a criminal waste when I have rooms free at Bag End.”

“Which is your home-the home your cousin seeks to steal from you?” Thorin murmured. “Will this cause you trouble, Bilbo?” The Hobbit smiled.

“No more trouble than I deal with every day with busybody relatives, nosy neighbours and Sackville-Bagginses,” he explained and turned to the door. “Time to go home.”

oOo

It was dusk as they rode through Hobbiton and up the Hill, having been greeted with suspicious and sideways looks by everyone they had encountered. Bilbo had smiled at everyone and greeted them cheerily but there were a wide spread of scowls and glares at Thorin. No one had overtly challenged them but there was certainly less welcome than the Hobbit would have expected, though it made him feel a frisson of shame that his guest wasn’t being treated as fairly as he should. But in his heart, he guessed that it was nothing Thorin couldn’t endure-because it seemed that the dwarf wasn’t treated fairly as a matter of course.

The journey back had been quiet, for both were tired and Thorin had sunk into a gloomy scowl that deterred his companion from engaging him in conversation-not that Bilbo suspected he would be especially forthcoming. He had already realised that the dwarf was very private and had his secrets-and his life was really none of Bilbo’s business. Except he wanted to make it his business. Unable to stand back, Bilbo had risked a goodly chunk of his wealth to free him and was hazarding his hard-won respectability to offer him shelter and the chance to regain some of his own respectability. On the way-before the market closed-Bilbo had stopped to pick up milk, butter, bread and cheese and they had then sped up as they wound their way up towards the front garden of Bag End. The green door was glossy, having been repainted less than a month earlier but before they could reach the garden, they dismounted and put the horses in a little paddock below Bagshot Row. And then Bilbo finally led Thorin to his home.

It was with relief that the Hobbit finally closed the round door to his home and glanced around the place. He would need to dust, of course, though Hamfast had been in to air the place and make sure there were some fresh provisions. He rested his pack by the coat hooks and then glanced up at Thorin, who was looking around with narrowed eyes. 

“I’ll take you to the spare room,” he offered and scurried off, leaving the dwarf to walk after him, his heavy steps loud in the quiet. Bilbo automatically chattered as he walked through his home, pointing out the kitchen, pantry, bathroom, sitting rooms, library…but Thorin remained silent until Bilbo finally opened the door to a warm and homely room, the bed made and fire laid ready in the grate. Blushing, the Hobbit stood back and gestured. “Um…I hope it’s enough…” 

Thorin grunted, at a loss what to say. His head was spinning with the reversal in his fortunes and he was waiting for things to take a turn for the worse once more. In truth, the room was more than he could have dreamed of, clean and comfortable and neat. The earthy tones and delicate embroidery on the cushions and curtains seemed very in keeping with the Shire, a land of flowers and plants and trees. The dark wood of the bedstead and bedside table was polished and worn, clearly used but good quality and cared for and the room radiated memories of happy hours of hospitality. 

“It is more than generous,” he forced himself to say, his voice rough. In his mind, he could still picture his home, the room hewn of solid grey granite with walls and doorways worn from centuries of occupation. A part of him ached for the sensation of rock above his head, the embrace of the earth and the feel of home…but that was lost to him. He took a slow breath.

“Are you sure?” Bilbo asked, his face worried. “You look unhappy…” 

“I am grateful,” the dwarf said quietly. “This is…more than I have been given for too long.” He sighed. “Thank you,” he added. 

Bilbo smiled, the expression lighting his face.

“There’s a bathroom just next door,” he said. “In case you want to wash up. I’ll just see what I can whip up for dinner.” And then he scurried from the room. Slowly, Thorin walked forward and rested his small bundle of possessions on the chair, then peered through the window. There was a neat garden at the back, rows of flowers interspersed with produce and a few fruit trees nestled at the back in the evening sunshine. There was a seat in the arbour and the trickle of water audible among the sounds of birdsong. And as he listened, he could hear Bilbo start to hum amid the bang of pots and pans.

It could be worse.

Chapter Text

SIX:

His eyes snapped open and for a long moment, he lay still. Disorientation whirled around him and he struggled to recall where he was. Somehow, he was in a real bed, a blanket draped over his body with warm early sunlight leaking through the gaps between the embroidered curtains. He could faintly hear the dawn chorus, the sounds of birdsong soaring in the garden. But there were no other sounds.

No breathing.

No creak of leather, of someone moving predatorily around him.

No fear of sudden sounds, of sudden pain, of blood and burns and swallowed cries.

No clink of chains as he moved.

He sat up, throwing the blanket off and swinging his legs round. Bilbo had fussed and worried the previous evening, making enough food to feed half a dozen. A luscious chicken pie with potatoes, greens, gravy, cauliflower cheese, bread and apple pie and cream for dessert had rendered them both replete and for once, Thorin had relaxed. However, Bilbo had refused to allow his guest to help with the washing up and instead, Thorin had sat by the fire, at a loss what to do. The hobbit had continued his rambling monologue, apologising, offering more food, books, a pipe… clearly being a host was a serious business in Hobbit society. Until finally, Bilbo had sat down in the parlour, clearly frazzled and exhausted and had rested for a short while, trying to read but clearly unsettled before both had finally turned in.

The truth was that Thorin felt completely unbalanced. Until that fateful night, he had been in control of his destiny. Not completely, because he was still a subject of his father, King Thrain, but he had been the Crown Prince and a trusted emissary of his people. Never shirking any task, always doing what was necessary no matter how hard or menial, his life had been mapped out from the moment of his birth…until he did what was necessary and sacrificed it all. There had been no question, no need for any hesitation but it was only as he was hauled away that the immensity of his predicament had struck him. He ceased being a dwarf, a Prince, a member of the Line of Durin…and became less important than a piece of equipment, than a hammer or chisel or lathe. And they had made sure he understood his situation. No matter what he silently promised to himself, he had railed against his treatment and he had struggled to retain what shreds were left of his honour, his own self-worth. And they had delighted in stripping that from him, piece by piece.

He rose, pulled his boots on and quietly opened the door. There was no sound, not even the sounds of snoring, but he moved as quietly as he could, walking through the silent hallway until he found his way to the front door-and then he quietly opened it. Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he stepped out onto the front step and folded his arms across his chest. Below the Hill, Hobbiton was spread out, green meadows and a big field with a magnificent tree interspersed with cottages and Hobbit holes. Flowers were everywhere and the little lanes wound their way through the idyllic landscape, the blue sky still blushing with the recent dawn. It was the kind of land that Thorin had never even considered visiting, a land that dwarves barely even knew existed and would never seek out of choice. His people didn’t value the beauty of growing things or greenery: their eyes were fixed on the solidity of rock and stone and gems, on the works of Mahal rather than the children of Yavanna.

Quietly, he walked down the little garden path from the door and found a neat bench, perched by the gate and he slowly sat down. A few days earlier, he would not have believed if someone had told him he would be sitting in the Hobbits’ Shire, away of Halford and declared a free man. A few days earlier, he had been less important than the smith’s tools, scarcely a beast to be fed the minimum to keep him alive and capable of working and definitely a toy to be casually abused for whatever slight or fun his owner thought justified the wounds. 

His fists creaked as they tightened and he stared down at the steel bands, still tight around his wrists. The Hobbits…Bilbo…had bought his freedom and given him the papers to declare him free but as of now, he still wore all the trappings of slavery. The bands, the brands, the scars…he shook his head. Maybe he could cut off the steel bands and maybe he could conceal the brands but the scars…they were his to wear and own until the end of his days. No matter how shameful or undeserved, he had to live with them, own them as a part of his past that he could not run away from or deny. But the scars would always mark him as shamed, as devoid of honour and irrevocably sundered from his family.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in thought. If he had any sense, he would work for a few weeks, earn enough to buy some supplies and clothes and maybe a weapon…and then he would leave. There was a possibility he could find work as a smith elsewhere, the the villages and towns of Men, maybe south…Rohan or even Gondor would appreciate his skills, though he would be an outsider in a land of Men. Or he could head East, to the Brown Lands and beyond to Rhun and Harad, though their attitudes to dwarrow were even more brutal. And in their lands, he knew he could be targeted and ostracised. In fact, he was sure in the East, his status as a slave could be a used against him and where maybe, he would be forced back into servitude. Perhaps-and he cringed even as his mind raised the possibility-he could travel back to Esgaroth, to work in Laketown and stare at Erebor, his lost home. Maybe that was fitting, a lost dwarf living in the shadows of the lost kingdom, dying a little day by day as his soul withered and finally crumbled to ash. Or he could stay here, in this land of soft creatures, wedded to their comfort and food and flowers, a land of respectability and predictability where outsiders were viewed with suspicion and where maybe he could find a home. A land where his rescuer seemed desperate to prove that not everyone in life was cruel and prejudiced. A land where he would spend every day longing for the comfort of stone and missing his family and people.

But that would be the case everywhere. In truth, he couldn’t go back to any dwarf settlement because he would be recognised, no matter that he used a false name and kinship. Sooner or later, someone would put his face with the name of the shamed Prince and then… He closed his eyes. Being driven from the company of his own people, being spurned as devoid of honour would be as painful as the whips and brands they had used to subdue him. And they would know, just looking at him, that he was worthless. He wore no braids, for they had been severed when he was enslaved, handed to his sister as if he had died. The look of pain in her blue eyes had stabbed him worse than any knife but he had lifted his chin as her hand had closed around his hair and he had stolen one last look to fix in his memory as he had been hauled away. Deep in his chest was a desperate longing to replace the braid, to reclaim his identity as a dwarf of Durin’s line and proclaim that he was a free dwarrow…

Then he stared and felt his eyes unfocus. Before him, he could see the days after his capture, wracked by fear for his family’s safety and the terror that they had been taken despite his sacrifice. He had been searching for some way he could escape from his fate, clinging to a few shreds of hope, notwithstanding that he had surrendered, and he had done everything he could to escape, to break out and get away from the slavers. Given no choice but to offer himself for those he loved and had sworn to protect, the Prince had never intended to just accept his fate. Outnumbered and shackled, his chances of success had been slim but he was a dwarf and he was as stubborn as the mountains themselves. A son of the line of Durin, he had fought in Azanulbizar, survived Azanulbizar and he was determined these callow, cowardly Men would not cow him. No matter what he had done, he would not accept captivity and he would never cease seeking his freedom. 

But when he finally escaped, making a break into the wilds as he had been transported, they had pursued him like prey for far longer than his worth as a slave would have justified and when they had recaptured him after a long and exhausting hunt, he had been chained and dragged back to their base, then hauled before the other caged slaves. And then they had punished him. Again and again and again until they had feared they would kill him before he bowed his head. So he was sold among the men, used as a smith for profit and treated worse than a diseased cur. He was moved every few months, beaten frequently and starved to deny him the energy to even try to escape. Except…he had still tried. For all his mantle of acquiescence, he had never surrendered and he had sworn that he would never accept his lot. They wouldn’t do anything to him that removed his value to them as a slave, as a blacksmith who could make good quality weapons and tools but they could brutalise him and as he passed from one master to another, his hope had waned. Halford had been far the worst, violent and cruel and vicious. And finally, starved and isolated and surrounded by comfortable, respectable people who clearly did not care that he was treated worse than a cur, that he was a slave amongst them, he had felt something give. Because there was no hope, not any more. He would never be accepted back among his folk, the Men would never let him go and his every escape attempt had only earned him worse and worse brutality. 

But just as he had felt his resistance finally crack, the Hobbit had come to Bree. Treating him like a real person, asking inconvenient but humane questions, checking he was well when he had no right or reason to even care…and rekindling the last guttering flickers of his hope. And miraculously, he had rescued Thorin where no one else had cared or bothered. Suddenly, there was something more than years of shame and dishonour and pain. Suddenly…he was free.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He started and half-turned, his eyes wide with a flash of anxiety that was instantaneously suppressed. He really hoped that Bilbo hadn’t seen the expression, cursing that he had been thinking over his years in slavery. Usually, he had the memories firmly buried but Bilbo’s silent approach had caught him unprepared. He was usually vigilant but Hobbits were very light-footed and Bilbo was on his home territory. 

“Strange bed,” he mumbled. But Bilbo leaned forward, pushing a hot mug of tea into his hands, his eyes concerned.

“I’ve put some honey in there for you,” Bilbo told him, swirling his own mug thoughtfully. “Because you hardly look like you’ve slept at all.” Thorin ducked his head, waiting for something worse but there was nothing forthcoming. Taking a sip of the hot, sweetened liquid offered him a chance to recompose himself before he looked up.

“I’ve learned to sleep lightly,” he confessed slowly. Bilbo nodded and sipped his own tea, gazing down the road.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fine day,” he commented. “But still a little early to visit Musskin Snowmane. Maybe around second breakfast…or at least after First.” Thorin frowned.

“How many breakfasts do you have?” he asked slowly. Bilbo gave a wry smile.

“It didn’t really show it when we were travelling but Hobbits usually eat seven meals a day,” he explained, giving a nod to underline his words. “First breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper. Though sometimes we skip supper or just have a light snack.” Thorin shook his head.

“How…could any creatures eat so many meals?” he murmured.

“Hobbits,” Bilbo admitted and patted his comfortably round middle. “I’m considered a bit of a lightweight, to be honest. But if we aren’t fed enough, we lose condition and sicken. It’s the way we are, I’m afraid. And don’t get me onto faunts-they eat about three times as much as a grown Hobbit…” Then he looked at the dwarf. “And you look as if you could do with a few more meals. if you don’t mind my comment.”

Thorin pressed his lips together and ducked his head to sip his tea. He was well aware he had been starved, that he was far thinner than he should be and though his stomach growled at the thought of breakfast, he was still wary enough not to let himself get hopeful that his situation would remain good. Something would ruin it…something soon. 

“I would appreciate breakfast,” he conceded. “And then I would like to inspect the forge. If I am to stand any chance of earning enough money to repay you for your kindness…and to offer me a chance of a future.” Nodding seriously, Bilbo sipped his tea once more.

“I don’t need repaying, you silly dwarf,” he murmured. “But if it makes you feel better…” Thorin gave a firm nod. 

“It is important,” he said slowly and then rose to his feet. “More than you appreciate, I guess. I will not fail you, Bilbo.” And with that, he walked back into Bag End.

-o0o-

There was a barely-coiled tension running through Thorin as he endured the morning rituals of cleaning up, breakfast and tidying up because he needed to see where he would be working. Of course, for Bilbo, it was just a routine morning and he bustled and fussed as much as he had the previous night. In deference to Thorin’s desire to get going, he made a packed second breakfast for them both of savoury cheese and bacon scones, sausage sandwiches and a flask of cinnamon coffee and and they left as soon as he thought the older hobbit would be up to receiving visitors. From what Thorin could understand, there was a strict social rule regarding when it was polite and appropriate to accept visitors and which visitors could visit when and that transgressing the rules wouldn’t garner him anything in the way of acceptance or assistance. It seemed in some ways, Hobbits were as rigid and complex in their social matters as dwarrow.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun beaming down through a cloudless cerulean sky, the smell of cut grass and roses wafting on the still-cool breeze. A cuckoo was singing in the distance, the two-tone call cutting through the trills of the songbirds and the distant faint chittering of the swooping martins in the sky, picking off the early insects. Bilbo was smiling, the sunlight warming his face and gilding his curls as they walked down the road towards the town. He gestured to the field to his right, the large solitary tree in full leaf.

“That’s the Party Field,” he explained. “Where we hold the Parties, really.” Thorin raised an eyebrow. “And the Midsummer Gathering, weddings, birthdays, Yule, Harvest…” He looked up at his companion and his hazel eyes were sparkling. “It has to be big because we have large families and extended families. Any party inevitably involves a large number of guests-and their families, random faunts, neighbours, aunts you don’t speak to, relations you haven’t seen for years, people you didn’t invite and several you never would…but no one would send them away unless they were really foul to you or another guest…because being a Hobbit is all about being welcoming, hospitable and enjoying good food, good drink and good company.” Thorin stared at the path ahead and scowled. 

“No dwarf would dream of attending a celebration he was not invited to,” he said stiffly, imagining how his father, his family would sneer at such a breach of protocol. “And the dwarf found to commit such a dishonour would be removed without hesitation.” Bilbo studied his face with a thoughtful look and nodded.

“Your people are very serious, aren’t they?” he guessed and Thorin nodded slowly. 

“Stone and rock are unforgiving,” he said. “Rules and laws must be obeyed or there will be chaos…or disaster.” Then he paused and a faint light softened his eyes. “But we are not without the ability to have fun or laugh or enjoy ourselves. Family is everything. Friends are treasured. Comrades are honoured. And most of us, when relaxed, are good company…” Then he sighed.

“And you think you can never have that again?” Bilbo asked but Thorin’s face had closed down.

“My people are unforgiving as well,” he said tonelessly. “We are made of stone and carry grudges and slights as long as the mountains stand.” He sighed. “No one can hold a grudge as well as a dwarf.”

“Though some of the Bolgers of Harbottle could give them a run for their money,” Bilbo mentioned, still smiling. “There are branches of that family that aren’t talking to one another for something about a goat that happened about five generations ago…” They walked a few yards as Thorin inspected Bilbo surreptitiously. 

“Maybe…some of your people could give my people competition,” he said quietly as Bilbo nodded.

“Hobbits are stubborn as well-but being that intransigent is pretty unusual-which is why everyone is surprised,” Bilbo confirmed. “That and the fact the Shire runs on gossip. A family feud is just part of the landscape that you have to remember when drawing up guest lists for events…” He shrugged. 

“It seems our people are not that different after all, Master Bilbo,” Thorin murmured, nodding as they reached the foot of the Hill. “Though we may seem close-lipped regarding our home and customs with outsiders, gossip is the lifeblood of society in any dwarvish community.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Making my situation all the more hopeless. Because no one would ever forget and any newcomer would find me described to them as ‘that honorless coward who surrendered to slavery without fighting’. No one would explain why-or if they did, it would still sound like an act of cowardice, of dishonour. Those not there would rather my sister and her young sons were captured and dragged into slavery and that Dwalin and I died fighting for them…rather than one make a sacrifice so that the other four could go free and safe.” He stared stonily ahead for a few paces, breathing hard as the pushed back his anger. The hobbit could read that he was furious and he wouldn’t have blamed his friend if he had yelled or screamed at the hypocrisy and callousness of such gossips…but Thorin was determined to maintain his control. Outwardly, at least.

“I am sorry,” Bilbo said quietly. “That your people would view your actions in such a way. I cannot pretend to understand the way dwarfish honour works but if honour means that your people would rather than women and children were enslaved when it could be avoided, even by such a selfless sacrifice at high personal cost…there is something wrong with your concept of honour.”

“They would say I knew what I risked when I stepped forward,” Thorin said bleakly.

“And did you? Really?” Bilbo asked him directly. They had ground to a halt and Thorin turned to face him. “Because any brother and uncle here would not hesitate to step forward and do whatever was needed to rescue their kinswoman and faunts.”

“Faunts?”

“Children,” Bilbo told him impatiently. “Children are considered precious and are loved and indulged in Hobbit society-no matter of you have one or twelve…” Thorin choked.

“Twelve?” he exclaimed, eyes shocked.

“My mother was one of twelve,” Bilbo explained. “And though families that large are unusual, five or six are pretty commonplace…”

“While you are an only child,” Thorin noted. The Hobbit shrugged.

“Not for want of trying or wishing,” he conceded. “But I was all they got…” The wistful edge to his voice was almost instantaneously gone and Thorin almost wondered if he had imagined it-but recalling how Bilbo had shared the loss of his parents with him, he knew that the presence of a sibling would have eased the loneliness the young Hobbit had undoubtedly suffered after losing his parents so suddenly. 

“My people are not blessed with such fecundity,” he revealed slowly. “Only a third of the population is female. Children are infrequent. One is a blessing. Two is a joy. Three…is exceptionally rare. More…are so infrequent that such mothers are afforded unusual status.”

“So you have a sister,” Bilbo murmured and then he saw Thorin wince. “And…you mentioned a brother?” The dwarf nodded.

“I am the eldest. It is my duty to protect them-as I always have,” he said stiffly, his face closing again. Bilbo sighed. 

“You mother must have been honoured,” he offered gently but Thorin shook his head.

“She died shortly after birthing my sister, her youngest,” he said stiffly. “Dis does not recall her at all. Dwarf births are frequently difficult and hers was..unendurable. I never blamed anyone for her loss-though Frerin was not kind to his baby sister for many years. Her arrival deprived him of his status as ‘the baby’ and the privileged indulgence that granted him. And she was a girl, making her even more special. I was the oldest and the Heir.” He shrugged. “I apologise. You cannot be interested in my ramblings. Is it far to Master Snowmane’s home?” 

“Only about five minutes’ walk,” Bilbo answered, resuming their amble. They walked for a few moments and then he glanced up at Thorin, who seemed to be brooding. “Are you alright with this?” he asked, his tone hesitant. Thorin glanced over at him. “I mean…ever since we met, I have been interfering in your life and I can’t help wondering if I snatched you from Bree only to put you in a forge here in the Shire. I-I don’t want you to feel you have to do anything. You know you can say no, don’t you?”

There was a pause and then Thorin nodded.

“I am aware of that fact,” he said.

“And you know there would be no repercussions?” Bilbo checked. 

“I am aware of that fact,” Thorin repeated. Bilbo huffed in exasperation.

“I just don’t want you to feel demeaned by being a smith,” he said as Thorin stopped and stared at him. Bilbo sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean, I am certain you have far more skills than are required to mend ploughs and agricultural tools and maybe shoe the ponies and make knives and cooking equipment and…” He sighed again. “I don’t want you to feel you have to do this if you don’t want to…” Then he stopped and realised Thorin wasn’t walking beside him. He turned round and looked at the dwarf. “Thorin?”

“Building and creating are what my people were designed for by Mahal,” the dwarf told him incredulously and then he swallowed. “And yes, working for others, especially in the forges of men, is never a personally rewarding experience because Mahal’s children are always scorned, demeaned and cheated by Men but the act of creation, of crafting is still one that lifts a dwarf’s soul. And while it is not crafting great works or making beautiful jewellery or exceptional weapons, it is honest toil and better than much.” Then he shrugged. “What else can I offer? I could toil in your fields, though in truth I know little of agriculture, probably less than one of your faunts. I can use my strength to lift and carry, to perform menial tasks, I could offer to help protect your borders since I do possess some skill in fighting-though I have no weapons or armour now.” He shook his head. “Your offer was the best I have been given for…some time and your generosity matches the offer. I will tell you if you offend me or the work is not to my liking, Master Hobbit-on that you have my word.”

Bilbo smiled and gestured to a blue door to his left.

“We’re here,” he said as Thorin walked to his side. But the door opened as they knocked and a white-haired wizened Hobbit looked up at them and smiled.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said cheerfully. “The Thain wrote me yesterday and to be honest, I was gladdened that someone is taking over the forge. It’s been empty too long and I would love to be able to work more but…” And then he held up his hands, the knuckles swollen and fingers twisted with arthritis. “But I am glad to see you, Master Dwarf! Someone skilled who loves metal is the perfect successor. I am just sorry I cannot work any more for I fancy I would learn much from you!” 

And Thorin gave him a small smile, recognising the honest welcome in the words. Musskin Snowman insisted on taking them down and unlocking the place himself, the clumsiness due to his disease emphasising the truth in his words. And then he handed the key to Thorin. The dwarf walked in and sighed. There were cobwebs and dirt everywhere, though the tools were all wrapped carefully in an oiled rag to preserve them and the place had been ordered-maybe not to dwarf standards but ordered nonetheless-and there was the potential that he could work well in this place. He nodded.

“I have a list of suppliers and merchants if you wish,” Musskin offered. “I can bring them down later…”

“I would be most grateful,” Thorin told him, already calculating how to tidy and reorganise the place and the older smith nodded. “I’ll be back before lunch,” he called and hobbled out, quick for one his age as Bilbo looked over at his friend and grabbed a sandwich then left the basket for a midmorning snack.

“So will I,” he promised as Thorin looked up, pointing meaningfully at the basket. “I’ll bring you luncheon…” And he raised a finger as the dwarf opened his mouth to protest. “No self-respecting Hobbit would leave his guest without a midday meal, Thorin! Especially if he was planning to clean out the entire forge by himself… And eat that second breakfast as well!” 

“And you called dwarves stubborn,” he commented. And then he met Bilbo’s eyes. “Thank you, Master Baggins. I am truly grateful.” Bilbo smiled and turned away, leaving Thorin to his work.

Chapter Text

SEVEN:

“How long has it been since he got away?”

“A week.”

“An entire week and only now you think to inform me?” The speaker’s voice was sharp and sarcastic. The hapless messenger bowed his head.

“It takes time to get word from other parts of the world to here…” he protested weakly.

“We’re talking Eriador, not Gondor!” the speaker snapped. 

“And they attempted to recapture him first but there was no sign…”

“He’s no fool,” the speaker spat. “He knows he is not welcome among his own kind and your keepers will hardly have encouraged him to trust them or their word. He’ll have gone to ground. A shame. I enjoyed the reports.”

There was a pause.

“You enjoyed accounts of his…humiliations?” The words were chosen carefully, though there was little chance of being overheard, here in the secluded private rooms of the so-called Royal Wing. “Of the Crown Prince being chained and beaten like an animal?”

“Don’t call him that!” The speaker was raging now, his voice reverberating from the walls. “He’s not a Prince. Not any more. He’s not a member of the House of Durin or a Prince or even a dwarf of Erebor or Ered Luin! He’s nothing-and when you read the reports, your words confirm that. The tales of a recalcitrant slave, who could not even abide by the humiliation and shame he accepted. A slave who escaped before those he had sworn to protect were even safely home in Ered Luin. A slave who fought his recapture. A slave who had to be beaten for seven consecutive days before he no longer had the strength to resist. A slave who should have been broken more thoroughly but kept trying to escape, to reassert who he was. A slave who should have been killed during an escape attempt.”

“Greed kept him alive,” the messenger told him baldly. “He is a good smith. He made money. His keepers would not slay a source of income. And they enjoyed the power owning a slave gave them…”

“Find him,” the speaker growled. “I want him back in chains. I don’t want any chance that he will return and try to reclaim his birthright. I want him broken! So set your spies a task to find where Thorin Oakenshield has hidden himself and then retrieve him.” He calmed his voice from the roar of fury it had become and spoke more quietly. “And do it now.”

Bowing, the messenger hurriedly left, grateful that he was able to escape the speaker’s presence. He was more unstable by the month and no one in their right mind wanted to cross him. And though he hated the orders, resented the cruelty being meted out to one they all respected and honoured, he would carry them out to the letter, Mahal forgive his soul.

Thorin Oakenshield was a hunted man.

-o0o-

Lunchtime came and went and Thorin had stopped with ill grace to eat the lunch that Bilbo pointedly brought and shared with him. He had grown used to working through hunger and exhaustion because there had been no choice. And he was a single-minded dwarf who hated being disturbed when focussed on a task but he realised it would be churlish to turn down the food that Bilbo had clearly prepared. And the delicious meat pie, crusty loaf, cheeses, pickles and boiled minted potatoes served with elderflower and lemon cordial had been absolutely delicious. Unconsciously, he had smiled at the meal and thanked Bilbo honestly, being rewarded by a genuine smile from the Hobbit, who seemed to derive enormous pleasure from seeing his food appreciated. The words Bilbo had shared with him-of the death of his parents and the way his neighbours viewed him-suggested the Hobbit was starved of company and though he was pleasant, kind and personable, he was lonely.

But Bilbo packed up his now empty basket and suggested that dinner would be around six before he had smiled and gone back off to whatever tasks he had planned to occupy his afternoon. Thorin glanced around the Forge and sighed, then set back to renovating the Forge and preparing it for use. The Forge itself was satisfactory, the anvil adequate and the space good. But he had scrubbed the place down, evicting cobwebs that clearly predated the former smith’s retirement but which the ailing Hobbit would have struggled to deal with. A family of mice had similarly been inconvenienced by being removed from the back storage area and then he had investigated the stores and bins. There was a little fuel for the forge but little good quality iron, merely scraps that had been saved over the years and Thorin sighed. The tools that Musskin had left were well cared-for and good quality but a little light for Thorin’s taste-though he had the few he had claimed from Halford that he felt more comfortable with.

Musskin-who had asked to be called ‘Muzzy’-had come down mid-afternoon, apologising but citing a nap as reason for his later arrival, though in truth there had been no formal appointment. Thorin had nodded, absolving the old man of any blame. He guessed that the social rules of the Shire would require his acceptance of the apology and the old Hobbit seemed keen to offer him friendship and support. And even though the Hobbit was certainly younger in absolute years than Thorin, he was definitely well advanced in age though he seemed to be good-natured and a mite mischievous. He also seemed a little lonely and happily perched by the open door to chatter while Thorin worked. Respecting the man’s expertise in his own land, the dwarf had listened to his thoughts on how to handle Shire customers and which names were the ones to watch out for. He had eagerly handed over his list of suppliers and contacts and had again rambled on about them, offering thoughts on dealing with them. But his words had underlined one glaring problem: Thorin needed supplies. 

He could source wood locally but he would also need coal and iron, as well as some more copper (Muzzy showed him his hidden cellar that contained a decent supply and a small stock of better quality iron) and those would cost money. Money that he didn’t have. He just hoped that he could effect enough repairs and simple commissions to raise the funds before he ran out of supplies. And though he guessed he could approach Bilbo-and that the Hobbit wouldn’t deny him a loan to source raw materials-he was loath to extend his debt to his host. Pride had been one of his worst flaws before…and now, as he was finally daring to hope this freedom would be a lasting state, rather than another cruel joke to torment him, he found his pride was rearing its head once more. He would succeed on his own efforts-even if he had to take menial work around the Shire to fund his supplies-to prove that he was able to stand on his own feet. 

And then he glanced at the list of suppliers and his heart had sunk to his boots. Much of the iron was traded with Ered Luin, with his kin-close and much more distant-and that was a kick in the guts. They wouldn’t trade with him, a shamed and shunned coward. No matter who he had been, he was nothing to them now. Mahal-he would be lucky if they even acknowledged his requests for materials. The whole thing was a disaster. And then he stopped, his head dropping and looking around the clean and ordered space. He had spent his sweat and efforts in clearing the Forge when he was doomed to fail. Mahal had not forgiven him for his surrender and this was his punishment: to see the tantalising hope of freedom and independence, only to have it stolen from him by the inflexible customs of his people.

“You!”  

His head snapped up and he glanced in the direction of the speaker, a female by her tone. And then he found his eyes drawn by a Hobbit wearing a garish orange and fuchsia pink dress laden with embellishments that seemed clashing and at odds with the more classical and earthy tones of the usual Hobbit garb. An outrageous orange and blue hat perched atop her head and her mean eyes narrowed as she watched him warily approach. Cautiously, he offered her a small bow.

“How may I help?” he asked, falling back on the standard phrase he had been taught to use by Halford. Her lip curled in a sneer.

“Who said you could trespass in this place, dwarf?” she snapped. He stiffened.

“I have permission from your Thain, Madame,” he told her sharply. “I spoke with him yesterday and he wrote to Master Snowmane, who has been supportive of my assuming the role of Blacksmith.” Her expression accused him of lying.

“Maybe we don’t want your sort in our midst,” she sneered as he tried to master his temper. The she-Hobbit was looking at him like something unpleasant she had trodden in and the naked prejudice was hard to cope with after an exhausting day.

“Your Thain seemed content,” Thorin managed to force out through gritted teeth as she sneered at him.

“The Thain is a Took,” she snapped, making the family name sound like an insult. “They have a rather skewed idea of what is proper behaviour. But I am a Sackville-Baggins and we are much finer arbiters of appropriate Hobbit society.” 

“Mrs Sackville-Baggins, I am Thorin Oakenshield and I have worked with iron, copper, silver and gold for almost a century and a half,” he told her through gritted teeth. “Your forge has been empty and there is a need for my services. I cleared my tenancy through the authority of your Thain and he was happy for a skilled smith to serve your community, even a dwarf.”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“We’ll see,’ she sneered. “And see if your work matches up to your arrogant boasting, Master Dwarf…”

“Lobelia-how pleasant to see you!” Thorin had never been so grateful to hear Bilbo’s voice and he took a breath as he saw the awful female stiffen before turning her ire and malice on him.

“Bilbo-have you seen what is happening here?” Lobelia complained loudly. “A dwarf-one of those filthy, greedy vicious creatures-has moved into the Forge. You’re a Baggins! How can you stand by and allow this to happen? We’ll all be murdered in our beds or have our properties broken into and our valuables stolen by this thing!” Bilbo walked forward, an expression of forced amiability on his face.

“Ah-I see you have met Thorin, a Master Smith who we have been fortunate enough to lure away from Bree to fill our vacant Blacksmith’s position here,” Bilbo said casually, a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Lobelia’s jaw dropped. “Jago Boffin and Isengrim can testify to the superb quality of his work, both having been gifted examples of his work from the Bree Smithy. Isengrim gave his blessing yesterday and Muzzy Snowmane has been delighted at handing the Forge on. Surely you don’t enjoy having to make the trip all the way to Frogmorton just to get your pots and pans mended?”

Lobelia cast him a look that probably would have killed a lesser Hobbit but Bilbo was smirking as her eyes flicked between the dwarf and the casual Bilbo.

“You had something to do with this!” she snapped. “This has all the fingerprints of some deranged, improper, Tookish nonsense”

“I’d think twice about insulting my mother’s family and that of the richest and most powerful family in the Shire,” Bilbo replied in a hard voice, the twinkle vanishing from his eyes. “You may be a Sackville-Baggins Lobelia-but only by marriage-but perhaps a little civility would go a long way. Thorin is providing a public service and the people of Hobbiton should be at least allowed to take advantage of his expertise without some harridan harassing him before he even has a chance to make his first repair.” A small crowd was gathering and Lobelia turned to appeal to them.

“Look at this!” she sneered. “A dwarfish smith! An outsider!”

“Though dwarves are acknowledged as the finest smiths in Middle Earth,” Bilbo commented with a smile. “Muzzy seems to like him and the Thain has given his blessing for us to have a skilled smith rather than no smith at all. Surely that’s just good Hobbit sense!”

Lobelia snorted.

“He’s a dwarf!” she hissed.

“Well spotted!” a voice came from the back of the little crowd-Bilbo thought it sounded like his younger cousin Drogo.

“And he seems to know what he’s doing!” Pondo Brockhouse called. 

“Unless you fancy getting your hands dirty and doing it yourself!” Bruno Bracegirdle-one of Lobelia’s younger cousins-yelled. A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

“You mind your tongue, Bruno!” Lobelia sneered viciously. “You think Farmer Maggot doesn’t know who’s been stealing his prize produce?”

“Half the Shire,” Drogo joined in. 

“But you think that trying to blacken the Bracegirdle name is a good way of improving your standing?” Blanco Bracegirlde, Bruno’s father called, his thick brows pinched in a scowl. “Your own kin, Lobelia! You think being ostracised from all your blood kin is worth your bruised pride? I’d check with Otho first!” 

Staring around and seeing not even the proper Hobbitwives watching were offering any sympathy, Lobelia gave a huge snort and spun on her heel.

“You mark my words-no good will come of this creature amongst us!” she hissed and stormed off. There was a collective exhalation and the crowd slowly dispersed, several casting thoughtful looks at the renovated Forge though the sturdy shape of Drogo was the only one to walk forward. His face was plastered with a smile and Bilbo greeted him with a warm hug.

“Oh, that made my day!” he said by way of greeting. “I heard she was on the warpath about something but seeing her make a fool of herself is a rare pleasure. I must go and thank Bruno for coming along. I know he can’t stand his cousin any more than anyone else!” And then he looked up to see Thorin, observing him carefully. He pulled back and offered a polite bow. “Forgive my manners. Drogo Baggins-at your service!” he said as gravely as any adult.

“Thorin Oakenshield-at yours,” the dwarf offered carefully, inspecting the casual shape before him. He could read the similarity between Bilbo and the younger Hobbit, though Drogo’s hair was darker and his demeanour a little more casual. 

“Thorin-this is Drogo Baggins, my favourite cousin,” Bilbo introduced him with a smile. “Lobelia is married to Otho Sackville-Baggins…my least favourite cousin!” Nodding, the dwarf sighed.

“I apologise if my actions caused you any…shame…” he said hurriedly, recalling what he had promised the Thain but Bilbo shook his head easily.

“Thorin-Lobelia is a hazard of living in Hobbiton,” he explained. “Her mission in life is to be unpleasant and her favourite target is me, since she has her beady and covetous eye on my home.” His face fell. “Drat and confusticate it. I missed the chance to tell her you’re lodging with me.” And then he sighed. “Well, I can savour that pleasure another day.” Drogo’s eyes grew rounder.

“You’re lodging at Bag End?” he asked and Thorin nodded.

“Master…Bilbo…was kind enough to insist that I room in his home, since he has ample space and my…means are somewhat depleted at present,” he explained awkwardly. Drogo’s face grew thoughtful.

“You weren’t wholly honest with Lobelia, were you?’ he guessed and Bilbo slowly shook his head.

“It’s not my story to tell and certainly not one that should be shouted at the most unpleasant and prejudiced Hobbit in the Shire in the middle of the market,” he said. “Nothing I said was untrue either. Thorin is no thief or murderer. He is no threat to us. He just wants a chance to make his way in the world and I offered him the opportunity to use his skills to help rebuild his fortunes.” Looking thoughtful, Drogo’s eyes swept over the sturdy shape of the dwarf and then nodded.

“You know, I really don’t care as long as you’re okay,” Drogo told his cousin. “But you seem…happier, cousin. You were enjoying the argument with Lobelia-and I’ve seen you hide in your second pantry so you could claim you never heard her knocking. Ade said you had a good trip to Bree…and if that means coming home with a lighter heart, a smile on your lips and a new friend who will serve our town, then I am all the happier.” He winked. 

“You and the rest of my family want me safely married off and out of your hair,” Bilbo huffed and gave his cousin’s shoulder a playful shove. “Speaking of which, how is Prim?” As expected, Drogo’s face adopted a slightly dreamy expression.

“More beautiful by the day,” he sighed. “Of course, she’s a Brandybuck and Dad is a bit wary and of course half the boys in the Shire think she’s wonderful but she is the only one for me.” Bilbo leaned closer.

“If it helps, I know she thinks you’re not that bad either-and since she’s about as adventurous as my Mother was and is in that ‘all boys are a waste of time’ phase, her awarding you a ‘not bad’ is a glowing endorsement!” he murmured conspiratorially. Drogo sighed.

“Thanks, Bilbo!” he said. “Now I ought to catch up with Bruno before his father chews his ear off over those mushrooms…” Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“You too?” he groaned. Flashing him a cheeky grin, Drogo turned away. “Come over for tea-maybe Market Day. And if you can persuade Prim, I can act as chaperone!” 

“It’s a deal!” Drogo said and ran off, leaving Thorin staring at Bilbo in surprise. But the Hobbit got in first.

“I am so sorry that you had to face that!” he said in a rush. Thorin frowned. “Lobelia. Your first full day in Hobbiton and already you’ve been Lobelia’d. I heard she was on the warpath and I guessed where she would be.”

“She objects to my presence here,” Thorin stated gruffly as Bilbo sighed.

“Some Hobbits object to any kind of change,” he explained. “And some dislike outsiders with a passion.” Thorin frowned and turned to finish shutting up the Blacksmith’s. Tomorrow, he would try lighting the Forge and get familiar with his new surroundings. Bilbo observed him thoughtfully. 

“Your Shire is protected by Men and Elves,” he pointed out. “There is little exposure to outsiders…” Bilbo sighed.

“It wasn’t always so and before the Shire was founded, our people wandered. It was a very hard time, a time of hunger and danger. Hobbits are not warlike and we were easy prey for Orcs and Goblins and exploitation…yes, and slavery. Some families suffered worse than others and members of those families remain very wary and untrusting of any non-Hobbits. Eventually, we settled the Shire and we were granted the land in the name of the Kings of Arnor and their successors, the Dunedain. The Rangers protect us and Lord Elrond of Rivendell also extends his protection over us. In return for this protection, we welcome guests, offer food and shelter to Rangers, transiting Elves and others in need.”

Except dwarrow, Thorin wanted to say.

“We do get some dwarves pass through on the East Road,” Bilbo continued, as if reading his mind. “Occasionally they visit the market but most have no interest in us simple folk and they pass us by. If they camp, they are welcomed. Sometimes they visit the Green Dragon at Bywater-the Inn. Rangers are welcomed when they pass through and they do help protect our borders. Elves always camp in the woods…” He gave a small, nostalgic smile. “When I was a young child, I used to run away to the woods to see the Elves…they were unimaginably tall to a tiny fauntling…and chase fireflies. They always tolerated my curiosity and I returned home full of tales and covered in mud and twigs. But my Mother always encouraged me to explore, because ‘the world’s big and we are small and even a little knowledge could one day help a Hobbit survive’.”

Thorin inspected him and heard the wistful tone in his voice. It almost sounded like he was talking about a different Hobbit, a different life…but there was something in his expression that echoed the young Hobbit who had determinedly interfered in Thorin’s life and changed it seemingly for the better. 

“Your mother was wiser than many, in my home as well as your own,” he found himself saying and was rewarded by Bilbo glancing up. “My own kind are very intolerant and dismissive of the other races. Some are more open-minded than others but my…the current regime…is far more isolationist than in former times and that, I think, is not a wise position for a people who rely on trade.”

“And yet here we are-a Hobbit and a Dwarf, here in the Shire,” Bilbo told him with a small smile. “Lobelia doesn’t speak for us all. Many of us are reasonable and sensible. If you work and aren’t a danger, you will be accepted. Lobelia’s words only demonstrate her prejudice. You have better skills you can demonstrate.” And then he rose. “I think you have worked enough for today, Master Thorin. Now I would be grateful if you would do me the honour of joining me for dinner?”

-o0o-

Bilbo had insisted he availed himself of the bathing facilities after his exhausting and grimy day in the Forge and in all honesty, Thorin had been grateful for the offer. It had been far too long since he had been granted any chance to properly wash up. Dwarves were hardy and prepared to endure pretty much any hardships on a journey or quest…but Thorin had been born in the great kingdom of Erebor, the grandson of the King and his early life had been luxurious. Hot water, exotic soaps and rich fabrics had been commonplace and good food, servants and deference had been the norm. Sometimes, late at night, he still dreamed of Erebor, the soaring Halls and Galleries, the thousands of lamps, the constant hubbub of voices in the mountain, the warmth of home and family and belonging…and he had always woken heartbroken because everything in his dream was irrevocably lost. 

The bathroom contained a copper tub, complicated piping that rumbled but provided satisfactorily scalding hot water as well as cold and was provided with a huge pile of thick towels, an entire shelf of soaps and lotions and a folded garment that appeared to be a nightshirt-but which would function adequately as a makeshift tunic for Thorin’s broader and taller frame while Bilbo washed his grimy tunic. Finally, he checked the door was closed and carefully stripped off his clothes, setting the grubby tunic outside the door. And then he slid into the tub.

It clearly wasn’t designed for dwarf proportions but he wasn’t deterred because of the luxury of warm water. For a long moment, he closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that this wasn’t going to last, that somehow his past would catch up and ruin his life once more and that Bilbo would reject him as everyone else had. So he grabbed a bottle of soap lotion and methodically began to scrub himself, sluicing off grime and sweat and some specks of blood, studiously ignoring the temptation to dwell on the scars that marred his skin. He could recall every injury that had inflicted them on him and the memories only intensified when he stared at the steel bands that still encircled his branded wrists. Truth be told, he had been so absorbed in the work renovating the Forge that he had neglected to spare the time to remove them, though he swore that would be the first thing he did the next morning. Angrily, he began to scrub, desperate to distract himself and his treacherous mind from mulling on things that he couldn’t alter.

He had to change the water partway through and then he sat back down, finally lifting a small pot bowl from the ledge and using it to soak his hair through. Dwarves valued their hair above all other features and Thorin was already unusual in having and maintaining a short beard-considered very unattractive-in memory of the dead of Erebor, their lost home. Fiercely, he scrubbed his hair, encountering snarls and tangles and he groaned as he struggled to untangle the mess. A small wooden comb resting amid the lotions was only slightly less than useless but he persisted despite a steady stream of curses and after finally unknotting the mass, he washed it again until he finally felt clean. And then it was tempting to just lie there and rest, enjoying the stillness and silence as a respite from the chaos of his life. But his stomach rumbled and he sighed, acknowledging that he was hungry and that Bilbo was expecting him to emerge, so he finally clambered out and dried himself. 

Alone, naked and scarred, in a bathroom in a Hobbit Hole in the Shire, exiled from his people and still wearing slave bands around his branded wrists, Thorin slowly raised his hands to cover his face. His breaths shuddered through him as he slowly dropped to his knees, feeling as if the breath had been squeezed from his body. Freedom was bittersweet, a relief from the cruelty of the his slavery but a horrible reminder of what he couldn’t have, even though he was now a free man. Misery thickened his throat and he curled forward, shaking. He wouldn’t break, not now. He had been given a chance and somehow, he would make it work. Somehow, he would salvage something.

Someone had faith in him, had given him his freedom, a home, a chance. He couldn’t betray that trust by shattering.

Mastering his breathing, his fingers snagged a lock of hair-not as long as it had been but close after three years-and defiantly, he wove in a single braid, the motions so familiar that no thought was required. It was the most basic of all, declaring him as a dwarf of Erebor, one thing that was indisputable. He did not add in the variations that proclaimed his family name, heritage or rank but he did keep the strand marking him as a blacksmith. And then finally, he forced himself to rise to his feet. He had no beads to fasten his braid but he found a short leather tie and felt no guilt in borrowing it to tie the braid and then he swiftly dressed, walking out barefoot in his leather trousers and the loose nightshirt, smelling the delicious aromas of a roasting chicken.  

Bilbo looked up from the kitchen where he was finishing serving up two groaning plates of meat, potatoes, vegetables, stuffing, bread sauce and gravy and he smiled.

“You look much better,” he said as Thorin halted. He found it briefly hard to breathe at the normalcy of the greeting-almost as if he was a just a regular person. And unable to halt himself, a wave of gratitude for the kindness he had received briefly overwhelming his reticence and wariness, the dwarf smiled back.

“Thank you,” he said as Bilbo nodded, gesturing to the table and walking the plates over.

“My friend-you are most welcome,” he said genuinely. “Now let’s eat.”

Chapter Text

EIGHT: 

Lying in his bed, Thorin stared at the ceiling and found his hand toying with the braid. The meal had been excellent and he felt replete and relaxed, completely clean and accepted by Bilbo. Conversation had been simple and easy, not touching on anything controversial and Thorin wondered if he made Bilbo uncomfortable. But Bilbo had given no sigh that he was shamed by association with the dwarf…though a treacherous voice reminded Thorin that the situation may change if word of his status as a former slave came out. Surely that would be enough to drive the Hobbits to ostracise him and Bilbo to cast him aside.

His hand curled into a fist and yanked hard on the braid as a groan thickened his throat. In Mahal’s name, what was wrong with him? It seemed his mind was conspiring against him and calculating ways to ensure his world came crashing down. But in his heart, Thorin knew that his peace was fragile, that his happiness would only be transient and that soon enough, the ephemeral hope he was feeling would be snatched away in the cruellest manner possible. 

A jagged sigh shuddered through him once more. He was deluding himself if he believed that he would be accepted by the gentlefolk of the Shire but the calm confidence and welcome of his Hobbit friend was preventing him from relinquishing all hope that he couldn’t be tolerated. Bilbo had been determined to welcome him and support him…and Thorin was coming to realise that the Hobbit was gently stubborn in his determination to help him. And he couldn’t deny that having someone actually pleased to see him was a rare pleasure. 

He toyed with the braid again. He had no beads, no sign of his allegiance or family or craft but he had claimed his identity as a dwarf…because that was patently obvious. He was a dwarf: even the Hobbits of the Shire could testify to that and though he had sacrificed the most important parts of himself for his kin, he had a right to act as a dwarf. He was not sharing the secrets of Mahal with outsiders, he was not teaching anyone Khuzdul or betraying secret knowledge: no, he was merely adopting the most basic external trappings of being a dwarf. By Mahal, he was still a dwarf and though others had decreed he was unworthy, there was no reason he could not still adhere to the customs and rights he had earned by his birth and the almost eighteen decades of his life. And who was there to protest? No one except Thorin himself…and he was the one deciding to take this step. So he closed his eyes and tried to relax.

His eyes snapped open and he realised it was morning. Sometime, in the midst of his mental self-flagellation, he had fallen into a dreamless and restful sleep, soothed by the silence and safety of the Hobbit’s home. But he couldn’t delay this morning, for he had tasks to complete and a newly-rejuvenated sense of purpose. Leaping up, he hastened to wash and dress in his cleaned and patched tunic and headed into the kitchen to find Bilbo already frying up bacon, eggs and bread for a hearty breakfast. It seemed that the Hobbit had already realised that Thorin, for all his privations, couldn’t handle the multiplicity of Hobbitish meals. A good breakfast, a meal at lunchtime and a solid dinner were sufficient and Bilbo was smiling as he dished up a groaning plate packed with enough meat to satisfy even the most suspicious dwarf. Offering a grateful smile in thanks, Thorin had tucked in, the little voice still warning him that this was all going to collapse sooner rather than later. But he cleared his plate, snatching small glances over at the Hobbit, who was sipping his tea and eating his own breakfast more slowly.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked as Thorin paused to sip his tea. He swallowed. 

“Much better,” he admitted and then he sighed. Immediately, the Hobbit paused, his eyes focussing on the larger shape opposite him and tilting his head in thought. It was something that Thorin had noted on a couple of previous occasions: Bilbo was very sensitive to shifts in mood and thoughtful in how he proceeded. Perhaps Thorin should have felt insulted that the Hobbit felt the need to handle him cautiously but he found a tiny flicker of gratitude that the other treated him with the consideration due to any other sentient being.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked quietly. He sipped his tea again. “Is there something worrying you?”

Many things-none of which you can do anything about, Thorin thought but laid down his knife and fork. Girding himself and pushing down his damnable pride-which was kicking him hard even as he tried to open his mouth-he nodded.

“I…I…” he began, looking as if he was swallowing a lemon. He took a shuddering breath. “I apologise, Master Baggins but I find…I have a problem.”

“Speak,” Bilbo invited him, his eyes serious. “I hope you know that I am your friend and that I want to help you get back on your feet.” 

Thorin fisted his hands, the steel bands gleaming accusingly around his wrists.

“It’s about the Forge,” he ground out.

“Is there a problem?” Bilbo pressed. 

There was a long silence and finally, Thorin nodded, his eyes glittering with shame. 

“Thorin, I didn’t set you up to fail,” Bilbo told him urgently. “Tell me what I can do and I will do it. I know that you will do what you promised. I trust you-because everything you have told me and shown me about yourself has proven that you are worthy of trust.”

The simple words were like a blow and it was all Thorin could do not to show how much the words had scourged him. The truth was, of course, that Bilbo had nothing but what Thorin had told him…and Thorin could be a craven liar. Yet the Hobbit had made his determination and was according Thorin complete trust on almost no evidence. It only redoubled the dwarf’s absolute resolve to repay every penny that his saviour had spent.

“I need to buy metal and coal,” he admitted reluctantly. 

“That is no issue,” Bilbo told him but Thorin raised a hand.

“It will be,” he sighed. “Master Baggins, I must ask that the goods are bought in your name…because no one from Ered Luin would deal with me. They would not sell to me or even acknowledge my existence.” Eyes widening, Bilbo chewed his lip.

“Then use my name, Thorin,” he said. “I can accept your deliveries or…”

“Or I may ask Master Snowmane,” Thorin murmured. “I am already far too deep in your debt…”

“This isn’t a ledger where we tally every last copper,” Bilbo retorted tartly, his eyes concerned. “Thorin…I am your friend and I will help you every way I can. So use my name and ensure you have what you need to make a go of the Forge. I will provide whatever you require.”

Exhaling in relief, Thorin turned back to his plate.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice gruff with embarrassment, shame stinging the last remnants of his pride. “You need not concern yourself, Master Baggins. I will repay you. On that I swear.” Smiling as he watched the dwarf clear his plate, the Hobbit gave a small smile. He had already realised that Thorin was a dwarf who valued his personal honour highly and his word was something he would stand by-even at the cost of his freedom.

“I know,” he said.

-o0o-

Bilbo took Thorin to the study and left him to write his letter in peace. The trust was gratifying and as the dwarf settled in the chair at the desk, he felt a flutter of apprehension along with shame. But he gathered up the quill and in clear though angular Westron, he wrote a request for the supplies he needed in the name of Master Bilbo Baggins. If he used dwarvish terms for the supplies and measures and was perhaps more specific than a non-dwarf, then he hoped it would be forgiven because he knew exactly what he required. Adding vague pleasantries, he signed in Bilbo’s name and folded the letter into an envelope. Then he reached for another sheet of paper and quietly wrote a price list of common requests, modifying the options in line with what Muzzy and Bilbo had told him about requirements of a smith in the Shire and what Muzzy had mentioned he had previously charged for his services. Of course, his prices were less than half of what Halford had been charging, because the man had been a disgrace and a swindler but he reckoned that he would still be clearing enough to pay the rent for the forge, cover supplies and start to save for necessities…and his debt. In fact, he was smiling as he finished the sheet and rested the pen down.

Bilbo was baking when he left, a smudge of flour on his cheek and his eyes sparkling with cheerfulness as he waved his guest goodbye. Thorin nodded, clutching his letter and price list and heading off down the hill at a good pace. Muzzy Snowmane intercepted him before he even reached the forge, his eyes twinkling as he took the letter and promised to post it before lunch while Thorin headed into the Forge. Fumbling to unlock the door, he methodically lit the forge and watched the flames start to burn, the familiar heat leaching into his body and briefly reminding him of the warmth that had permeated Erebor-before the dragon came. For a long moment, he stared into the flames and replayed that day in his memory, the flames reminding him of all those who had been lost in the attack before he shook himself. And then he turned to the tools and reached for a saw. 

The steel bands on his wrists stared at him accusingly and as he stared at the metal, images flashed back, of his battered and bloody shape, beaten beyond endurance because it had been the only way that they had been able to subdue him to drag him for banding. Halford had done the deed, the man’s vicious face twisted in sadistic enjoyment as they had hauled him forward. For other slaves, they hammered the bands cold around the slave’s wrists but for Thorin, for the dwarf who had caused them so much effort, the metal had been hot. And though dwarves were hardy and resistant to burns, that protection was not unlimited and red glowing iron had exceeded it easily. He could still recall the hideous burning, the appalling pain as the metal had closed and the jerk on his arm as the smith had plunged his hand, wrist and the metal into the water to quench the metal. His knees had buckled and he had sagged, his head bowed as the steam had hissed while the metal cooled. Halford had kicked him then, sneering at his ‘weakness’ and laughing in his ashen face. And then they had dragged him up to band the other side. He had fought more desperately then to no avail…and the second time, he had screamed. But the band had gone on all the same, his skin burnt and scarred under the steel bands as they hauled him away to be sold for the first time. 

Blinking, he rested his wrist in the anvil, gritted his teeth and started to saw at the band. It had to come off, had to be removed before he could even start to imagine he had any hope. So he sawed away, ignoring the fact that the tool was getting closer and closer to his own flesh…until he felt the give. Breath catching in his throat, he adjusted the saw and made a second cut before he was finally able to wrench the band off and fling it across the Forge, landing in the furthest corner. And finally, he looked at his naked wrist, staring at the deep, scarred red burn across the soft underside of his wrist and softly touching the puckered skin. Turning his hand over, the back was less scarred but branded to underscore his status and he cringed at the stark letters before his face hardened. Determined, he turned to his right wrist and began to saw away, eyes narrowed and concentrating solely on the mechanical action rather than any more thoughts. He clenched his fist as he sawed and his saw slipped, slicing the skin but he readjusted and completed the cut. And finally he was free.

He paused as he prised the band off his wrist and exhaled shakily. The slice was shallow and bled sluggishly and he tied a rag over the wound automatically, knowing that Bilbo would worry. Searching round the back, he located the scraps of leather than Muzzy had kept for binding and repairing handles and he methodically wound them over his wrists, concealing the scars and the brands. He missed his vambraces, missed the solidity of his armour, his chainmail and his leather. The clothes he wore were those he had left from his capture, the boots solid and comfortable, the leather breeches sturdy and tough and the tunic in Durin blue the last thing he had left reminding him of his birthright and his family.

Turning back to the Forge, he checked the flames and then gathered up the remains of his slave bands,  dumping them in a crucible to melt over the flames. He wanted them gone and they represented resources he could use towards his future. And then he heard a rapping on the hatch. Frowning, he opened up-and found himself face to face with the appalling she-Hobbit, Lobelia. Today she was in a garish lemon yellow with lime green ribbons and a huge wide-brimmed scarlet hat with green ribbons. Her eyes glittered with annoyance.

“Tardy,” she condemned as he frowned.

“I have yet to actually open, Mistress Hobbit,” he commented, scowling at her.

“I hardly think you were granted the tenancy to sit on your rear and snooze away the day!” Lobelia sneered, dumping a pile of pans and implements on the counter. Thorin blinked. “I need this work doing.” The dwarf folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her.

“It depends what is required as to whether I can accommodate your request,’ he said slowly, his tone flat. 

“I don’t see why…” she interrupted but he stared at her coldly.

“The Forge has been unoccupied for many months and is lacking raw materials,” he interrupted shortly. “While I am certain I can mend the dents and dings in your pans and sharpen the knives and shears, I am uncertain whether I possess the materials to repair that kettle.” He gestured to an ugly copper kettle that seemed to have a huge hole at the junction of the spout and body. “I am willing to undertake the tasks I can complete now or I am happy to wait until I can complete all your commissions at the same time, Mistress Hobbit.” Her eyes glittered in anger.

“I knew Cousin Bilbo would have chosen some defective lazy dwarf rather than a competent businessman,” she sneered as he stiffened. Maybe hearing such vile things about himself was getting so familiar the words barely hurt. If he persuaded himself hard enough… But hearing this vicious harpy attack Bilbo, who had offered him nothing but generosity and kindness stung Thorin and he found his temper rising. Deliberately, he lifted the pans and dumped them back in her arms.

“I presume you prefer to make the trip to Frogmorton,” he said tightly, watching her face redden in anger.

“Are you rejecting my work?’ she spat. He stared flatly at her.

“I believe you rejected my terms, Mistress Hobbit,” he reminded her shortly. “I can do no more. The Forge was not even open for business when you demanded I take your work. In that case, I can only presume you wish to utilise another smith.”

Lobelia stared at him, her mouth gaping soundlessly and face scarlet with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. She glanced round at the other hobbits who had paused to watch her.

“See?’ she spat, looking for support. “This nasty dwarf has refused to serve me!”

“It sounded like you insulted him, Lobelia,” Daisy Overbrook commented, her lips pursing as she stared at the older Hobbit. “He sounded like he was being honest about what he could do.”

“And you did hammer on the hatch until he opened up,” Periwinkle Redleaf added, nudging her friend. “Have you changed your mind?” Lobelia flattened her lips and scowled, then dumped her pans on the counter once more.

“Fine,” she spat. “Have the pans and knives done by teatime!” Thorin gestured to the price list, thumb-tacked to the wood.

“I would advise you confirm you are happy with the pricing schedule-to forestall any further...misunderstandings,” he told her as she glanced at the list-then shrieked.

“Have you seen this?” she spat. “Look at this? It’s outrageous! This dwarf is completely swindling us with his sky-high prices that…”

“That are almost exactly those you paid Master Snowmane,” Thorin told her tightly. “And half those charged in Bree. Again, if you find them too expensive, there are other options to service your metalwares…” Periwinkle peered over Lobelia’s shoulder.

“And these are cheaper than you pay in Frogmorton anyway,” she pointed out. Daisy burst out laughing. 

“You know, Lobelia-if you want a discount, you actually have to be nice to people rather than insult the person you want to do you a favour!” she scoffed and nodded to the dwarf. “Do hurry up! Other people may want to speak to the smith as well!” Glaring at the women and then back at Thorin, Lobelia contented herself with a loud snort, grabbed her basket and stalked away, haranguing the elderly Hobbit who was selling a selection of delicious-looking breads in the Market Place adjacent to the Forge. The two female Hobbits watched her go with identical exasperated expressions on their faces.

“I apologise for Lobelia,” Periwinkle sighed, her blue eyes filled with exasperation. “She isn’t a typical Hobbit. She’s just…”

“Difficult,” Daisy finished. “Daisy Overbrook, Master Dwarf. I am aware that Lobelia knocked you up before you were open. Are you taking on work or should we come back another time?” Thorin took a deep breath and then shook his head.

“I would guess that I am now open,” he admitted, casting around and finding an old scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil, tucked behind a hammer. “How may I help?” The two Hobbits shared a look and then began to explain what they wanted. In the end, Thorin was commissioned to make them new cake tins and sets of knives which they explained they wanted before the Harvest Baking competition. Nodding without understanding, he carefully explained the probable delays due to lack of good quality metal but the women were happy to wait. After noting down the commissions-and Lobelia’s orders, along with agreed prices-Thorin finally turned to the cookware and began to sharpen the knives.

Bilbo dropped off a packed lunch of cheese, pickles, cold meats, seeded bread, a small flask of beer and a lemon curd tart and lingered while Thorin ate, glancing around the Forge and nibbling a cheese and tomato sandwich he had brought along. 

“I heard Lobelia had been here again,” Bilbo commented, his eyes drifting over the solid shape of the dwarf. As expected, Thorin stiffened. 

“She does seem to view me as a personal affront,” he said at length, his eyes drifting to her pans which were still awaiting fixing. 

“I suspect the fact that you have anything to do with me may be the problem," Bilbo offered but slowly, Thorin shook his head.

“I believe she dislikes me on my own merits,” he replied dryly. “But she is availing herself of my services-however unwillingly.”

“She’s definitely doing that to annoy you,” Bilbo commented, taking another bite of his lunch. “I know you can take care of yourself but she is very conscious of her social standing. She’ll call you all sorts of names but the merest mention that her name could be bruised will have her backing off…for a while.”

“I will bear that in mind,” the dwarf said. Bilbo paused then fished in his basket, drawing out a small blue notebook, a neat leather-bound volume which was almost in Durin blue. Smiling, the Hobbit handed it over and watched the former slave open his mouth to decline the gift.

“I bought you this,” he said. “Well, you seem to like blue-and I hoped it would be useful to keep track of orders or stock or whatever…” He blushed slightly. “Um…well, I hope it's useful anyway…” His hand closed on the book-something small and simple and unexpected-and he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruffer than normal. His reward was Bilbo’s brilliant smile.

After Bilbo had gone, claiming it was laundry day as well, Thorin turned back to the pans and the handful of other repairs he had picked up, carefully noting the work in the book before he forgot. Then he turned back to the work and made sure that he completed everything to a high standard-not that he would ever give less than his best-but the trust shown in him by Bilbo and the other Hobbitwives made him want to prove Lobelia’s cruel words wrong. 

But once he had finished the tasks for the day, he turned to the molten iron, some which he had poured into simple moulds, making simple clasps. It was very basic metalwork that all dwarrow were taught when they were small dwarflings since every dwarf needed to be able to make his own beads-and those for his One. And while he had no honour or name any more, he was a dwarf and strangely, the words of Lobelia made him more determined than ever to reclaim what he could of his identity. So he made four simple clasps, inscribed only with the symbol of Erebor and fastened two of them to his braid with a shaking hand. Something inside him was screaming at him, reminding him that he had given it up for his family and he had no right any longer to call himself a dwarf. But he stared at his naked wrists, bound in scraps of leather to conceal his shameful brands and clipped the metal around his hair.

I am Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror, called Oakenshield of the line of Durin. I am the Heir to Erebor and the exiled Erebor dwarrow in Ered Luin. And Mahal forgive me, I will not let them take away my knowledge of myself. My family and people may have disowned me but I have been welcomed here and I will do whatever I need to stay here and repay Bilbo. And maybe…feel like I have a home once more.

Then he heard the sound of Lobelia’s screech across the market and he sighed, then turned back to his work.

Chapter Text

NINE:

Bilbo awoke with a start, eyes wide and wondering what had woken him-until he heard the thunderous knocking on the door once more. He sat up and groaned, then grabbed his robe and stomped to the door, awning and muttering in annoyance at the disturbance. The fire in the parlour had died down and a few red embers were the only light in the gloom-but silvery moonlight was leaking through the windows and bathing the hallway in its cool light. Muttering and grumbling, the knocking sounded again as Bilbo finally reached the door, slid back the bolt and wrenched it open.

Two frantic-looking Hobbits were facing him, eyes wide and hair tousled in the light night breeze. One was Leonard Bolger, one of the less offensive and prickly members of that family and the other was Hamwise Gamgee, his neighbour, friend and gardener who lived just down the Hill on Bagshot Row.

“Mister Bilbo, thank Yavanna we could wake you!” Hamfast said, his eyes wide as he stared at the still befuddled Baggins. “It’s something terrible, sir!”

“There’s a fire on Hedge Lane,” Leonard added, breathing hard. “A family is trapped…”

Bilbo inhaled sharply, dimly aware now of distant shouts and the vague smell of smoke on the cool night air. The Shire should be quiet, save for the sounds of owls and bats…but there was definitely a ruckus down the Hill, just beyond the Market Place. Behind him, he heard the sounds a footsteps and knew that Thorin had been roused by the noise. Yet the visitors at the door looked visibly relieved when he came into view, dishevelled from sleep and looking wary.

“We were wondering if your dwarf…” Leonard began and Bilbo cringed, acutely aware how the words could sound to Thorin. The dwarf was a free person but the implication, however innocent, made the Hobbit feel terrible. Yet Thorin walked forward, his brows dipped in consternation.

“Bilbo…?” he murmured, his deep voice gruff with sleep.

“Fire,” Bilbo explained urgently. “Down the Hill…”

“A family is trapped,” Leonard jumped in. “We were hoping you could help…” Immediately, the dwarf nodded.

“Show me,” he said and walked out. But when he glanced down the lane, it was very obvious where he was needed and he accelerated to a flat run, leaving the Hobbits trailing in his wake. Bilbo stared, more than little put out and then glanced down. He was in his nightshirt and dressing gown and hardly garbed for leaving his Smial…but nor was anyone else and there was no way he was missing this kerfuffle. So he tightened the tie belt around his middle, pulled the green door to and sprinted after the others.

Thorin had already reached the scene, a small smial tucked into a bank with a yellow door and smoke pouring out through a shattered window. Flames were visible just in the hall behind the door and from within, screams and yells for help were clearly audible. A Hobbit was hammering away at the door-which was locked-using an axe but the portal seemed to be very sturdy. Swiftly casting his eyes over the scene, Thorin walked forward. 

“Can I have the axe?” he asked shortly and accepted it from the Hobbit, who peered up at the sturdy shape with trepidation. For his part, Thorin hefted the axe with a scowl on his face, feeling the weight and sighing. It was hardly a dwarven battle axe, far too light and with the balance all wrong…but after the martial trading he had undergone in his youth, he could use any weapon, no matter how poorly made… Inspecting the door for a moment, he swung the axe using all his strength and gouged a deep cut, almost severing one hinge. Two more blows and the door was free. Taking a pace back, he tightened his grip on the axe and lifted his arm across his face. Then he kicked the door in and ducked back as a wall of flame faced him…but undeterred, he leapt through, running until he found himself beyond the flames in the small parlour, facing a small family of terrified and grimy Hobbits.

“Help us,” the sandy-haired father asked, his face smeared with soot. His eyes were red from the smoke, tears washing tracks down his ruddy cheeks. A tiny fair-haired faunt was grasped in his arms, wrapped in a knitted blanket and clearly very young. Pausing to glance round, Thorin noted there was only one other small window, opening from the parlour onto the little garden and he nodded curtly. Then he raised the axe and smashed the window, urgently knocking the frame out as well to widen the narrow opening as much as he could. Then he grabbed the wife-a scared looking young Hobbitess with curly sun-bright hair-and pushed her through the tight gap. She almost got stuck but he shoved her hard and she landed with squeak amid the lupins before popping up…to find the dwarf passing the tiny faunt through into her waiting arms. Swiftly, he handed the other five faunts out, all silent and huge eyed at his sturdy and scowling shape but holding him trustingly as he passed them to safety. Glancing around and measuring the gap, Thorin motioned the wife to back away and get to safety. There was no way he or the husband could possibly fit through the little hole. 

“Dario?” the women murmured but the male Hobbit motioned her away.

“It’ll be fine, Marigold,” he reassured her, trying a wan smile. “I’m afraid all those pies mean I won’t fit.”

“We’ll have to find another way,” Thorin told the Hobbit, carefully throwing the axe through the gap so he didn’t forget it or hit anyone. “And he is right, Mistress Hobbit. Take your little ones to safety.” She nodded, accepting his firm command and backing away as the dwarf turned back to the homeowner. The moment his wife had gotten out of sight, he looked scared and wretched, his eyes looked on Thorin trustingly. At least that expression was familiar, others’ confidence in his abilities usually exceeding his own. “Do you have a blanket and water?” he asked urgently. 

Nodding, the scared Hobbit-Dario-darted into one of the two bedrooms and dragged out a fluffy green blanket before heading to the bathing room and dunking it in the sink, pumping away at the water until it was soaked and heavy. Glancing at the flames, which were rising and penning them in, Thorin took a breath-and then started to cough. The smoke was thick in the air and the heat was intense, even for one raised in Erebor and used to the enormous Forges. What he would have given for some armour, a toughened leather apron or some decent gauntlets…but all he had was the thin tunic he had slept in, his breeches and his boots. And a scared Hobbit looking at him with complete panic in his round face. 

Taking the blanket, he wrapped it urgently around the Hobbit’s head and body, shielding him from the flames and then he made a decision. In one swift movement, he slung the plump homeowner over his shoulder and paused, then ducked his head and ran forward through the flames. He could feel the burn on his arm and the Hobbit was squirming, the smell of singeing telling Thorin that his foot hair was probably getting burnt.

Better than his face or lungs, he thought grimly as he faced a wall of flame between them and the door. Without hesitating, he flung the Hobbit through the barely-seen space, hearing him cry out as he hit the ground and Thorin backed up again. He was trapped between two walls of flames, the fire that had started in the kitchen consuming everything in its path. He dinked sideways and coughed again, his throat burning before he leapt, arms crossed over his face to protect his eyes before he hit the ground, stumbled and fell through the doorway, landing on his face.

Immediately hands were batting at him and he cringed, struggling and lashing out at the attackers until a familiar voice broke through his panic.

“Thorin! It’s okay! Your tunic is on fire. We’re just putting the flames out. No one is trying to harm you!”

It was Bilbo. Coughing, his eyes streaming, Thorin lifted his head and saw the familiar shape crouching by him. 

“It’s okay,” Bilbo repeated, his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and slowly, coughing painfully, Thorin nodded. Another Hobbit-Hamfast-helped drag Thorin to his feet and hands passed him a flask of water which he greedily drank, trying to ease the burning in his throat.

“Are they safe?” he rasped, coughing again. Bilbo and Hamfast hauled him back, across the lane and sat him down on the grass verge, watching as a chain of Hobbits formed and began to toss buckets of water at the raging inferno. It was obvious to all that they were fighting a losing battle but the Hobbits seemed just as stubborn as most dwarves Thorin had met and they refused to give up. But over to one side, the little family were being surrounded by family and friends and more than one glance was being cast in the smith’s direction. Dario had a bump on his head from his unceremonious exit and was pointing at the dwarf animatedly.

“They’ll be fine,” Bilbo reassured him. “You saved eight lives tonight, Thorin. That was…amazing…” Coughing, he took another long drink of water before he replied.

“Dwarrow are relatively resistant to flames and heat,” he revealed. “But many died in Erebor when the dragon came. Lives snuffed out by flame and fire. Many of our women and children perished because they were deep in the mountain and could not be rescued…and you were right. Most decent beings would do all they could to spare women and…faunts?” Bilbo nodded and gave a weary sigh.

“You may just have become a hero,” Bilbo commented as Hamfast chuckled.

“I think you’re right, Mister Bilbo,” he commented. “A dwarf saving Hobbits. I’m sure the Thain would be pleased to hear that.”

The words sent a chill through Thorin and he hoped it was so. It was painfully obvious on whose grace he relied on for his sanctuary in the Shire and he was hyper-aware of causing any sort of ruckus that might jeopardise his security...or Bilbo. 

“In fact, the only person who wouldn’t be impressed is Lobelia,” Bilbo added as the other Hobbit chuckled. But Bilbo was glancing at Thorin and he sighed, seeing a burn across the dwarf’s wrist…just by a brand that said ‘SLAVE’. Lightly, he touched Thorin’s arm and the dwarf glanced down-and then hastily tugged the scorched sleeve of his tunic over the brand. Hamfast, fortunately, didn’t seem to have noticed and continued chuckling at the thought of Mrs Sackville-Baggins’ face on learning the smith had become a hero. Coughing again, Thorin slowly levered himself to his feet.

“Can I do any more?” he asked gruffly as Bilbo scrambled up. The Hobbits were still fighting the fire but it was obvious the home was lost.

“I think it may be time to head back to bed,” the young Hobbit agreed and then blushed. “It’s late…or early…and sunrise isn’t that far away.” Hamfast gave a chuckle.

“I think there will be some muzzy heads and tired bodies tomorrow,” he commented. “But there’s only going to be one story.”

-o0o-

Thorin had retired to bed after Bilbo had slathered his burn with a camomile and spearmint cream that his father had sworn by, exhausted by his efforts but Bilbo found himself unable to sleep, his mind whirling at the events of the night-and ever since he had met Thorin. The dwarf had been in the Shire for almost two weeks now and had become a fixture in the market and in Bilbo’s life. Yet he was frustrating because in all that time, the Hobbit hadn’t got anywhere near close enough to him to crack the shell around him and find out more about his guest than he had meagrely doled out. Thorin was tight-lipped and worked hard, taking his breakfast with Bilbo and then going down to the Forge. He had taken delivery of the supplies he had requested the previous week and had made Lobelia a fine kettle as his first act-honouring the order she had put in one his first day. Of course, she had complained about the make, the price, the design…but the quality had been obvious and he had garnered a hatful of orders simply by the fact that she had taken the kettle home and used it. 

But he worked hard and Bilbo had taken to sending him to work with a generous packed lunch, since he had realised dwarves didn’t eat the same number of meals as Hobbits but did eat heartily when they did. Thorin was too thin-that much was obvious to Bilbo-and he had made it his mission to feed him up. At first, the dwarf had protested, shaking his head at the magnificent meals that Bilbo had cooked but the Hobbit had sat him down and explained the rules of Hobbit hospitality. Thorin had offered again to pay for his board and keep but Bilbo had refused, almost insulted that his guest…his friend…make such an offer. His tone had caused the dwarf to apologise and not repeat the offer.

But Thorin had determinedly worked out how much he owed Bilbo, adding the costs of the materials Bilbo had paid for to the debt which was meticulously documented in the back of his blue book. He was turning over a reasonable amount in the Forge and had plenty of orders on the books, meaning he often returned home late from the Forge. Bilbo offered to loan him books or anything he needed but after dinner, all he gratefully accepted was a pipe and a seat by the fire, his eyes unfocussed as he brooded on what Bilbo could not imagine. Sometimes Bilbo read aloud and he found the dwarf listening despite the nature of his words. Bilbo favoured Elvish Histories, bucolic poetry and Hobbitish humour and he was rewarded more than once by the slight upturning of Thorin’s lips as Bilbo read a particularly ludicrous piece. But Thorin was wary about speaking of his past, whether by the famous dwarfish secrecy over their customs and history or from a more personal desire not to rake up memories that hurt by dint of reminding him what he had lost.

Yet every day, Bilbo filed away another small fact about his guest. Thorin wasn’t a morning person but made every effort to be polite and conform with Bilbo’s bright cheeriness over breakfast. He was hardworking and hated being still. He preferred his dark blue tunic and seemed relieved when it was returned from washing. He liked berry tarts and meat in copious quantities but was suspicious of green vegetables, finally explaining that the usual dwarfish diet barely contained any. That had prompted a long interrogation of his guest over whether what he was feeding Thorin was harming him, since his food contained large quantities of vegetables either obviously or hidden-as Hobbits required. Yet the dwarf had chuckled and reassured his host that the food was absolutely delicious and was not harming him. Though dwarves didn’t usually eat vegetables of choice, Bilbo’s meals were perfectly palatable and delectable and he would not have his host alter them in every way. Blushing from the compliments-which were stated with absolute certainty-Bilbo had dipped his head and let the subject drop, though his heart warmed whenever he saw the other clearing his plate.

He had noted that Thorin had cut off his slave bands the second morning in the Forge and that he had concealed what had been underneath with leather straps that he wore conscientiously at all times-though clearly not in bed, judging by the fact that Bilbo had seen the brand and burns after his heroic rescue. Part of him wondered why the dwarf just didn’t fashion better concealment, though Thorin’s concern about wasting resources was probably a reason. The leather straps sufficed so why waste good quality leather on a better concealment? 

It would be lying to say that Bilbo’s heart had been in his mouth as he had watched the dwarf plunge into the flames, his sturdy shape vanishing amid the inferno. It had taken all Bilbo’s self-control not to scream out his name because he knew it was futile: Thorin was already through and a cry would distract him. And betray Bilbo’s own, rather confused feelings. In Bilbo’s mind, the dwarf was already a friend, not someone beholden to him but what did the dwarf feel? He was cordial, grateful and private, never betraying his own feelings and probably awkward at the situation he found himself in. Bilbo had already realised that he was proud and conscious of his honour-a concept that Bilbo couldn’t really understand fully but which seemed central to Thorin’s identity. Yet he seemed to have adopted a few more dwarvish features-the two braids that he’d put in his long hair and the iron clasps somehow seemed very appropriate. Bilbo was aching to ask about them but something stopped him: he didn’t want his friend to think he was prying and only hoped that one day, Thorin would open up more to him.

He made himself a cup of tea and cradled the warm mug in his hands. The sky was warming in the windows and he glanced over at the garden. It was looking like a nice day and he had weeding to do around his tomatoes, squash and cucumbers. The root veg were coming along nicely and his peas and beans were ripening swiftly while the apples and pears were progressing well. He knew the hedgerows were bursting with berries and cobnuts and he suddenly felt an urge to go berrying after breakfast…and perhaps do some baking later. Then he sighed. He really really hoped his fellow Hobbits would treat the outsider as they did every local hero. If he was embraced by the community, Thorin should find himself offered food as gifts in thanks for his work. If not…people would continue as normal…and though Thorin would be none the wiser, Bilbo really wanted him to know that his actions were appreciated. It felt very important that his friend, who had lost so much, was granted that consideration and acceptance for his act of heroism-when his previous one had lost him so much.

Sipping his tea, the Hobbit glanced towards the guest room and sighed. Then he silently walked to his study and drew out a sheet of paper, grasping the quill and dipping the freshly-sharpened nib into the ink. 

He had a letter to write, one that he had been mulling over and writing, then rewriting a hundred times in his head since Thorin had explained his situation. And it felt, in his heart, that it was time now. But a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that Halford and his friends had been looking for Thorin…and certainly not with any good will. Bilbo had been certain that they intended to recapture the dwarf and return him to slavery…though why they would go to such excessive efforts for one dwarf when it would seem to be simpler-though no less abhorrent-to capture new victims eluded the Hobbit. The same silent warning told him that revealing Thorin’s current whereabouts in any letter could be dangerous for his friend…but at the same time, he desperately wanted to let Thorin’s family know he was safe. And from his words, there was only one correspondent he could choose.

He dipped his quill in the ink once more and began to write.

Chapter Text

TEN:

Bilbo was happy to be proven wrong when he wandered down to the market after a successful morning berrying in the hedgerows around Hobbiton. His basket was crammed with fruit and he was just popping by the stalls to collect more sugar for jams and pastries when he saw a small line by the Forge. Thorin had been a little later than usual, exhausted by the efforts of the night but far too stubborn and bone-headed to miss a day in the Forge. Yet Bilbo could tell this wasn’t a line of impatient customers, waving pans and implements for repair. No, there was a definite air of respect and joviality in the queue as they walked up to the hatch and a visibly disconcerted dwarf. Smiling, Bilbo drifted closer as the very rotund shape of Rosa Bracegirdle rummaged in her basket and brought out a magnificent coffee and walnut cake. 

“Dario and Marigold Redfern are my cousins and I am godmother to three of their faunts,” she announced with a serious look. “You saved the lives of eight of my kin last night, Master Smith. And I couldn’t walk by without leaving you a small token of thanks.” Thorin opened his mouth to reply and then paused. A few days after arriving, Bilbo had sat him down and given him a very serious and intense talk about the importance of food in the Shire.

“Thorin-I cannot stress this enough. If someone in the Shire offers you food, you accept it. To refuse is a grave insult-the only possible reason is if you are actually allergic to the food or some component of it. And even then, you have to express extreme regret that you cannot enjoy the benefit of their kind gift so they don’t feel bad about offering you a gift that could accidentally harm you. Being embarrassed, unable to reciprocate or not hungry are not good enough reasons to refuse food from a Hobbit and doing so will damage your reputation in the Shire. And reputation here is everything. The place runs on gossip as you recall.”

“I…am very grateful, Mistress Hobbit,” he said slowly, picking his words with care. “In truth, I only did what anyone would have and expected no reward. I trust they have recovered from their ordeals. I am very thankful for the gift.”

Rosa smiled brilliantly and patted him on the hand, just missing the bandage over his burn. 

“They’re all shocked but I am sure they’ll all be fine,” she assured him. “Though Dario is moaning about the bump on his head he got when you rescued him. Is it true you threw him through the flames and out the front door, all in one throw?” Thorin nodded.

“It is true,” he confirmed as she patted him on the hand again.

“You take it easy today, Master Smith,” she advised him. “You’ve earned a little ease for your heroics!” And then she scuttled away as the next Hobbitwife slid a fine pie onto the counter.

“You do eat beef, don’t you?” she checked, her bright eyes glittering. “I’m Saffron Chubb. Marigold is my niece and I am so grateful that you saved her and her little ones. I’ve brought my beef and oyster pie as a little token of thanks…”

From his vantage point, Bilbo started chuckling. Saffron Chubb’s beef and oyster pie was legendary in the Shire and it was a very lucky man who received one as a gift. Thorin bowed his head and stumbled his way through his thanks, though there was a hint of surprise and confusion in his eyes. Taking pity on him, Bilbo walked forward and slid in through the door of the Forge, nodding to Saffron. She winked at him as Thorin turned to see the young Hobbit at his side.

“I probably should have explained,” Bilbo offered. “The people of the Shire are incredibly generous and after heroics like yours, it’s completely natural that kin of those you saved would want to offer you gifts. Saffron’s pie is legendary across the whole Shire while Rosa’s walnut cake is multiple award winning.” Brows furrowing, Thorin nodded slowly.

“So this is a normal reaction?” he asked warily as Bilbo chuckled. 

“It’s a thanks from the community,” he confirmed. 

“It’s not pity?” Thorin murmured, his eyes unreadable and Bilbo immediately realised his qualms. Over the days, he had come to realise that despite everything that had happened to him, Thorin was a proud dwarf as well as an honourable and brave one. It was the same pride in his craft that had him refusing to hand over a substandard knife, no matter how harshly Halford treated him and the same pride that had him refusing food he desperately needed because he had no money and could not repay his benefactor. But he could allay his fears with ease this time.

“Not at all-it’s a gesture of gratitude and and respect,” the Hobbit assured him. “And frankly, I would have been disappointed and pretty annoyed if they hadn’t gifted you with food for your heroics.” Thorin had the grace to look away.

“I only did what needed to be done,” he mumbled. “Anyone would have done it.”

“Actually, many of us may have considered it but most of us wouldn’t because it would have killed us,” Bilbo told him seriously. “And I completely understand that you are stronger and more resilient than a Hobbit-in fact, I think that was why Leo and Ham came for you. You were their last hope…and you exceeded everyone’s hopes with your quick thinking and bravery. So please, allow yourself a little thanks for your actions and accept the gifts with good grace.” Thorin leaned closer.

“What do I do with all this food?” he hissed. “I mean…it’s very generous…” He glanced at the line: there were at least a dozen other Hobbits with smiles and bulging baskets who seemed to be about to shower him with gifts.

“Weeeelll…you could eat it,” Bilbo teased him in a low voice. “Or you could share it with your friends. You cannot hand it on and you cannot refuse it.” Thorin looked at him helplessly.

“Won’t it spoil in the heat?” he mouthed and Bilbo relented.

“I’ll wait around and transport what I can carry back to my cold pantry at Bag End,” he offered. “And then I’ll come back for the rest.” Thorin bowed his head in relief. He had been short of food, hungry for so much of the last three years that the thought of wasting such delicious-looking food was literally painful to him. But he then looked into Bilbo’s eyes and gave a small sigh.

“I want to share it with you…and any others you deem worthy,” he said quietly. “I have little but I know hospitality is important in the Shire. And repaying hospitality is an…expected thing here?” Bilbo nodded and smiled.

“I know who to invite…and don’t worry, Thorin,” he said with a wry smile. “Lobelia isn’t one of them.” The dwarf managed a small sigh of relief.

“Thank Mahal,” he exhaled and then nodded before h turned back to the next customer who was proffering a magnificent trifle…

-o0o-

Balin, son of Fundin, Adviser to the King of dwarves in Ered Luin, steeled himself for another trying session as he stood loyally at his Lord’s side. Wise, diplomatic and extremely discreet, he could already see that today was going to be one of those days when Thrain struggled, his variable grasp on reality looser than it should be. Of course, there was a strain of madness that had lurked amid the line of Durin…not all the way back to Durin himself, of course, but there were those who speculated that during their time in the Grey Mountains, King Dain’s wife Meris had carried the insanity and had bequeathed it to her descendants, starting with her son. Thror had suffered from severe Dragon Sickness, triggered by the abundance of gold that seamed the Lonely Mountain of Erebor and worsened beyond all help by the discovery of the Arkenstone, the King’s Jewel that had gleamed with an eerie light that had bewitched the King so that he had spent long hours sitting in his throne, cradling the gem in his hands…when he wasn’t walking the treasury, trailing his hands over the gold. Ultimately, his sickness had accumulated a hoard that had summoned Smaug the Terrible, the dragon that had stolen Erebor from the dwarves and condemned them to a life of wandering and poverty.

Thror had died on the threshold of Moria, decapitated by Azog the Defiler in the horror that had been Azanulbizar and Thrain had thrown himself into the fight…but then he had retreated, broken and wounded and he had left the battle and the fate of his people in hands of his oldest son, still a young Prince who showed immense courage and determination in saving his people from annihilation that day and seizing the unlikeliest though bitterest of victories from defeat. Thrain had remained befuddled for months, forcing Thorin to lead his people, while caring for the wounded which included his own younger brother, Frerin. Thorin had never shirked a task, never shied from the hard decision and if there was a shortage of food or shelter, he was the first to step forward and forfeit his share for the dams and dwarflings. There was little he wouldn’t give for his people…including his life.

Balin shook himself as his eyes slid over the shape of the King. His own family , descended from King Dain’s younger brother Borin, had never shown any signs of madness…and nor (to his knowledge) had the rulers of the Iron Hills, whose line looked to Gror, the youngest brother of Thror. Their current ruler, Dain II Ironfoot-Thrain’s cousin-was ornery but again, there was no madness in their line. It was only the direct line of Durin that was blighted…and Thrain most of all. The King was rocking slightly, his sharp-beaked face with the hideous scar over his blinded left eye appearing lost. The crown seemed to weigh especially heavy on him this morning. 

“I’m here, my King,” Frerin said, resting a gentle hand on his father’s shoulder, fingers sinking softly into the dark wolf pelt of his cloak. The Prince shared the brilliant blue eyes of his family but his hair and beard were a warm blond, elegantly braided and beaded in gold. Clothed in rich reds and greys, Frerin always looked the image of the perfect Prince, his ready smile and welcoming manner the opposite of his serious and broody older brother. Frerin made friends easily, charmed all comers and oozed charisma while projecting an everyman aura that made him very popular among the miners and makers of the settlement. “Let’s take this slowly…”

“Where’s Thorin?” Thrain asked abruptly. “Where’s my Heir?”

Silence fell over the room and Balin had to force himself not to wince. Frerin took a deep breath and his grip on Thrain’s shoulder tightened for a moment. 

“Don’t you remember, Adad?” he asked in a gentle voice. “Thorin…has left us…”

There was silence again, where the shuffling of feet and the sounds of armour clinking and leather creaking were like the fall of mountains.

“Dead?” Thrain asked, the pain in his voice unbearable. “But he survived the battle…” Frerin glanced up, his crystal blue eyes seeking help. This wasn't the first time they had been forced to rehearse the whole sorry incident and Balin was certain it wouldn’t be the last either but it didn’t make it easier on anyone.

“Thorin lives, Adad,” the Crown Prince said evenly, his voice tinged with sadness. “But he has been disowned. Cast Out.” 

The pain and shock that crossed the King’s rugged features was horrific to behold, as if his younger son was spitting poison at him personally. His scarred head was shaking as well.

“No,” he repeated. “There is nothing that could force me to discard my elder son…”

Frerin looked up again, seeking help and his gaze locked on Balin. The older man shuddered. It happened every time and every time, he was made complicit in hurting his King. And though an adviser should not outright lie to his King, he knew that-like as not-Thrain's mind would be back tomorrow, sharp as a tack and he would not recall his weakness and confusion of the previous day. It would be kinder to just play along and allow him the blessed ignorance that would ease him through his waning moments. But the vicious Lords were in attendance and they would not allow any mention of Thorin except as a shamed outcast, a coward who had tainted the line of Durin with his surrender. But Balin pulled his shoulders back and walked forward, his face adopting the kindly expression he usually wore, though his eyes glittered at the Prince.

“I regret, my Liege, that Crown Prince Frerin speaks naught but the truth,” he forced himself to say. “There was an ambush, an attack. Thorin and Dwalin fought to protect your daughter and grandsons but they were overpowered. The attackers were Men. Slavers. They wanted the boys and Dis as…merchandise. Thorin stepped forward and offered himself in exchange for them. He surrendered to them, to shame to save them. On their return, the tale was told and there was no option but to declare him coward and disown him. To cast him out from his family and from the Kingdom.” Balin lifted his chin. “Many voices were raised in protest but your loyal Council won out over all objections. You were forced to disown him three years ago.”

Thrain’s features grew blank but the pain in his one eye was horrific. He gave a single nod and then turned to Frerin.

“What is the first order of business,” he asked in a toneless voice, a blank mask now in place. There was an audible sigh as the watchers relaxed slightly.

And that was it. Message received and the King dismissed all thoughts of his elder son, the brave hero of Azanbizar, the man who had salvaged what remained after his father and grandfather had really cocked up the battle by madness, poor planning and the triumph of hope over intelligence and sanity. Balin wondered if Thrain had even listened to the words…because Balin had been angry beyond words today at being forced-again-to be the man who broke his King’s heart and he had told the full version, Usually the Lords insisted on an edited version that cast Thorin in a much worse light and justified their actions but in the end, what could they do? Balin was the King’s Adviser and had been under his father since the fall of Erebor and had occupied the position alone since Fundin went to Mahal’s Halls at Azanulbizar: he had spoken nothing that was untrue. But Thrain had fallen back on dogma and ritual because that was safer than opposing the will of his venal Lords and standing up for his son. After all, he had never stood up for Thorin against Thror so it had become a habit to allow his son to fend for himself. Thorin had protected his own, protected his sister and sister-sons at the cost of…everything. And no one seemed to want to return the favour.

He excused himself after the first three items, knowing that the next item-a discussion of tariffs that favoured the Lords-would be heated and would not be resolved today and that it would not require his attendance. He slipped out a side door and walked slowly through the Halls, his mind rerunning the words. Of course, Dis, Dwalin and the boys had argued for Thorin but more powerful and manipulative voices had overpowered them…and when they should have been mounting a rescue, instead they were disowning the Crown Prince and condemning him to death as a slave.

But of course, Thorin was not the only loser. Dis and her sons were kept on a tighter leash and trips beyond Ered Luin were forbidden. The boys were allowed out in the area but they and their mother were not permitted to travel together. Fili was almost old enough to start being trained but so far Dis-and Balin-had shielded the older boy from Frerin, the golden Prince. Because it seemed that the new Crown Prince was enjoying his elevation far too much. Frerin had always been personal, likeable and fun-loving but he seemed to be exploiting his position just a little too much. Too many parties, too many sumptuous clothes while others barely scraped a living. And sometimes, he seemed to be a little too long in the company of men like Lord Vurth, Lord Brago and Lord Hizair…the men who had profited most from Thorin’s removal from the stage. 

He walked out into the yard and crossed to the main gates, walking through with a nod and smile to the dwarf guarding there before he reached the outer perimeter and the familiar shape of his brother. Dwalin had been the other loser, dishonoured for his failure to protect the Princes and Princess despite being outnumbered by over twenty assailants to their five and demoted and transferred from the King’s guard to the common soldiery. And though Dwalin was loyal, Balin knew he was hurt, shamed and furious at his treatment. He had been all for riding out with a garrison and hunting the honourless curs who had taken his Prince and closest friend and Mahal damn it, he was right. They could have found Thorin had they acted swiftly but they didn’t. Dwalin was disregarded and Thorin was lost.

“Brother.” Balin’s greeting was neutral. Dwalin breathed in through his nose, his posture rigid and his his eyes scanning the horizon. Taller and more massive than his older brother, Dwalin was every inch the tattooed warrior, his armour well-used and martial skills peerless. His lethal axes, Grasper and Keeper, were slung across his back and his hands hung loose at his side, ready to attack.

“Brother.” The word was wary. “Shouldn’t you be at Council?”

“It’s one of those days for His Majesty,” Balin explained mildly, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with his taller sibling.

“Ah.” There was a pause. “They made you tell him again.” It was a statement because Balin had precisely one person he could vent to on the rare occasions he felt the need. There was a single curt nod.

“I told the whole story,” Balin said mildly. “Not a flicker.”

Dwalin grunted and scanned the horizon again,

“If I could go back and take his place, I would,” he murmured. “He’s my Shield-brother, my friend, my Prince…”

“And you had a serious concussion that had Oin in despair,” Balin reminded him. “How you rode back without falling off was a miracle…” There was a pause. “Mahal save me from your stone-necked stubbornness…” he muttered.

“You didn’t seek me out to grumble about my probably addled wits three years ago,” Dwalin told him with no rancour.

“There are visits to the Royal Wing from unauthorised personnel,” Balin told him. “Not often but a couple of times recently. And with the King becoming more erratic by the month, there are rumours that some may not wait for Mahal to take the King to his Halls.” There was a pause and Dwalin turned his head to face his brother.

“You have proof?” he said in a low voice.

“I have rumours and meetings that shouldn’t happen,” Balin said quietly. “I have managed to acquire the services of a dwarf who is less than…respectable but who will feed me information independent of those whose pockets seems to have been tainted by gold from the coffers of the Lords.”

“Dwarrow follow their King, no matter if he is sane, insane, brave, cowardly, intelligent or thinks he’s a cucumber,” Dwalin growled. “The King is the King. And until he dies, he is my King. This is treason.”

“And we have no proof, no allies and I am not even sure that Thrain or Frerin would credit my words,” Balin sighed. “I burnt a lot of goodwill when I joined you and the Princess in petitioning for Thorin’s recovery.” Dwalin scowled and gave a metal-bending glare which his older brother waved off as if it was nothing. “Oh, of course it was the right thing to do, brother, but it just revealed how thoroughly the Court has been infiltrated by the unworthy, the venal and the downright corrupt…” he carried on as if Dwalin hadn’t tried to eviscerate him with a look. “Treason is brewing. A coup is brewing. And Frerin may be amenable to playing along. He has his line of succession secured.”

“Fili and Kili,” Dwalin growled. 

“I know they are not traitors…and nor is the Princess,” Balin sighed. “And I am beginning to think that getting them out of Ered Luin would be the safest thing.”

“If there was a safe place,” Dwalin growled, turning back to scan the horizon.

“Indeed,” Balin sighed and exhaled. “I’ll set my mind to it. In the mean time…keep your head down and be prepared to leave.”

“The first is an impossibility since I’m the tallest in the guards,” Dwalin told him with a rare flash of humour. “And the second is already done.” Nodding, Balin turned away with a small smile.

“Better get back,” he sighed. “I reckon that the Lords will have chewed their arguments about tariffs almost to death by now. And it looks like rain.” There was a faint rumble to thunder as if to prove his point as Dwalin rolled his eyes.

“Can’t have you shrinking any shorter, brother, or you end up a Halfling,” he commented. Balin chuckled.

“Half of nothing, brother,” he commented. “Just unobtrusive and wary of outsiders. They keep to themselves. You wouldn’t catch a dwarf in their Shire.”

-o0o-

Arriving back at Bag End, Thorin was exhausted from a truncated and rather active night, the efforts of being polite and grateful to seventeen Hobbits who had gifted him enough food to feed a small army and then a longer line of Hobbits with work that needed doing urgently. Admittedly they had all waited with good humour but he felt he needed to make up for the time taken in receiving his gifts and he had worked though lunch and later than was usual to finish all the work before he closed up. And now he was bone-weary, sweaty, mucky and just wanting to fall into a bath and then bed. 

“And here he is!” Bilbo said, grinning at him as he emerged from the parlour. “The hero of the Shire.” There were cheers and a whistle as a small group of Hobbits emerged from behind Bilbo. Thorin paused and blinked for he recognised the people…mostly. Drogo and his would-be fiancee, Primula Brandybuck were at the front, their faces welcoming and warmed with smiles. They had met Thorin a couple of times for their were frequent guests and after initial interest, they treated him just like a Hobbit. Behind them were Hamfast Gamgee and his wife, Bell, who also dropped by not infrequently. Though the Hobbit’s talk of gardening and plantings went over the dwarf’s head, he found the man friendly and interested in his work. Muzzy and his wife Sorrel were still seated but clapping earnestly, the playful look in the old smith’s eyes competing with one of pride at what his successor had done. And at the back, Adelgrim and Flambard Took and Barius Chubb were clapping his arrival. 

Dipping his head, Thorin felt his cheeks flare with heat and he felt an urge to back away and retreat. But Bilbo was walking forward, that kind smile on his face and his hand touched Thorin’s arm. Strangely, the contact grounded the dwarf and he met the hazel eyes, seeing nothing but genuine kindness and concern.

“Are you okay?” Bilbo whispered and Thorin nodded automatically.

“I am fine,’ he managed flatly, the tone the same as the one he had used in the Forge in Bree when Bilbo had tried to interrogate him. Grabbing his arm, Bilbo leaned closer.

“I am so sorry,” he gabbled. “It’s too much. But I wanted those people you knew, who liked you to be here so that you could celebrate your heroism with them. I can ask them to leave if it’s all overwhelming and…” Thorin’s eyes flicked up and realised that somehow, he had distressed Bilbo who had clearly worked hard to pull everything together in record time. He shook his head.

“I was surprised,” he admitted in a low voice. “I would not have thought these good Hobbits would have wanted to spend time with an outsider…” Giving a dry chuckle, Bilbo swatted his arm.

“Silly dwarf,” he murmured. “You have done more than you know. And all of these Hobbits are impressed at the inroads you have made and how well you have settled. This is for you. But if you feel it is too much, please tell me…” Thorin shook his head.

“I am sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll just wash up and join you…?” Bilbo nodded.

“I’ll get some wine,” he murmured. “And I’ve left you a small gift on the bed.” Then he turned away.

After possibly the quickest bath is history, Thorin returned to his room to find a flat package wrapped in brown paper on his bed. Curious, he finished his braids and he then unfolded the paper-to reveal a brand new tunic, the measurements and length the exact mirror of his old one. But the fabric was rich and new, a deep Durin Blue that was chosen to match his ragged old one and was embroidered with silver leaves around the neck and stars around the wrists. For a second, he pulled the material against his face, closing his eyes. It smelled new and felt…rich. New clothes had been sparse, even back in Ered Luin because Thorin couldn’t justify lavish spending when many of the people were struggling on the bread line. In fact, the dark blue tunic he had nursed through his slavery was the newest thing he possessed. 

Automatically, he pulled the garment on and gently smoothed out any wrinkles. He was thinner than he had been and the tunic was a little loose but the presence of a new piece of clothing made him feel more like the Prince he had been and he squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. Carefully, he wrapped the leather straps over his scars and then took a shaky breath. He shouldn’t be unnerved about facing a party in his honour celebrating a heroic act…but he was. Yet Bilbo was there and over the days and weeks, he had come to trust Bilbo and knew the young Hobbit would never hurt him. The party was in his honour and it would be dishonourable to abandon Bilbo and shame him. 

I can do this. I am Thorin son of Thrain of the line of Durin. These Hobbits are your friends and have come to honour you, to share the food gifted you for saving eight lives. This is how a normal inhabitant of the Shire would respond to the situation and thank Mahal, you have the chance to do this. Well, thank Mahal and thank Bilbo. 

Thank Mahal for Bilbo. I don’t know what I would do without him.

He blinked, the realisation stunning. Somewhere in the time he had known the young Hobbit, he had come not only not to fear him but also…to trust him. It was a disturbing and yet warming realisation that unlocked something his chest and helped him step more confidently away from his bed. Maybe there was some hope that he could find peace…acceptance…hope in the Shire

So he walked out and joined his friend at the party.

Chapter Text

ELEVEN:

The first Bilbo knew that there was a problem was when there was a hammering on the door, jolting him from scanning the columns of accounts that he had to check now the rents had come in. It was a job he had been putting off because it was dull and required him to set aside anything else, but with Thorin working hard in the Forge and the pantry well stocked, he finally had no excuses. Until the hammering repeated.

Crossly, he scrambled up and emerged from his study, pattering along the hallway until he reached the door and heard the hammering again.

“I’m here!” he announced as he opened the door, his tone exasperated. Surely nothing could be that urgent…and then he started as he faced a panting and red-faced Drogo.

“Come quickly!” his cousin gasped. “It’s Thorin. There’s trouble…” Eyes wide, Bilbo grabbed his coat from the pegs and slammed the door as he ran out after his cousin, not even stopping to close the gate as they sprinted, helter-skelter, down the Hill and directly to the market. Bilbo glanced at his cousin: Drogo was a solid sort and not prone to any sort of hyperbole, a Baggins to the core…so if he was worried, whatever was happening had to be seriously bad news. He peered ahead an all he could see was a crowd-and horses. 

He frowned. Horses? That implied big people…and if there were Men here in the market, that could only mean… Realisation hit him at the same time as his ears heard the clang of metal on metal and the roars of combat. He glanced to Drogo.

“Has someone gone for the Sheriffs?” he asked and Drogo nodded.

“Fosco was with me and he ran for them as I came for you,” he panted as Bilbo nodded and ran ahead, cursing the crowd of Hobbits who were blocking the way and enjoying the show without contributing anything to the scene going on. Furious, he elbowed his way through, earning himself mutters and dirty looks from his neighbours-though these died away when they caught the look on his face. But even his wildest imaginings did not meet the sight that met him as he burst through the line. 

Thorin was fighting with a sword-one he had forged for himself, clearly since it looked like nothing he had ever seen in the Shire-his back to the wall of the Forge and facing a dozen Men who were crowding him. All were armed and closing in. Thorin was roaring curses in Khuzdul, the dwarfish language that Bilbo didn’t understand but which sounded incredibly appropriate for the situation. And the Hobbits were watching, some cheering the combat on while Thorin seemed to be fighting for his life. Incredulous, Bilbo turned to the Hobbit next to him-Daddy Proudfoot.

“What’s happening?” he asked, his face shocked as the older Hobbit shuffled his feet and pushed his straw hat back on his greying curls.

“Ah, there you are, Mister Bilbo,” he said cheerily. “I saw Drogo take off as if Lobelia was after him. Well, your dwarf friend was just minding his own business mending me best shovel-I’d bent it trying to lever up some invading roots from Buddleia Greenthumb’s garden, curse her cherry trees!-when these Men rode up. Looking all het up they were, not minding the way. I saw three faunts almost get ridden down without so much as a by-your-leave or apology and they headed straight for the Forge, yelling and drawing their weapons. The dwarf looked up at them-looked like he’d seen a ghost, he did, and slammed the hatch. They surrounded the Forge and started trying to break in, yelling a storm and calling him a slave…” The older Hobbit had the grace to look embarrassed as he said the words.

“He’s not. The Shire doesn’t condone slavery and he was freed,” Bilbo ground out through gritted teeth, not caring how his words were taken. He was looking around for something to use as a weapon. “Why are you all watching?”

“They’re big folk!” Daddy Proudfoot told him simply. “What hope do we have against the likes of them?”

“We have numbers!” Bilbo told him angrily. “Yavanna! These men rode in to attack a free man in the market in Hobbiton! Should we be tolerating this? Accepting this? Just watching?”

“It’s not our business!” Daddy Proudfoot told him. “Though the dwarf has been very helpful to everyone. Never stints to assist when asked, no matter what else he has to do. He’s not a bad sort. But he’s a warrior…”

“And hopelessly outnumbered,” Bilbo growled, finding a suitable stone. 

“When they were on the brink of breaking in, he erupted through the hatch, that sword in hand and took them on. He’s wounded three and two have had to drop back. Someone’s going to get killed.”

“If they had wanted him dead, they would have burnt the Forge down and killed him as he tried to escape,” Bilbo realised. “They want him.” Then he saw Thorin take a step forward to block a vicious attack to his right side-and in doing so, he exposed his left. A Man lurched forward, his sword raised-and Bilbo threw the rock, the aim true. The impact slammed into the Man’s temple and he dropped immediately. Two of the men turned to face the crowd, swords levelled at the Hobbits.

“STAY BACK!” they snarled. “This is none of your business.” 

The mood in the crowd darkened and more hands snatched rocks. Daddy Proudfoot glanced over and saw Hamfast Gamgee and Indigo Bockleby panting up with their pitchforks, their normally amiable faces twisted in anger. And the Sheriffs were running forward as well. But behind them, Bilbo saw a Man get a lucky hit on Thorin’s sword-arm and as he ducked, another attacked slammed the pommel of his sword on the back of Thorin’s head-and then twice more. Finally, the dwarf fell.

“Cease and desist!” Grumpy Oldwood shouted. He was Sergeant of the Sheriffs and had six Hobbits behind him-and a crowd. Though their truncheons were hardly the weapons of a ferocious defence force and were unlikely to deter these armed and dangerous invaders. After all, mild drunkenness and scrumping were the only real Shire crimes… “Lower your weapons! You are in the Shire and have no right to attack another resident!” The Man facing him gave a sneer.

“This slave?’ he spat. “He’s not a resident…”

“He’s a free man!” Bilbo shouted, walking forward, a stone in his hand. The Men finished binding Thorin with a chain around his neck but hauled an arm forward. Carelessly, they sliced through the bindings he had adopted over his wrists and revealed the ugly brands.

SLAVE.

Bilbo sighed.

“That means nothing because…” He walked into the Forge and found the paper Thorin carried with him. He demonstrated it to the Men. “He’s been freed.”

The first Man snatched it from Bilbo and ripped it to shreds, shoving the Hobbit back. There were angry mutters from the crowd now and the Hobbits were starting to inch forward. More missiles were grasped and the Sheriffs were starting to look concerned. A Mob of Hobbits was rare but they could be ferocious if roused. The Men levelled their swords at the Hobbits, the tip of one hovering mere inches from Bilbo’s throat.

“These say he isn’t,” the leader sneered as his fellows finished roping Thorin’s arms behind his back. Bilbo stared at his friend in shock. Thorin’s face was pallid, blood smeared over his forehead and clotting in his hair from the blows they had used to finally subdue him. Eight of the dozen men were wounded, four of them seriously but the remaining attackers looked very dangerous and prepared to use their blades on the crowd.

“You understand this land is protected by Lord Elrond of Imladris and the Rangers?” Sergeant Oldwood asked them. “You will be hunted.”

“For retrieving our property?” the Man sneered.

“He was bought by Bilbo there and freed!” Drogo shouted, his fists clenched. He had met Thorin and dined with him multiple times: though taciturn, the dwarf had been a decent sort and worked hard. “You have invaded the Shire bearing arms and attacked a resident of Hobbiton. You are threatening our people. It will not be tolerated!” The Man lurched forward and the Sheriffs backed up a step. The others were already mounting, a glance showing Thorin had been thrown across the front of a horse like so much luggage. 

“Hand him over!” Bilbo insisted. “By your perverse logic, he’s mine. I paid good money for him. If he is a slave as you claim, he is mine.”

“And yet we’re taking him,” the Man scoffed, flinging himself into the saddle. “Another wants him.” He looked around. “Nice place this. We should visit more often.” And with that, he kicked his mount and the horse accelerated at the Sheriffs. They dived out of the way as the raiders galloped off towards the East Road, leaving the market place in shambles. The Sheriffs stared at Bilbo and Drogo.

“Nothing to see here,” Grumpy announced, trying to disperse the crowd. He eyes trailed over to Bilbo who was shocked, hearing the murmurs of the crowd. There was shock and anger there as well-but mixed in was a definite air of it being “outsiders’ problems” and some rather offensive murmurs that maybe the slave was back where he belonged. It made his blood boil-not only because Thorin had done nothing wrong and had saved eight lives in the fire, a fact conveniently forgotten though it was only a couple of weeks earlier. No it was because his insular and easygoing people had missed the most serious point.

There had been an armed incursion in the Shire and a free being had been kidnapped and taken by slavers. And it was a premeditated and vicious attack, with no regard for the laws of the Shire or the protection that traditionally shielded the Shire from attacks or the officers of the law who had confronted them. It was a serious situation that threatened them all-especially in light of the last words the men had threatened them with.

“Send for the Thain,” Bilbo ordered him. “This is something that cannot be tolerated. We are all in danger.” The Sergeant nodded, giving a stern look.

“I know-and I think he’s already on his way. The men came in through the West of the Shire and I think word got to Tuckborough before they arrived here…” Drogo walked to Bilbo’s side.

“You need to speak to the Thain, don’t you?” he said as the crowd finally started to disperse. Bilbo nodded.

“No one should be kidnapped from somewhere they have been promised safety,” he said grimly. “Isengrim needs to know. Because those men have checked out the Hobbit defences-and found them lacking. Those men are slavers…and if they think they can get away with raiding us, then none of us is safe.”

-o0o-

Bilbo had returned to Bag End only to grab his pack, change his coat and close up the smial before heading out to go to meet the Thain. There was anger, boiling in his chest in a manner that was completely unfamiliar. He assumed it was the Tookish blood in him that was stirred by the events of the afternoon, angered beyond reason by the blatant attack and the complete sneering disregard for the laws of the Shire. And Thorin…Thorin who had come with Bilbo on the promise of safety and a chance to work and earn his way and who had been failed by the Shire. Thorin who had been attacked with no one coming to his defence and who had been beaten unconscious and kidnapped. The image of his pallid face, with blood smeared over his strong features, had made Bilbo feel sick with worry and the memory of his body slung over the horse like a pack made him shudder. 

He closed his eyes. The men had been single-minded in their pursuit of Thorin and the final words had given him the clue that this was anything over than a simple matter.

Another wants him.

The fears that had washed over him during the journey back from Bree, when Halford and his friends had accosted them and demanded Thorin’s whereabouts, crashed back in full force. Bilbo had been troubled then by their determination to recapture a dwarf that had been sold legally. Surely if there had been an issue, Halford would have refused to sell. Except he hadn’t…but then they had come anyway, 

Almost as if Halford had realised his mistake. And a quibble about price hadn’t been the real reason. No…something more profound had driven him to recruit his friends to come after the dwarf. Or more likely, someone. Powerful, vengeful…and angry.

And Bilbo was sure, now he reran the memory in his mind, that the men had been the same ones who had accosted them on the road. They had believed their tale then…but something had changed. They had tracked Thorin to the Shire-and how had word gotten out?-and then they had chosen to disregard the protections that had warned them off on the road. 

Another wants him.

And whoever that person may be…was determined to retrieve Thorin…by whatever means necessary. Even through invasion, force and maybe murder.

His brow lowering, Bilbo wrenched open the door and walked down the path towards his gate…and then he stopped. For coming up the hill was a cart, bearing two shapes. The first was easy to recognise, for Isengrim was in his finest golden waistcoat and a magnificent red brocade jacket with the seal of the Tooks hanging round his neck on a thick red and gold ribbon, sitting on the front board next to the other shape. Bilbo paused and then looked at the other: a tall shape, all in rather ratty grey robes topped by a slightly ravaged tall pointed grey hat. Ageless and wise blue eyes looked over a large nose and a lined face, the wild beard somehow in keeping with the person’s appearance. A gnarled staff was jammed beside him.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo whispered, memories of his childhood washing over him. His mother laughing and smiling with the shape of the wizard, the friend of his grandfather, the Old Took, who brought such amazing fireworks to the Midsummer Party in the Shire… “GANDALF!”

The wizard started and his eyes focussed on the shape of the Hobbit standing at his gate. A smile lifted his lips.

“Well I’m blessed,” he exclaimed. “Bilbo Baggins! Just the person I was coming to see!”

“The person we both were…” Isengrim amended, his bushy brows knotted. “Let’s step inside Bag End, nephew. I think we have much to discuss.” Bilbo nodded.

“We certainly have,” he said and gestured. “After you…”

Then next few minutes were taken up with Bilbo shedding his pack and coat and brewing a nice pot of tea, finding a large glass of red wine for Gandalf and setting up a plate of lemon biscuits, scones with jam and clotted cream, delicate strawberry tarts and cinnamon pastries. Finally, he walked into the parlour, served his guests and sat anxiously in his father’s old chair, a cup of tea clenched in his hands for want of something to do. But he barely sipped the warm liquid as he inspected his guests. Isengrim polished off a strawberry tart and sighed in delight.

“That was worthy of Mother,” he sighed and then caught the edge of Bilbo’s urgent expression. “But you are right to look concerned, nephew. We have a problem.”

“That’s an understatement,” Bilbo sighed and sipped his tea. 

“Perhaps you could start by telling us what actually happened,” Isengrim invited him. There was a pause and Bilbo gave a sigh. He was acutely aware of Gandalf’s eyes, observing his every movement and seeming to read his soul. But he opened his mouth and gave a concise but suitably detailed account of the fight from when Drogo hammered on his door. Finally, he sat back, sipping his tea from shaking hands, delayed shock setting in. Isengrim’s face was like thunder and Gandalf’s brows were knotted in consternation.

“This is grave news,” the wizard commented, lighting his pipe and taking a long puff.

“Indeed,” Isengrim said, worrying his own pipe. His eyes turned to Bilbo. “I was concerned that the dwarf would bring trouble-but I never imagined this would ensue.”

“Are you a threat, Thorin? Are you a danger to the Shire-and my nephew?”

“I am bad luck.”

“Nor did I,” Bilbo conceded, his voice still shaky. He was cursing himself for suddenly being overwhelmed but he was aware, as he relived the confrontation, just how dangerous it had been, something he had studiously ignored amid the anger of seeing his friend attacked in the market of Hobbiton and that no one was helping him. “But I vouched for him. You granted him leave to stay-and he should have been accorded the protection of the Baggins name…but they attacked him in broad daylight and kidnapped him.”

“And that is the crux of the matter,” Gandalf said gravely. “These men cared nothing for the protections the Shire is afforded and ran roughshod over your laws. They kidnapped a dwarf in broad daylight and only Bilbo here made any move to fight back…”

“It is not our concern,” Isengrim said automatically-and then winced at the glares he earned from the two others.

“Of course it is your concern!” Gandalf growled, his voice suddenly grim. “These men rode in here, found no real resistance-the dwarf is a far better fighter than you and he was taken down by a dozen men. Nice place this-we should visit more often? That is a threat if ever I heard one!” The Thain sagged, suddenly looking all of his years.

“If they turn their eyes on us, what can we do, Gandalf?” he murmured. “We are no warriors. We cannot hold back deliberate incursions from Men. And if they see us as an easy target, what’s to stop them raiding our borders, taking our young who like to push the boundaries, to visit the Old Forest or travel to Bree or…”

“The Bounders will have to be armed and trained more-the Rangers can help,” the wizard murmured, puffing up a storm and staring at the older Hobbit. “The young must be warned. But the Men must be warned off as well and relearn that attacking the Shire carries a high price…”

“Yet the dwarf was not a Hobbit,” Isengrim murmured. “The Heads of Families won’t be happy at such measures on behalf of a transient!”

“Thorin was no transient!” Bilbo put in hotly, regaining his courage. “He was working honestly to repay me-his desire not any want of mine!-and regain his honour…” Suddenly, Gandalf whipped round and grasped Bilbo’s shoulder, staring deep into the younger Hobbit’s eyes. 

“Thorin?” he asked urgently. “You said his name was Thorin. Just Thorin?” Bilbo frowned and shook his head.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he revealed and Gandalf exhaled with what was relief, closing his eyes and sagging.

“He’s alive,” he murmured. “Thank the Valar.” Both Hobbits stared at him in surprise, wondering what the underlying story was. Clearly they were unaware of his true identity-the identity that Thorin had been notably reticent in sharing with his saviour and which seemed to cause him significant pain.

“You know him, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked as the old wizard nodded. 

“Of course I do,” he said easily. “Thorin Oakenshield is the elder son of Thrain, King of the dwarves of Ered Luin and descendent of the Line of Durin.” Bilbo blinked.

“He’s a Prince?” he repeated.

“The Crown Prince,” Gandalf smiled and then his face fell. “Or he was. Three years ago, he vanished after his family was attacked on the road. The rumour was that he was taken as a slave, that he surrendered to save his family from the same fate. And in doing so, he surrendered his honour, his family name, his future. And there are those who seem to be determined to ensure that there is no possibility that he could ever return.”

“Gandalf?” Isengrim murmured, frowning. “What is going on?”

“Thorin Oakenshield is a remarkable dwarf, a warrior of courage and honour and leadership. A Prince who would spend the last drop of his blood to protect his family, his people and his friends. But he is also honest and honourable and would not tolerate political manoeuvring that would disadvantage his people to enrich the pockets of a few. And that attitude earns enemies.” Gandalf’s words were thoughtful.

“Even if you are a Prince?” Bilbo’s voice was incredulous. But it was Isengrim who answered.

“Especially if you are a Prince-or a hereditary ruler,” he said slowly. “In the Shire, we rule by consent, and though the Thain is the head of the most powerful family, we are first among equals, with duties and no real power. A hereditary ruler, especially in dwarf society, has absolute power, is accorded respect by right of birth, irrespective of character of wisdom. So bad rulers can occur and have to be endured…but that earns enemies.”

“And you are right,” Gandalf explained, his eyes pensive and face grieved. “Thorin’s people were originally from the Lonely Mountain, Erebor-far to the East. Erebor was the most powerful Kingdom on Middle Earth, the last of the great dwarf kingdoms. Powerful, rich and secure, their great wealth came from the rivers of gold running through the green rock of the mountain and the gemstones that flowed from the rocks. Their craft was cunning and their artistry unmatched. Thror was King Under The Mountain, secure in his line through his son, Thrain and his grandson Thorin. But Thror’s love of gold became too strong and he hoarded the riches in the treasury, as gold sickness overwhelmed his mind. But that much gold is a grave danger and Thror’s madness not only alienated his neighbours, it summoned a dragon, a fire drake from the north. Smaug. The dragon destroyed the city of Dale that sat at the gates of Erebor and then smashed into the mountain, slaying many and overwhelming the resistance. The dwarves had no option but to flee, driven from their home with only what they could carry and for most, only what they stood in.”

“That’s dreadful,” Bilbo said, his mind supplying the images.

“Thror was mad and Thrain was shattered by the reversal so the burden of leadership fell to Thorin, only a young Prince at the time,” Gandalf revealed. “He was forced to make the hard decisions, leading his people, rationing, allowing those who had kin in other dwarvish settlements to seek sanctuary. And taking the blame for every shortage and hardship when they received no aid or help from anyone. Wandering, starving, beset on all sides, the dwarves did not prosper. Thorin worked wherever he could, earning coin and food to help his people and his family and even when his father and grandfather recovered some of their wits, he was still burdened with duty and responsibility way beyond his years. But he endured and he protected his sister and brother from the cruelties of their road. 

Yet Thror had decided that the scattered people should seek another home and his eye fell on Moria, the ancient and first home of Durin’s line. The attack was madness, of course, for Orcs had taken Moria, led by Azog the Defiler, a huge albino Gundabad Orc. Thror was determined and threw everything he had at it. Yet Azog had sworn to exterminate the Line of Durin and he began by beheading the King. Thrain was broken by the sight and fled leaving Thorin to rally the line. He faced Azog alone. His armour rent and weapons scattered, he had nothing but an oaken branch to protect himself. Yet he endured and rallied, cutting off Azog’s arm and driving him back. Thorin rallied the troops and against all reason, the battle was won and the orcs driven back. Yet there was no celebration for the victory for the cost had been devastating. The dead numbered beyond the count of grief and the already diminished people of Erebor were rendered critically vulnerable. Thrain was lost to madness, a state he lingered in for half a year, tended by Thorin’s younger brother Frerin. His sister’s husband was killed, leaving her with two tiny sons. And Thorin was once again forced to lead. So he led them to the Blue Mountains, to areas uninhabited by the dwarrow already living in that areas due to instability and limited resources. The local dwarves did not welcome their kin, making life even harder for the refugees and their Prince but Thorin managed to broker an accord and though the mines were poor, they made a life there. 

Yet when Thrain recovered, there was no gratitude to his Heir. He was bitter and angry at the diminution of their fortunes and listened to his Lords, men who were loathed by Thorin as greedy and grasping, who sought to maintain their ease while most suffered and starved. Thorin worked hard to provide, yet the Lords expected to be supported, even though a Prince was willing to offer his sweat and toil to provide for his family. The dwarves traded because they had to, yet attitudes towards outsiders were sour and hostile. Thrain remained in the mountain and used his Heir as his emissary to other lands…not perhaps the most obvious of choices…”

Bilbo smiled. “Thorin isn’t the most…chatty of people,” he admitted. “And though it could be due to what he’s suffered since, I get the strongest feeling that is who he is…”

“And you would be right,” Gandalf said. Isengrim leaned forward.

“So you think that a scheme against this dwarf Prince is why he was attacked, why he was enslaved?” he asked, his lips pulled back in disgust at the idea. Hobbits gossiped and there were grudges and family feuds but no one would ever consider disposing of a rival in such a brutal and callous manner.

“It is certainly a possibility-especially given the brutal indifference to his fate,” the wizard said pensively. “And the determination of those to retrieve him.”

“But the Men they used…will come back?” Isengrim asked. Gandalf inspected him with sorrow and gave a slow nod.

“I fear they will,” he said in a low voice. “These men are ruthless and see sentient life as nothing but a commodity.” He glanced over to Bilbo. “So we have to go after Thorin. We have to get him back…and stop those Men before they hand him over to whoever wants him dead.”

Chapter Text

TWELVE:  

He woke when the impact of his body hitting the ground jolted him, the throbbing in his head and the pains in his body snapping him back to unpleasant reality. His arms were numb, roped cruelly across his back and his hair was stiff with dried blood. His head was throbbing viciously from the brutal blows he had been dealt to finally bring him down and his vision was in and out but he glared at the men as they cruelly grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his knees.

“Look at it,” the leader sneered, his scarred face pulled in a scoffing expression. “It looks as if it would attack us if we untied it.”

“Try it,” Thorin rasped, his voice gruff with pain. The Men laughed at his dishevelled shape but there was menace in their expressions. Fractured images of the battle faded across his memory as he tried to recall what had happened and images of blood, the sensation of his sword sinking into flesh and hitting bone giving him hope that at least he had resisted with honour this time. A small smirk lifted his lips. “How are your friends?”

“Three are dead,” the leader growled, circling the dwarf. Thorin expected the kick but still grunted at the impact on his hip as the leader danced back, as if the dwarf was some wild beast. “And the injured are not going to be grateful for the necessity to retrieve you…” Thorin bared his teeth as the rest of the Men circled him. One leaned forward and grabbed the end of the chain that was wrapped around his neck. He jerked and Thorin flinched, the compression of his throat painful.

“We need to tend the injured and drop off the dead,” the man holding the chain said. “And it grants us a little time to make sure you learn that any defiance won’t be tolerated.” Thorin glared with flat hatred, blue eyes remote with loathing.

“No,” he breathed. 

“No?” the leader sneered.

“No. I will not yield.” Thorin’s gruff voice was flat with absolute confidence. The chain was yanked hard and Thorin choked, fighting for breath.

“Careful-we aren’t to kill him,” another stockier man reminded them. “He was very clear.” The leader swooped forward and hauled Thorin’s head up, glaring into the scornful features. He tugged hard on the matted mane of hair.

“That gives us a lot of latitude,” he hissed. There were cruel laughs and a number of comments that the dwarf tried to ignore but the tone and words sent chills down his spine. Helpless, bound and still partly concussed, there was no real hope he could do anything but endure the punishments they would mete out to him but it was the situation itself that crushed his spirits. He had been foolish and allowed himself to hope, to believe that he could be safe and treated like a free man among the Hobbits. But for all their words, the Men had ridden in and their laughable defences had done nothing to prevent his ambush…or his capture. No one had stood forward…though he knew that the unarmed Hobbits would have been slaughtered. They were no warriors, unlike Thorin who had been trained in arms since he was strong enough to lift a dagger. Why should they give their lives for one who was only tolerated and was not one of their race? Only one had acted, a stone thrown from the crowd to take down a Man who was rearing behind him…by Bilbo. A tiny surge of warmth flickered in his desolate heart. His friend had not forsaken him, though he was only one Hobbit amid a peaceable people. He could not blame Bilbo who had done all in his power to save him. It was not Bilbo’s fault that it hadn’t been enough…but if he was ever to pray to Mahal again, if his prayers would ever be answered, he would absolve Bilbo and pray naught but good for him, for his kindness and friendship that had been freely given and had offered a small warm light amid the darkness that Thorin’s life had become.

Then Thorin was hauled back to the present and gritted his teeth as hands snatched him from his knees and threw him back onto the ground, helpless and bound. He tried to scrabble back but the men balled their fists as they circled him, eyeing their prey with cold, vicious eyes that promised only pain. The leader smiled and nodded and they closed on the prisoner…

-o0o-

“I have already called the border defences when I heard that men were heading armed into the Shire,” Gandalf told Isengrim and Bilbo, giving a puff on his pipe. A cloud of sweet-smelling purplish smoke billowed around his wizened face as his eyes inspected the Hobbits. The Thain thinned his lips as he thought carefully. 

“Are you strengthening the patrols?” he asked, his concern evident. 

“Some-but I also summoned them to pursue the invaders and ensure they return what was taken,” the wizard insisted. Isengrim sighed and rubbed his temples.

“You know he isn’t a Hobbit, though he is protected by us?” he sighed.

“Precisely,” Gandalf told him plainly. “He is protected by you. And in that, he is granted the status of a Hobbit. He is under the Baggins family protection and you would be moving earth and trees to get a Baggins back, wouldn’t you?”

“Point taken,” Isengrim conceded, snatching a scone and thoughtfully smearing freshly made strawberry jam and clotted cream onto the crumbly pastry. 

“Moreso, the penalty for attacking the Shire must be paid,” Gandalf said. “Or these vermin will come back and none of your people will be safe. Orcs know that Hobbits don’t fight-that much was obvious from the Fell Winter-which prompted the more intense protection of the Shire, in return for the support of the Rangers and any travellers who seek aid. And the provision of food to any in need.”

“All of which we offer gratefully in the name of Yavanna,” Isengrim replied softly.

“But if these unscrupulous Men suspect the protection of the Rangers and the Elves is less than vigorous, then they will see you as prey for their vile trade,” Gandalf reminded him. Isengrim looked over at his nephew, seeing Bilbo thoughtful and observing the conversation closely. Sometimes, he forgot how smart his nephew was, how he read widely and questioned anyone he could to clarify his learning. And maybe he wasn’t the most worldly but he had courage, a good heart and the Baggins sense of fairness that made Isengrim proud to know the young Hobbit. He could name on fewer than the fingers of one hand Hobbits who would have taken the decisive action that Bilbo had to rescue a stranger from the horrors of slavery. And he could read the determination there as well. He knew what Bilbo would say next.

“I want to come.” Gandalf stared at the Hobbit.

“Master Baggins, while I applaud your courage, I cannot condone such wanton recklessness in the face of such odds,” he said. Bilbo adopted a stubborn expression. 

“Nevertheless, I need to go,” he insisted.

“I doubt you can ride hard and fast, you have no skill in weapons or experience in such matters,” Gandalf told him, trying to make his voice less than patronising. “You would exposed to danger while unable to defend yourself…” But Bilbo met his objections with an equable expression.

“I have stealth-something we Hobbits possess in abundance,” he pointed out. “And you will be going as well, I think.” Gandalf’s eyebrows shot up almost into his hairline and he blinked in surprise. “Also, Thorin has revealed that he was treated terribly badly by his captors. There are some horrible scars on his body, Gandalf, though he thinks I haven’t noticed. Do you imagine his captors will be gentle with him?” The bleak look the wizard gave him confirmed his worst fears. “So Thorin has been kidnapped, taken from the place he was promised safety and will have been treated very poorly. He’ll be disorientated, in pain and hurt. And he’ll be in the hands of Elves and Men-even though Rangers are in no way like those Men who have hurt him so cruelly. So wouldn’t the presence of a friendly face help alleviate his fear when he is rescued?”

There was shocked silence before Gandalf gave a smile.

“Just when I think I have heard and learned everything there was about Hobbits, you come and surprise me again,” he sighed. 

“Tookish blood,” the Thane said with satisfaction, sipping his tea. “His mother was very stubborn…”

“And adventurous,” Gandalf smiled, turning to stare into Bilbo’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this, Bilbo? You will be caught in a battle and there will be blood and death. You will be in danger. And Thorin…if you come, you are making a statement that you are his friend and you will taking a side in his story.”

“I already have,” Bilbo reminded him. “I want him home safe at Bag End where I can treat his wounds and find a way to help him. He doesn’t deserve this, Gandalf.”

“I agree,” the wizard said and turned to inspect the Thain. Isengrim Took hooked his thumbs under his braces and looked thoughtful.

“Then I will round up the Bounders and call the Master of Buckland in for an emergency meeting,” he decided. “We must take a concerted approach. The senior family members will be represented-and I will speak for you, Bilbo, if I may? I know what you will say…and I agree with your sentiments. If we allow this to slide, we will be next. I do not want to contemplate the harvest of Hobbits for slaves from our lands. I will confirm that Thorin is under the full protection of the Baggins and Took families and will be returned to us.”

“And every Man who attacked the Shire will be hunted down and slain,” Gandalf confirmed. “I will leave my cart with you, if I can hitch a lift down to the Green Dragon? I have a horse and Rangers waiting there to join with the Sons of Elrond on the border. And then we will pursue the monsters who attacked the Shire and stole your friend.”

“We will get him back?” Bilbo asked softly, his eyes concerned. Gandalf nodded.

“But I cannot guarantee that his company will be safe,” he murmured. “I thought him dead, to be honest. His family and people declared him lost and no one save perhaps his sister seems to recall that he existed. That these Men have been treating the Crown Prince of Erebor so badly for so long speaks of powerful and cruel enemies who have much to lose if he ever returned to Ered Luin and reclaimed his birthright.”

“I don’t think he believes that is possible,” Bilbo sighed. Gandalf leaned forward, his hand grasping Bilbo’s shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.

“All things are possible-though some have much harder roads than others,” he conceded. “But Belladonna would be proud of you, my boy. You have shown bravery and compassion worthy of a hero. And a Took.” His lips quirked up. “Are you ready for an adventure?” Glancing over at Isengrim, who rolled his eyes indulgently, the younger Hobbit nodded.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

-o0o-

In fact, riding with Gandalf felt remarkably safe, as the wizard was an assured horseman, for all that he used no saddle on the magnificent grey stallion that he had greeted like an old friend. It had been amazing to see the horse respond to him as well and it was clear the relationship between them was more than that between rider and simple beast. Sitting up in front of the wizard was exhilarating but there was no sense of danger as they accelerated away from Bywater and headed out along the East Road on their pursuit. They were flanked by four Rangers, weathered and battle-hardened men who were grave and serious, very different in mien to the loathsome men who attacked Thorin or who had allowed his slavery in Bree. And Bilbo’s throat had leapt into his mouth when they were joined by two almost identical tall, dark-haired Elves with silver gilt armour and matching white elven horses. Gandalf had introduced them as Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris. Both Elves had greeted Bilbo gravely but there was a mischievous glint in their eyes and the Hobbit had the strangest feeling that he would get to like these two.

There were few groups of the size of the one that had snatched Thorin and the trail wasn’t hard to locate-but Bilbo was concerned that they would have too great a lead on them. Yet Gandalf was reassuring and his steady presence reassured the Hobbit. As they rode, the wizard was a surprisingly good companion, telling stories of Bilbo’s mother-Belladonna-and her adventures. The young Hobbit found himself smiling at tales of his fearless mother and was shocked how brave she had been in her youth.

“Of course, when she decided to settle down, when you came along, she swore she would cut back on the risks and devote herself to you and your father,” Gandalf explained as Bilbo smiled.

“Not completely,” he admitted. “In the Fell Winter, when wolves and orcs ravaged the Shire, she went out to deliver medicines and food to our neighbours. My Dad begged her not to go but she knew they would die if she didn’t. So she took her sword and she walked out into the cold, to save lives despite her family because it was the right thing to do. And she came home, injured and shaken because she had to kill a wolf on her way home…but it was the right thing to do. She saved lives with her actions. And my Dad knew it as well.” He stared ahead. “I was proud of her and I hope, one day, she’ll be proud of me.”

“I think, my boy, she would already be,” Gandalf told him clearly, a smile lifting his lips. “What you did for Thorin was a brave and selfless act. And you already rescued him from these men once.” His voice dropped. “It is better that knowledge of his survival remains restricted. He is better off presumed dead than in the hands of his enemies…and we need to find out who they are. But to do that, we need someone who we can trust.”

Bilbo frowned and reran his conversations with Thorin. 

“He mentioned his guard, Dwalin and his sister Dis,” he murmured. “He also has a brother?” 

That he never mentions.

Gandalf paused and considered the words.

“His brother has been promoted to Crown Prince,” he revealed slowly. “And neither he nor Thrain are especially welcoming to outsiders. I…ahem…find myself not really welcomed within their Halls.” Bilbo glanced up at him and sighed.

“The sister?” he suggested. “Would she concerned for his safety?” There was a long pause.

“I would be cautious if you consider writing,” Gandalf counselled. “Lady Dis may still harbour concerns for her brother but I worry that others may read the intelligence.”

“People who may have profited from Thorin’s…fall?” Bilbo guessed. His face fell and he felt his stomach fall as well. Was hope was there for Thorin if no one could be trusted and everyone was only looking to gain from his banishment? Was there anyone who could be trusted if even family were suspect? He knew that he had been very cautious with how he worded the missive he had already sent and he could only pray to Yavanna that he hadn’t endangered his friend with his honest desire to help him. Gandalf gave a sigh.

“Dwarvish politics can be ruthless,” he admitted. “Where there is the opportunity of advancement and gain, some people will happily do terrible things to others just to increase what they have by a little…” Bilbo shuddered.

“It sounds awful,” he murmured. “Why are those things more important that family, friendship, decency? Why abandon someone who sacrificed his freedom to spare his sister and her sons the same fate when any decent person would arrange a rescue as soon as they could?” 

“Dwarves,” was Gandalf’s grim response. “You really will have to talk to Thorin about that.”

“He won’t talk. It’s so exasperating…” Bilbo’s tone was frustrated and Gandalf chuckled.

“The famous dwarfish stubbornness,” he commented. “And Thorin was more stubborn than most even before this.”

“You knew him?” 

“Of course…though not well,” Gandalf admitted. “He was reserved and very correct. But he was acknowledged as a good Prince and a good dwarf. The only people who spoke against him were those whose schemes for enrichment at the expense of the poorer subjects that he blocked. He is the Prince they need, even if he’s not the one they seem to want.”

Bilbo sighed, feeling a blanket of hopelessness fall over his shoulders. 

“Why would a Prince of dwarves want anything to do with a simple hobbit?” he murmured, hoping that Gandalf wouldn’t answer. But the wizard clasped his shoulder.

“You are here, aren’t you?” he pointed out. “You insisted on coming because you cared what he would feel when he was rescued. You worry about his wellbeing. You rescued him. Bilbo…you are his friend. Not me. Not the Rangers. You. And I am certain that you are the one face he hopes to see when we catch up with them.”

“And we will catch up with them?”

There was a pause.

“Yes,” Gandalf said in a grave voice. “Because these Men cannot be permitted to get away with their attack. No Hobbit would be safe then.”

They came across the bodies of three men and a temporary camp site at dusk and the Rangers kept Bilbo back from the bodies, grimly pronouncing that they had died from their wounds inflicted during the battle to capture Thorin. There was a clear trail but the hunters realised that they could not track them in the dark: they could miss the way and lose valuable time. So they rode on another mile or so and then camped as darkness fell, though no one felt much like resting. All Bilbo could do was toss and turn, imagining horrible things befalling the captive Thorin at the hands of the appalling men and wondering how long it had been since he had cared for and worried about anyone else. But he knew the answer.

They were woken before dawn and ate a quick and cold breakfast of Elvish cram-which they termed ‘Lembas’ and which seemed almost as good as a feast-before they mounted up and rode out before the sun had fully risen, the trackers seeing the trail easily in the warming light. The party was serious, certain that they would run the fugitives down that day. The Rangers were grim and the two Elf-Lords were focussed, their mounts clearly holding back, while Gandalf was calm. But it was only when they caught sight of the party that they pulled back. 

“There is a path runs parallel to the road,” one of the Rangers explained. “We can catch up and overtake them before we spring the ambush.” 

“They will have to stop soon,” another agreed, his weathered face thoughtful. “Or their horses will be exhausted. That will be our chance.” Gandalf nodded, his blue eyes suddenly more focussed. His hand tightened on his staff and he murmured words in a language that sounded musical and old, yet the hairs on the back of Bilbo’s neck and the tops of his feet stood up. The crystal in the gnarled end of his staff briefly glowed and then the wizard smiled.

“They will stop within the hour,” he murmured. “Be ready.” There was a little more discussion but the group swiftly agreed and then they sprang off the road, the horses accelerating to a gallop to close down on the fleeing Men and their prisoner. Elladan and Elrohir swept away, pulling far ahead to scout the tracks while the Rangers and the Wizard galloped behind, now that they had a plan. Suddenly, there was a sense of urgency and Bilbo felt his pulse accelerate-and along with it, the sick sensation of fear in his stomach. They were so close… What if they got away? What if they killed Thorin before he could be rescued? What if Bilbo was too late?

Gandalf’s warm hand tightened on his shoulder again.

“I have slowed them down and weakened their horses a little-enough that they will have to stop if the beasts are not to perish,” he murmured. “I know what you fear, Bilbo. But we will be in time.” Sighing, the Hobbit stared forward, ashamed that his illustrious travelling companion had recognised his fear and would think the poorer of him for it. This was hardly the way to convince Gandalf that he was a worthy successor to his mother. But he heard a chuckle in his ear. “Your mother was always the same: eager to go but there was always a moment of doubt and anxiety, especially when there was something so important on the line. I have no doubts she was terrified when she went out in the Fell Winter, knowing that she may never return. But her concern was only for others and the hazard, to her, was worth the risk. As it is here, Bilbo. She would be proud you have travelled so far into peril for a friend.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo whispered and felt a tiny squeeze on his shoulder as the chase continued. The group was silent save the pounding of the hooves and Bilbo was in awe of the grace and speed of the Elvish horses as they returned, the brothers grim-faced and nodding. Everyone was now readying himself for battle and he wondered what he could do, for he only had a short pocket knife and no training or skill at arms at all. For one brief moment, he doubted his sanity at insisting he came on the mission-and then he tensed as the grey stallion hopped over a fallen tree but Gandalf’s warm hand on his side kept him from moving. The wizard leaned close.

“When we stop to attack, I will drop you off,” he promised in a low voice. “Stay back and stay hidden.” They horses slowed and the Elven brothers raised their arms, gesturing silently into the woods. “And we’ve arrived…” Gandalf sat up and paused, then fumbled in his bag, pulling out a fine dagger in a battered leather sheath. Wordlessly, Bilbo accepted the gift and glanced up in askance. “I am not advocating that you fight, Bilbo: that is not your role here and I would not risk your safety. That I promised Isengrim. But you are light-footed and there is nothing to stop you sneaking to the edge of the camp and seeing if you can free your friend while we attack.” There was a twinkle in his ancient blue eyes-just enough to encourage Bilbo that he could at least make that contribution. “But keep your head down!” 

“Thank you, Gandalf,” the Hobbit said quietly, allowing himself to be lowered to the ground. Swiftly, he attached the dagger to his belt and straightened his coat, then set off, silently padding through the undergrowth in the direction that Elladan had gestured for the camp. If the Rangers had any comment, they kept it to themselves though the Elven brothers were smiling slightly at his determined shape vanishing into the brush.

Everything contracted to the immediate world around him. Hobbits were known to be light on their feet and the group ahead were making more than enough racket to cover the silent steps of Bilbo as he sneaked closer. The horses were blowing and whinnying and there were general whines and complaints from the men as they made a temporary camp. Already, there were the smells of a fire and someone was cooking. And the creak of horses and leather-clad kidnappers was louder the closer he got.

Hunkering down behind a split-stemmed tree, Bilbo hazarded a guess and counted nine men, two looking ill and with bandaged wounds and a group of horses being allowed to drink from a small stream. The others were arguing or chattering-except one. A heavyset man with a scarred face walked over to the last horse and grabbed a bundle slung over the beast’s back. Then Bilbo started. Huddled, ragged and bloody, with a chain wound several times around his neck, it wasn’t a bundle: it was Thorin. 

Bilbo winced as his friend was thrown roughly to the ground and hit with a slight groan. Even across the yards, the Hobbit could see some movement and felt the tightness ease across his chest for a moment when he saw Thorin lift his head, matted raven hair moving to reveal battered features smeared with old blood.

He was alive.

Now all Bilbo had to do was get him free.

Chapter Text

THIRTEEN:

Thorin clung onto little hope now. His world had contracted into a nightmarish collection of moments, each less promising than the last. After his captors had finished their ‘fun’ the previous day, he hadn’t recalled much, save pain and blood…once he regained his consciousness. They seemed to have been under orders not to kill him and while they had been confident that they would not, they had indulged their clear loathing and scorn of him along with their desire to punish him for the loss of their comrades in their attack upon him. His throat was a mess under the chains, bruised and painful to breathe and swallow and the rest of him…well, his clothes had been torn to rags like the flesh beneath. They had given him only just enough water to stay alive and no food, though it was debatable if would have been able to keep it down after all they had put him through. 

But every moment tore him further away from the Shire and the only welcome and sense of safety that he received for three years. And now, he just felt as if there was no more hope. Of course, he hadn’t given up and he had made a break for it in the morning, when they assumed he was weak from lack of food and his injuries-both true but not a reason not to make the attempt. It had taken them long frustrating minutes to recapture him and he had been on the brink of jumping into a torrent, confident he would manage to not drown despite his roped arms when they had recaptured him and hauled him back with a selection of blows that only promised a much more serious discussion later when the Men had the time to properly enjoy themselves. And as they pulled into the clearing for a break, it seemed that time had arrived.

The leader-Gron, they had referred to him-glanced over and nodded to Konlar, his favoured second. The heavyset man with deep scars on his face, had immediately grabbed the dwarf and thrown him to the ground like a sack of rocks, dragging an unconscious groan from him. But he lifted his head, unwilling to lie down and surrender and he managed the ghost of his former glare. He was a son of the Line of Durin and no matter that he was outcast and shamed, that heritage was in his blood. He would never submit, no matter what it cost him. And he knew it would cost him his life. 

He didn’t react as the man grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him back towards the edge of the little clearing, throwing him against the trunk of a sturdy oak. Ironic. He was going to be slaughtered at the feet of the tree that had granted him his honorific. His head impacted sharply with the trunk and another jolt of pain jabbed through his abused skull but he stubbornly lifted his chin to stare down the man who was slowly approaching him.

“You know, if we weren’t being paid to bring you back alive, I’d be seeing what dwarf guts look like,” he snarled.

Like everyone else’s. I’ve seen plenty from my own people and others. No real difference, Thorin thought madly. His vision had blurred at the impact but he managed a small smirk at the man because he knew it would annoy him. And the jerk on the chain round his neck confirmed that he had been right, though the pain that erupted at the action almost made him regret it. Almost. His back arched in the desperate quest to ease the pressure a fraction and a boot slammed on his chest, crashing him against the trunk, the bark biting into his back. He choked.

“You still need to learn to behave,” Konlar sneered, staring into the wide blue eyes of the dwarf and relishing the desperate struggle of his prisoner to breathe. He dropped the chain and punched Thorin across the face but honestly, the dwarf was just grateful for the ability to suck in a few precious mouthfuls of air and accepted the blow silently. But as he was struggling, the Man sliced the ropes binding his arms behind him and hauled them back, tying them around the trunk of the tree. He winced, the flow of blood restored and offering another round of unpleasant sensations-as well as the knowledge that he was well and truly immobilised now. He lifted his chin and glared at the Man.

“I..will not…beg…” he rasped, his voice scarcely more than a growl. Konlar gave a grin and cracked his knuckles.

“You only need to bleed,” he sneered.

Ah. I can do that without any effort.

He grunted at the first kick that impacted his gut and he almost doubled up, matted hair flopping across his battered face. He spat blood from the lip the man had split again with the blow and gasped for air, tensing in anticipation for the next assault. But abruptly, the Man stopped and his head snapped up. He snatched for his dagger.

“We’re being watched!” he snarled as shapes burst from the tree. Roars burst from every throat as the unknowns flew at the kidnappers. Instantly, Konlar danced back, drawing a sword and closing ranks with his comrades as the cloaked outlines of Rangers and two Elves circled the gang. Thorin’s eyes narrowed as he ignored the pull in his shoulders and tried to tug his hands free or start to rub through the ropes against the rough bark-but the ropes were viciously tight around his wrists and he felt his hands going numb. And then he stiffened as he felt the lightest of touches on his hand. 

“I’m here,” Bilbo breathed in his ear and he felt a wild and unfamiliar explosion of relief in his chest. “I’ll have these free in a second.” And then the tension released and his hands were free, the cut ropes still dangling from his bruised and raw wrists. Slowly, he raised his trembling hands to his neck and carefully eased the chain loose, then off, dropping it to the ground with a metallic thud. And then Bilbo was at his side, staring worriedly into his battered face.

“Bil…bo,” Thorin whispered as the Hobbit’s eyes fell on the horrific bruising around his throat. The distress in the hazel eyes had Thorin wanting to reassure him…except that he was barely able to make any sound at all.

“Can you move?” Bilbo asked him urgently, his eyes flicking up to the fight that was developing. He darted forward and sliced through the ropes around Thorin’s ankles. Nodding, Thorin scrambled clumsily after the Hobbit as they vanished into the brush, his head spinning and questions fighting for attention. 

How was Bilbo here? Who were the attackers? Was this some other trick? What if something happened to Bilbo? 

The Hobbit was scrambling determinedly away and gamely, Thorin followed, surprised at how silently the smaller creature could move. His own movements were clumsy and every one caused him pain but he would die before he admitted a thing to his saviour. Every ounce of his strength was focussed in his escape and in that, protecting Bilbo. He could hear yells and the clash of steel and he ducked down, grabbing Bilbo and hauling him back behind a stand of three ash trees, breathing hard. Bilbo stilled, eyes wide as the dwarf rested a hand on his arm. He shook his head as he heard steps close.

“Where are you?” There was infinite malice in the voice and Thorin felt his hear sink: it was the leader, Gron, the man who had overseen his…torture the previous day. The man who had laughed through every moment of the brutality. The man who had promised to repeat the experience every day until he handed his prisoner over to the person who would finally dispose of him. Behind them, the clash of steel grew louder and yells and cries and the coppery scents of blood were growing stronger. Thorin gestured to a clump of brambles ahead of them and the Hobbit silently vanished, followed by Thorin. But of course, he leaned on a twig, the snap sounding like the creak of a mountain and as he dived behind the slashing tendrils, the Man erupted around the tree.

Bilbo froze and Thorin pushed him down, under the fronds of a bushy fern, his larger body shielding the smaller male. No matter what happened, he would not allow any harm to befall Bilbo…but he needed a weapon. Then he glanced and touched Bilbo’s shoulder. The Hobbit nodded, so gently, Thorin grasped the dagger and drew it from the sheath, his eyes narrowing.

“You now we have orders to make sure you don’t escape,” Gron continued. “So I guess this is it…” Thorin slowly bunched his legs under him, the dagger grasped tight in his hand and head moving to lock onto the voice. It was suicidal but he knew the Man would kill Bilbo as well if he found them. And he had a serious score to settle with this man, a debt of blood that any Son of Durin would never let pass. There was a chuckle. “I see you…”

Using every ounce of his strength, Thorin threw himself forward, his eyes locked on the face of the Man facing him. Using his forearm to glance the half-raised sword aside and ignoring the bite of metal as it sliced his skin, Thorin slammed the dagger deep and true into Gron’s chest, piercing the heart and bearing the larger shape to the ground beneath him. He stared ferociously into the Man’s eyes as he died.

“And I…got you…” the dwarf grunted, rolling off him and dragging the bloody dagger free. Breathing hard, as if he had fought Azanulbizar all over again, he looked up-to see the battle winding down. The last of his captors was being taken down by the Rangers-and he watched an Elf behead the last standing kidnapper. The Rangers checked the other bodies and confirmed the dead.

“Only eight,” a voice announced. “There should be nine.” Thorin scrabbled back, bloody dagger raised as he made to back away-but the movement was noted and the Rangers turned to him, their weapons raised causing him to drop to a half-crouch, the best he could manage in his state. Looking wild, bloodied and battered, he had no doubt they would consider him an enemy and he was determined to sell his life as dearly as he could. He backed up a step as Bilbo popped up behind him and waved at the Rangers urgently. 

“It’s okay!” he called, his eyes flicking from man to man.”We’re safe! Lower your weapons!” A tall, grey-clad shape emerged behind the Rangers and Thorin’s eyes clouded with recognition.

“Tharkun?” he mouthed, swallowing painfully as Bilbo ran to his side, almost reaching for the frantic dwarf.

“They’re friends,” the Hobbit urged him. “They came here to rescue you.” Thorin’s head snapped round and his eyes filled with confusion.

“Men? Elves?’ he rasped breathlessly. But he lowered the dagger, gesturing to the dead shape of Gron. “Nine.” The Rangers shared a look and checked the kill-to a gratifying flicker of annoyance at the slight on his prowess that fluttered in the dwarf’s chest-while Thorin did his best to stand up straight and look as strong as he could. But his head was spinning, his legs were wavering and his vision was blurred. Bilbo was a warm presence at his side as the grey wizard walked forward. He bowed to the dwarf.

“Thorin Oakenshield, it is good to see you alive,” he said as Thorin stiffened.

“You’re…the minority…” he whispered. Chuckling, the wizard nodded.

“I think you still have friends,” he confided, his eyes drifting to the shape of the Hobbit at his side. “Bilbo was absolutely determined that you should be rescued. That you are owed the protection of any inhabitant of the Shire and the rescue you see here.” Thorin blinked then, brows furrowing.

“It’s okay,” Bilbo said gently, touching Thorin’s arm. “We’re taking you home.”

Home. But not the soaring Halls of Erebor, the gold-riven green rock that formed the great kingdom, the solidity of centuries of inhabitation and the pride of his forbears in their magnificent achievements. Nor Khazad-Dum, the legendary ancestral home of his blood, the line of Durin, lost to the foul Orcs who had slaughtered the bulk of his people in the desperate and insane attack led by his equally insane grandfather to reclaim the long-lost kingdom. Nor even Ered Luin, solid and small and relatively poor but at least a dwelling suitable for dwarrow, the place where his remaining kin lived. No, Bilbo meant the Shire, the kindly and pleasant land that seemed devoid of rock suitable for the children of Mahal but where he wasn’t being actively hunted or ostracised and where Bilbo was offering him…liberty, work, hope…a chance. 

And Thorin’s heart ached that he was denied any chance to return to his people but this incident just emphasised the truth. No dwarrow would have raised a finger to rescue him, to assist him in escaping a single consequence of his status as a (former-) slave. No, they would have let him die, dismissing his loss as a final footnote to his story. Not even Dis or her sons or Dwalin could have moved anyone to make the slightest move to help him. Any pleas would have fallen on deaf ears and even if they had managed to pull together a mission, no dwarrow would sign up to rescue a dishonoured and shamed dwarf. His father and brother would already consider him dead. Only Bilbo, a Hobbit who seemed determined to make sure that Thorin was redeemed against all sanity.

The dagger fell from his hand and he stared into Bilbo’s face, breathing hard.

“Thank…you…” he breathed and then he collapsed.

-o0o-

“He’s badly hurt,” Gandalf said cautiously, having managed a perfunctory examination of the unconscious dwarf and shaken his head at the damage. “Notwithstanding that he’s been starved for some considerable time before.” Bilbo nodded.

“I have been feeding him,” he said in a low voice, his tone defensive as Gandalf’s eyes creased and he sighed.

“There is no blame on your part,” he began but Bilbo shook his head.

“I should have done…something…” he said in a voice redolent with self-recrimination. “I shouldn’t have let him be taken from in front of a crowd of Hobbits…”

“And what would you have done?” Farrer, the leader of the Rangers asked him, hunkering down and poking the fire. “Your people are unwarlike and unarmed and those men were ruthless. They would have slaughtered any who opposed them and still taken the dwarf. If your people had opposed them before the attack, then maybe they would have thought twice but in reality, they were determined and innocents would have died.” He snapped a twig in half and threw it in the fire. “They will not return to attack you again and their masters will realise the price of attacking the Shire.”

Bilbo glanced over at Thorin’s shape, swathed in bandages that Farrer and Elladan had efficiently wound over his worst wounds. Bilbo had gently cleaned them as much as he could and some simple salves, carried by the Rangers, had been applied but there was no doubt it would taken Thorin some time to recover from this ordeal. And Bilbo found himself in a swirl of anger and guilt as he stared at the dwarf…at his friend. No matter what Thorin thought or believed, Bilbo was offering him friendship and support because…who else did he have? Bilbo had a few cousins he could tolerate or like but Thorin…seemed to have no one. Unless his letter bore unexpected fruit…

“Thank you,” he said automatically. Then he looked up. “I know most of my people are unaware of the protection and the invisible security you offer to my simple and somewhat insular people so I will say on their behalf: thank you. If you ever need anything, food, lodgings, medicine, friendship-I will offer it. Come to Bag End and you will be welcomed.” And he rested his hand over his heart and bowed his head. The Ranger’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You are right, Mithrandir,” he commented. “These Hobbits are the most surprising creatures that I have encountered. I doubt the old Kings of Arnor or Gondor would have enjoyed such courtly words or generous welcome.” Then he smiled. “Master Baggins, I thank you for your offer of hospitality and  while my people will continue to avail ourselves of the welcome traditionally laid on for us by the Thain and Master, I will ensure my brothers are aware of your hospitality, should such a day arise.” Then he rose and went over to talk to the Elven brothers as Gandalf inspected the Hobbit closely.

“You are definitely more Took than Baggins today,” he commented. Bilbo blushed and then stared at his feet. He shuffled them self-consciously as Gandalf observed him silently.

“Gandalf,” he murmured. “What can I do about Thorin?”

There was a silence as the wizard observed him, smoke gently puffing around his lined face. Bilbo snatched a glance over at the unconscious dwarf.

“I mean…what could someone like me do for someone like Thorin?” the Hobbit asked softly.

Gandalf observed him without any judgement in his eyes.

“I’m just a Hobbit,” Bilbo said quietly, wiggling his toes. “I’ve been to Bree twice. I live alone usually and most of my family think I’m odd. My parents are dead and I write, look after my properties and research old maps, poems and recipes. But Thorin…well, from what you say, he’s a hero. A warrior. A dwarf who is actually a Prince and who is brave and honourable and hard-working.” He looked up. “And I know he thinks he’s not allowed to have any honour or be worth anything but how can that be true? How could anyone believe that? Even when we were rescuing him, he pushed me behind him and made sure the Man wouldn’t see me.” Sighing, Bilbo wrapped his arms around his knees and shook his head. “Surely he must despise someone as weak and worthless as me. All I have to offer is the money and property my parents built up and lodgings. But my people haven’t treated him as he deserved. Some of them have been polite but some…have been horrible.”

“And you are not responsible for the actions and thoughts of others, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf told him gravely. “You can only be responsible for your own actions. And I rather believe that yours have been brave, generous and kind. You have offered compassion and hope to someone who deserves more. I do not believe that Thorin despises you for your species or your actions. Kindness and generosity are rare and yours has been marked by your courage and willingness to risk your own reputation and even safety to help your friend. I think you sell yourself short.”

Bilbo gave a small, bitter smile. 

“I offered him a place in the Shire because I thought it would be safe,” he said.

“And it should be,” Gandalf told him gruffly. “Bilbo-you are the reason we are here.”

“Isengrim and you were already coming to see me,” Bilbo pointed out.

“But you persuaded the Thain to grant Thorin the full protection of the Baggins and Took families,” the wizard told him. “You have done more than anyone could have dreamed, my boy. Do not worry. Thorin is alive and he will recover. You have offered him more help and understanding than all others over the last few years.”

“Which is a pretty low bar, I fear,” Bilbo sighed. Gandalf offered his pipe-weed pouch and slowly, Bilbo refilled his pipe.

“Take credit for your good deeds, Bilbo, and don’t be afraid to fight for what you believe,” the wizard said. “Now did I tell you about the time your Mother decided that she wanted to try to catch a trio of trolls who were terrorising some farmers outside Bree?”

Unseen by the watchers, a pair of piercing blue eyes opened a slit, inspecting the pair who were talking quietly at his side. Thorin had woken at Bilbo’s words, his stomach dropping in dismay and anguish as her heard the gentle plea.

“What can I do about Thorin?”

But instead of the stark rejection, he had heard Bilbo softly describe himself as ‘just a Hobbit’ and weak and worthless. He heard the young being who had risked his security and reputation to free Thorin savagely undervalue himself while describing Thorin-Thorin who had no worth at all save as a slave, a possession, a thing…as a Prince? A hero?

His breath seized in his chest and he almost couldn’t breathe-notwithstanding the viciously bruised ribs from his encounters with his captors. How had Bilbo found out? Was that why the decent, kind young Hobbit was describing himself so poorly? Surely he didn’t believe that what Thorin had been had any bearing on how he viewed his rescuer? Surely he had seen the relief in Thorin’s eyes when he had freed the dwarf? There was no place in Arda for  the outcast former Prince except the Shire, no home but what Bilbo offered and no future…well, anywhere. Certainly not among his own people.

And he just had to hope that Bilbo wouldn’t see him as too much of a liability, too weak to defend himself and too much trouble to allow to stay. Though Tharkun’s words indicated that Bilbo and his family had extended their protection to him, suggesting that maybe he would be allowed to remain in the peace of the Shire. But he was shamed, weak, defeated, for all that he fought. Maybe there was no hope. Maybe…maybe he should stop resisting. Maybe he should have let them kill him…

And then he felt a gentle hand on his forehead, the touch tender and he saw the shape of Bilbo lean forward.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Thorin,” the Hobbit said gently. “But you’re safe now. We’ll take you back to Bag End and make sure you are healed. You don’t have to worry. I’m not abandoning you. And I will do everything I can to get back what you have lost.”

The last Thorin recalled was the faint caress on his forehead before the welcoming dark embraced him once more.

Chapter Text

FOURTEEN:

It was raining in Ered Luin, the deep grey-blue granite of the mountains almost darkened to black in the foul weather but Dis, daughter of Thrain, King of Ered Luin, did not care. She strode across the yard just inside the main gates of the Halls and paused, tilting her head back and allowing the fat droplets of water to splash her face, dampening her raven hair and beard. She blinked, crystal blue eyes scanning the sky and then she walked on to the gatehouse.

Mur, the gateman, nodded. He was an old dwarf, a leg gimpy from a mining collapse that should have been averted had his crew been assigned anyone with decent Stone Sense but, of course, he was a simple ore miner and the Guildmasters tended to conserve the resources for more favoured projects. Such was the way of Ered Luin and it made Dis’s palms itch but she thinned her lips and offered the grey-bearded gateward a slight bow.

“You sent for me?” she asked, her tenor voice brisk and clipped. He nodded, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Aye, Princess,” he confirmed. Glancing around, he fished out a letter, marked with a rounded hand in Westron that was wholly unfamiliar to the Princess.

“Why…?” she murmured.

“There is a standing order that all your correspondence is screened by Lord Farag before you are permitted to receive it,” Mur revealed. She stared at him, her eyes glittering with barely-concealed rage and disappointment…but not surprise.

“How long?” she asked. It shocked her that she hadn’t really noticed-but her mail was usually opened for her and waiting in her office as she did her duty in the service of her King. Opening official mail was to be expected…but why would they want to open personal mail? Not that she had any personal mail… “How long?” she repeated, her tone bitter.

“Three years,” Mur murmured. “Since…the Prince was lost.”

Since my brother made his heroic stupid gesture and allowed the wolves to tear his life apart.

She took the letter and nodded.

“Thank you, Mur,” she said and the faintest edge of sadness leaked into her voice. “I value your discretion.” The old dwarf looked self-conscious.

“Well, it ain’t right that you don’t have the same privacy as the rest o’ us, your Highness,” he said shiftily. “I know the other gatekeepers comply but it don’t sit well with me-and this letter isn’t from one of our people. I’ll do what I can but I’m not on duty all the time.” Dis nodded and tucked the letter inside her tunic.

“I am grateful, my friend,’ she said in a low voice and then stepped back out into the rain, heading directly to her office just inside the citadel proper. Ered Luin was small and cramped, the Halls co-opted and extended by the Ereborean refugees in the areas not already occupied by other dwarrow who viewed the interlopers with little welcome. The lands weren’t rich and the burden of the diminished and desperate refugees from Erebor had made life harder for everyone…but the hostility of the residents on the far side of the mountains had been another blow for the battered and ostracised dwarrow. And it had been Thorin who had been the linchpin of their survival, chivvying the shocked and dispirited refugees into making the best of the meagre accommodations they had first found. Thorin had mucked in with everyone else, taking less than his share of food and ensuring his sister and her fatherless sons were cared for ahead of himself. His father and brother had scorned his actions and slid into the politicking while Thorin had been the visible and tangible face of leadership. And Dis had followed in his wake, throwing herself into the running of the colony without any distinction between herself and her fellow dwarrow. Many of the remaining nobility sat back, demanding their dues of blood and expecting the penniless commoners to support them.

She slammed the door and moved to her desk, sitting down and staring at the letter. The hand was rounded, alien and she had no clue who the sender was. Green wax sealed the envelope and she sighed, then cracked it with her fingernail, pulling out the neatly folded paper and smoothing it out on her desk.

Bag End

The Hill

Hobbiton

The Shire

Lady Dis,

I apologise for this unsolicited correspondence. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire. We have never met nor corresponded before. Yet I am compelled to write to you on a matter that I suspect may be of interest to you.

A few weeks back, I travelled to the village of Bree on the Great East Road. There, I met a dwarf who seemed to be in somewhat unfortunate circumstances. In short, he was in indentured service to a man who treated him less well than he deserved and indeed, less well than any individual should be. The dwarf’s name was Thorin.

I offered him some assistance and his circumstances have notably improved. He is safe now and has an opportunity to change his fortunes. He believes that he is isolated and without hope but he mentioned your name and as his friend, I wished to contact you to see if there may be anything done to help in this regard.

I apologise for my forwardness. I know little of your ways but my friend is hurt by the sacrifice he has made and if there is any way I can alleviate his suffering, I owe him my every effort.

Your servant

Bilbo Baggins Esq.

Dis read the letter three times and then exhaled in a sudden burst of relief. The memories of that horrific night haunted her still, the feelings of helplessness and fury at the fate that had been planned for her and her sons and the despair at the solution. She could still see Thorin standing forward, his shoulders proud and eyes shadowed as he glanced over to her. She recalled how her hand had closed on his severed braids, accepting the loss of his honour and had stared as he was chained and dragged away, hauling her sons back as they struggled to try to get to him. Dwalin, his head smeared with blood from the cowardly blow that had blindsided him, had staggered at her side as they watched the awful wagon roll away. And then they had ridden away as of the Dark Lord had been after them himself, fearful the dogs would renege on their deal. And they had heard pursuit but the rains and the dark had spared them and they had made it home safe.

But Thorin had been lost. Intransigent Thrain and Frerin had declared him without honour declared him a disgrace to the House of Durin and the Lords had confirmed the decree: the same Lords who had scorned the hardworking Crown Prince, the Prince who had opposed and thwarted their grasping and self-aggrandising ways. Dis had felt her heart break and her pleas and those of Dwalin and Balin had been brushed aside. 

And now, she realised, that loyalty had marked her as a potential problem. The knowledge that her mail had been opened and screened for all the time, that eyes had been on her…it made the hairs at the back of her neck stand up. And she knew there were covetous eyes on her, Princess though she be. She was widowed, her One lost in their Grandfather’s senseless and futile desire to reclaim Khazad-Dum and she had heard the whispers that there was bidding, discussions with those…who would wish to marry into the Royal Family. Those whose social mountaineering would be complete by taking her hand and becoming the brother-in-law to the future King. No matter her wishes or the bounds of honourable widowhood and grief.

She folded the letter up and tucked it into her tunic once more, then fished two daggers from her drawer. Feeling around, she gathered the coin and treasures she had carefully concealed in the office, in small hiding places that she had uncovered over the years. Disappointed she had been at Mur’s news but not wholly surprised. In fact, she had been anticipating this day for a long time and the letter was the push she needed.

Wrapping her cloak around her, she headed back to her rooms, hoping her sons would have returned from their training. She needed to speak urgently to them.

-o0o-

If there was a definition of ‘stubborn’, Bilbo was absolutely certain it would look like Thorin Oakenshield. Despite his kidnapping, cruel abuse and exhaustion that had him sleeping like a dead man overnight, when he woke in the morning he had struggled to his feet and tried to act as if nothing had happened. The fact that he was unsteady on his feet and intensely wary of everyone didn’t detract from his scowl as he faced the unfamiliar shapes his rescuers or the front he put up, his arms defiantly folded across his chest. After a few moments, Bilbo exchanged a glance with Gandalf and then broke the awkward silence.

“Thorin,” he said, scurrying forward. “How are you feeling?” The dwarf’s expression softened and his eyes flooded with relief when he spied the Hobbit.

“Better for seeing you, Master Baggins,” he managed, his voice a hoarse whisper. He swallowed and glanced at the others. “Where are we?”

“East Road, halfway to Ered Luin, I would estimate,” Gandalf commented, walking forward. His blue eyes twinkled in welcome as Thorin looked up into his lined face.

“Tharkun,” he said and frowned. “I thought…” He blinked. “I dreamed you were here?” The wizard chuckled.

“A wizard is where he needs to be and he is never late or early: he is always precisely on time,” he said cheerfully. “Except I arrived in the Shire a couple of hours too late to be of use in stopping the men who attacked you. Regrettably, I don’t know everything.”

“But you do seem to know everyone,” Thorin rasped, his posture still painfully defensive. Offering a small snort, Gandalf turned to the rescue party.

“Thorin Oakenshield, may I introduce Farrer, Lurien, Veregor and Caladorn, Dunedain of the North,” he said. Thorin inclined his head regally to the Rangers. “And Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond of Imladris.” The twin Elven brothers bowed, their expressions calm and serene. The dwarf fashioned a small bow that was very stiff and caused him to grimace.

“My thanks for your assistance,” Thorin forced himself to say, though there was something in his tone that indicated the words were hard to speak. A slight frown crossed Bilbo’s face: it was clear there was something in Thorin’s past that held him back from interacting with the Elves as a normal person would. And then he paused. From his own readings, he knew that the history between Dwarves and Elves wasn’t always the most harmonious and that Elves generally wrote of a very negative opinion of Dwarves in their histories. He blinked. Dwarves were described as warlike, greedy and cruel which could possibly be true…though it seemed very different from the Thorin he knew and, being honest, not unlike the Men they had encountered…or the accounts of the Elvish Wars of the First Age. It was another mystery about Thorin that Bilbo hoped he would one day get answers to.

“No one deserves to be kidnapped and enslaved,” Elladan commented. Thorin stiffened, his eyes hardening. “These men invaded the Shire which is under our protection and would have returned to take the Hobbits once they completed their mission.”

“We searched their packs and found instructions,” Farrer commented, handing a grubby parchment to Gandalf. The wizard scanned the words gravely and nodded, then handed it over to Thorin and Bilbo. The Hobbit peered at the words. 

“They were ordered to bring you alive to this place so that you could be executed,” he murmured, stealing a glance at Thorin’s face. “That makes no sense…” But the dwarf was shaking his head, something broken in his expression.

“It makes perfect sense if you imagine that our ambush by the slavers was no chance happenstance,” he rasped. “If I was supposed to vanish forever. But slavery didn’t kill me so the author of my downfall wanted to see that I was safely murdered with his own eyes.” There was a desolation in his voice that broke Bilbo’s heart because somehow, he had imagined the Thorin that Gandalf had told him about would rage and then prepare to counter the machinations. Yet since that battle, years had passed and Thorin had clearly endured many harsh lessons. And perhaps it was different, fighting a battle with your friends and army at your side compared to being a lone dwarf surrounded by Hobbits, needing to be rescued by Rangers and Elves and having been disowned and exiled from his family and people.

“That sounds horrible,” Bilbo forced himself to say. “Is there any clue who this person is?” Thorin shook his head.

“I doubt any of these Men would ever have dealt with him in person,” he murmured. “Men would not be welcome in Ered Luin. Intermediaries would have been used. In fact, they may not even have known his identity, save that he was a rich and powerful dwarf.” A brief, grim smile tilted his lips. “I have a habit of making enemies among those,” he admitted. It was the most revealing sentence he had heard Thorin give of his former life, an unguarded aside that followed an incisive and dispassionate analysis of the machinations of the upper echelons of the government of Ered Luin. It confirmed everything that Gandalf had said and made Bilbo’s heart sink further. What did he have to offer to such an impressive and experienced dwarf? Then Gandalf snorted, shattering his train of thought.

“It’s not likely that their employer knew where you were,” he mused. “More likely that they were ordered to find and retrieve you. It is unlikely that they bothered to keep him updated at every step of the way. Since none escaped it is probable your location remains a secret.” Thorin exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders though he remained tense.

“You need to eat,” Bilbo told him gently. “And then we need to get away from this horrible place.” There was an edge to his voice that reminded the dwarf that Bilbo wasn’t a warrior and he had been on the periphery of a battle. A battle that had happened because of Thorin. He nodded.

“Thank you,” he murmured and allowed Bilbo to lead him to the fire, making sure he could sit and determinedly giving him hot tea and fried bacon and bread before fussing over the others. A small thrill of warmth flickered through Thorin’s chest at the sight of his friend acting the host in a very Hobbit-like manner. But once everyone was eating, Bilbo finally sat down by the bandaged dwarf and glanced up at Thorin.

“How are you feeling? Really?” he asked in a low voice, taking a bite of his bacon sandwich. There was a pause and the Hobbit felt like he was holding his breath. The revelations about Thorin’s true background had him wondering how he dared to ask such a thing of the Dwarven Prince. Thorin inspected his knees and for a second, his mask wavered.

“Worthless,” he murmured. 

Bilbo almost dropped his food and his fingers sunk deeply into the bread, grease smearing his skin as he mangled his sandwich in shock. Of all the possible answers that had crossed his mind, that was the least likely. He gaped. 

“Thorin?” he asked, eyes confused but as he looked up, he saw raw pain in the crystal blue eyes of the dwarf. “That can’t be right…” Yet Thorin’s shoulders sagged and he looked defeated, matted hair falling forward to half-shield the battered face.

“I put you in danger,” he rasped, clasping his hands. 

“No, you didn’t,” Bilbo said evenly. “They did.” Thorin managed a grim smile.

“They came for me,” he reminded the Hobbit.

“Proof, if any were needed, that you are not worthless,” he retorted. “They chased halfway across Eriador to find you. They attacked the Shire, an action that cost them their lives…those that survived attacking you in the first place. No one would do that if you weren’t worth anything. To whoever it is that fears you, I think your worth is almost beyond price. And anyway, you are  prince, a hero, a warrior…” But Thorin’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed.

“I am none of those!” he snapped, the anger vibrating in his hoarse voice. “There is no dwarf who would acknowledge me even as a fellow dwarf, let alone credit me with a name or anything from my former life. To them, I am a coward, a disgrace…nothing… They would chase me from my home, spit in my face…treat me as an enemy…” Then he closed his eyes. “You know nothing of dwarvish customs.” Shrinking back for a second from the bitter words, Bilbo lifted his chin and met the anger head on.

“No, I don’t,” he said with surprisingly calm. “Because you have not shared anything with me of your people.” The unspoken accusation was there, slipping unguarded through Bilbo’s hurt. “But for what it’s worth, the measure of a person is not in what stupid customs or prejudiced thinking judges them as but in what they actually show and do. And the dwarf I met in Bree is an honest and honourable one who has been dealt a terribly bad hand in life and despite that, has tried to remain true to the brave, heroic and decent person he was before he made the bravest sacrifice I ever heard of for his family.”

And then he got up and walked away, shaking his head and vanishing amid the trees. His head was up and shoulders back but there was nothing normal in his gait, the steps too quick to be anything other than a retreat and Thorin’s head dropped forward, pain and shame stabbing through his chest like the thrust of a sword to the heart. Gandalf watched him vanish behind his hands and Bilbo amid the forest and then extricated himself from a conversation with Elrohir before walking forward to sit unbidden by the dwarf. 

“He is the reason you were rescued,” the wizard told him without preamble. “He was prepared to follow you on his own but when we arrived at his home, he was already on his way to see the Thain and insist that you were treated like any Hobbit and protected.”

Thorin snorted and continued to stare at the ground.

“I only put him in danger,” he managed in a broken voice. Gandalf pulled out his pipe and carefully packed a little nub of Old Toby into the bowl, then lit it using magic. He puffed away for a moment, the bluish clouds of smoke swirling around him.

“You know, Hobbits will always surprise you,” he commented. “Bilbo is a young Hobbit who has lost much in his life and who is treated as a little odd by his family. But his kindness and generosity have always shone out. Did you know he insisted that he come along, despite my objections, because he worried about you?” Thorin looked up slightly, his eyes wary. “He felt that after your ordeal being kidnapped and treated badly by the slavers, you would be anxious about being suddenly rescued by another group of Men and Elves. He wanted to be here as a friendly face for you.” The old wizard puffed away at the pipe and unleashed an impressive smoke ring that morphed into a fluttering butterfly. 

“If I go back, they will come again,” Thorin breathed wretchedly. 

“If you don’t, I fear you will disappoint Bilbo,” Gandalf told him thoughtfully. “For some reason, he believes in you. You are the first dwarf he has met, I believe.” That wrenched a bitter laugh from Thorin’s throat.

“A poor example,” he muttered bitterly but Gandalf inspected him carefully, his brows dipped and tone reproving.

“I was of the impression that he could not have had a better introduction to your stubborn and rock-headed race,” the wizard snapped. “So what are you going to be then? Thorin the slave, a broken self-pitying bitter fool or Thorin Oakenshield, the brave dwarf who ran into a burning smial to save eight lives and handed himself over to slavery to save his kin from the same fate?” Then he rose and stalked away to talk with the Rangers while Thorin rested his face in his hands for a second. The weight of guilt, despair and hopelessness bowed his shoulders and for a long moment, he wondered if he should just walk away from it all. Yet the memory of Bilbo’s eyes, of the hurt and disappointment at Thorin’s words spurred him on and he staggered to his feet then stumbled in the direction that Bilbo had gone.

He had lost sight of the Hobbit and as he stumbled amid the trees, his boots tripping on brambles and bracken, he wondered if Bilbo even wanted to be found. Maybe he had shattered what little they had between them. Perhaps he had broken the only friendship he had left…but that wouldn’t be a surprise. Ever since he had been freed, Thorin had been waiting for his life to break once more, for Bilbo to see him for what he was and now the dwarf had shown his true pathetic colours. Even if they took him back, all he could hope for would be to be driven from the Shire and forced to wander once more, to spend the remaining days of his life on the road, forever the itinerant dwarfish worker, with no home or family to care for him. Maybe he shouldn’t even go back to the camp and should carry on walking until he fell and waited for the end. His bones would never know the embrace of stone, he would never earn a place in Mahal’s Halls and no one would mourn his passing. 

Maybe he should just die.

He stumbled forward, his legs wavering and his arms grasped the nearest tree trunk, using it as his anchor because he really would fall if he didn’t cling to it for dear life. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the rough bark, slowly sliding down to his knees and breathing raggedly. Breathing hurt, talking hurt…just living hurt at the moment and what was there left? He took a shuddering breath.

“Are you alright down there?” Bilbo’s familiar voice behind him made him start, then tense. He truly hadn’t heard the Hobbit approach. But he lifted his head and turned to glance at the Hobbit just as Bilbo crouched down by him. 

“I must apologise,” Thorin forced himself to say. His voice was barely a whisper now, strained by the unfamiliar conversation but he carefully looked into Bilbo’s eyes. “I was unfair. You have given me so much and I have shared…almost nothing.” Bilbo made to open his mouth but Thorin grimaced as he raised a hand to silence him, the tug on his cracked ribs jabbing pain through his chest. “My people are secretive…and I am deeply ashamed.”

Bilbo edged closer to the dwarf and sighed.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “You did nothing wrong. You have been wronged…more than once, I think.” Thorin closed his eyes.

“If I come back to the Shire, I will put you in danger,” he murmured but Bilbo rested a hand on his arm, his face determined.

“If you don’t come back to the Shire, I will have to come looking for you,” he told the dwarf. Thorin’s eyes snapped open and he inspected the smaller creature incredulously.

“I thought…Hobbits didn’t like adventures…or anything out of the ordinary?” he whispered. 

“I’m half Took…and we’re more adventurous,” Bilbo admitted with a small smile. “But generally, adventures are to be avoided. Nasty, inconvenient things, make you late for dinner…” Then he sighed. “But my parents are dead, my family think I’m a loner and odd anyway and most of my neighbours would raise an eyebrow and complain that I used to be respectable until I went off to Bree.” Thorin sagged again.

“I am damaging you,” he murmured.

“But I am happier than I have been for years,” Bilbo told him, his eyes gentle. “Apart from enjoying the consternation of certain Hobbits at how well an outsider and an alien is doing in the Shire, I have enjoyed having you as my guest. And I know it’s selfish and you must think that I am silly and weak and terribly naive compared to you but I just…like having you around. And I am sorry because I don’t want you to feel beholden or pressurised in any way.” He sighed. “Gandalf says that the Men won’t have been able to get word to anyone about where you are so you are safe to come back. The Thain had guaranteed you the protection of his family and mine. But you are a free man and the choice is yours. I expect nothing.” And then he withdrew and rose to his feet. Gritting his teeth, Thorin levered himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain. He swayed and steadied himself against the tree. Then he shook his head, sighing.

“Tharkun was correct,” he managed, his voice cracking. “Hobbits are surprising creatures. My own people, after our exchange, would be shouting. Or coming to blows. There would be violence certainly. But you…apologised? When I should be grovelling? I-I…do not deserve your kindness. I… I…” 

Bilbo closed the space between then and wrapped his arms around the dwarf, burying his head in Thorin’s shoulder as he hugged him. Hesitantly, Thorin wrapped his arms around the warm body and returned the hug, allowing his eyes to close momentarily and savouring the feeling of someone touching him without hatred or cruelty. If he hung onto Bilbo for a few seconds longer than was expected, then perhaps it was just because he was shocked at the hug rather than starved of contact and relishing the warmth of another body against his. But when Bilbo pulled back, the Hobbit was smiling. 

“I think…you need to come home and heal,” Bilbo said honestly. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want, of course…but you have a home with me as long as you wish. All I ask is that you maybe talk to me once in a while. If I don’t understand, help me to? I don’t want you to be hurt or upset and not understand why or what I can do to help.” Grimacing, Thorin gave a sigh.

“There may be nothing,” he murmured. “But I accept. Thank you, Master Baggins. You are more generous than I deserve.” Bilbo granted him a genuine smile. 

“You may be grumpy at times and secretive and think that you’re all alone but you are my friend and I will do everything in my power to help you,” he said. “Now maybe we should get back to the others and think about heading home.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

The trip back to the Shire was slower than the exit, which wasn’t a surprise since they had been pursuing the kidnappers but it allowed Bilbo the opportunity to talk to all of their companions, especially Gandalf and Thorin. Thorin had insisted in riding himself and the Rangers had found a suitable horse, while bringing the others along with them. The dead slavers had been burnt and their weapons left in a pile on the side of the road. though Thorin-as the wronged party-had been offered anything he wanted from their effects as compensation. He had refused everything…though Bilbo had glared at him and pulled a reasonable blanket from the pack to ensure that he was able to be kept warm on the way back to Hobbiton.

It was clear that Thorin was struggling though he never uttered a word of complaint or asked for help. He steered clear of the Elves, his head down and lost in his own thoughts much of the time, though he was civil when asked any questions. Gandalf watched him closely with an unreadable expression on his face and sighed as he watched the dwarf fall back in the line. He was never allowed to bring up the rear but it pained Bilbo that his friend seemed to prefer his own thoughts to riding alongside the Hobbit-and Gandalf who he was sitting in front of. The wizard chuckled.

“Thorin is a son of the line of Durin and that means he’s proud,” he murmured when he was sure that the dwarf was out of earshot. “He’s hurt and in pain. He’s shamed and he’s embarrassed. He was never the most extrovert of people-his brother, Frerin, was always the popular, outgoing one-and he doesn’t want to look weak in front of the other races.” Bilbo nodded in understanding, considering the words for a few minutes. 

“Why does he hate Elves?” he asked quietly. “I would have thought he would be grateful for how they helped rescue him…” Gandalf inspected him and chuckled.

“He was more civil to them that almost any other of his race,” he said quietly to Bilbo’s shock, since he considered Thorin’s actions to the Elvish brothers rather rude. The wizard snorted. “And that was polite for a dwarf. The two races have a long history. But Thorin’s reasons are much more personal.” Bilbo squirmed round to glance up at him.

“What reasons?” he asked. Gandalf gripped his pipe in his teeth and lit it, puffing away as their horse walked along in the line. The breeze was cold and there were the faint drops of rain, spitting in the wind. 

“You remember I told you when Erebor was attacked and taken over by the dragon, Smaug?” Bilbo nodded. “As the dwarves fled their home, burnt and injured and shocked, they saw the forces of the Elvenking, Thranduil, waiting on the crest of the hill overlooking the wretched exodus. Thranduil’s relationship with King Thror had soured due to Thror’s madness but in that moment, the refugees and the young Prince leading them saw a final moment of hope that they could drive the monster from their home. Thorin shouted for help, begging them to assist the dwarves in reclaiming their home before the dragon could settle. But instead, Thranduil stared down on the broken inhabitants and turned away. He would not risk his own people against the dragon, for he had suffered at the hands of fire drakes in ages past. It was, perhaps, understandable…but to Thorin it seemed like the ultimate betrayal. Even worse when the shattered and unprovisioned exodus headed west, seeing shelter in the bounds of Greenwood. Thranduil refused them and used his guards to chase them back. They were not permitted to take wood from the trees nor water from the streams not game from the kingdom. There was to be no shelter from orcs and wargs and the cold. No medicine for the sick. No sanctuary for the dwarves.”

“My people died,” Thorin said gruffly from behind them, walking his horse forward. Bilbo started, resting a hand on his chest as he tried to calm his fluttering heart and blushing in embarrassment at being caught asking the question behind the dwarf’s back. Gandalf snorted again, seeming amused by the Hobbit’s reaction. “We had injured, children, dwarrowdams. Thranduil spurned us like vermin, his guards harrying us every time we tried to take any rest. The old and weak froze, the children starved, illness claimed many, wolves took our children…and while I know not all could have been saved, the tally of losses would have been so much smaller if Thranduil had offered us any mercy. But instead, he was venal and petty and cruel. And every morning, I had to hear the names of those dead or taken and speak with their kin and offer my condolences when there was nothing to say. When no words could ever bring back the loved ones lost.”

He fell silent and took a shuddering breath, now walking his horse alongside the wizard’s.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo murmured but Thorin shook his head. 

“It was a justified question,” he conceded slowly. “My people do not welcome outsiders…but I am not so lost to reason that I cannot separate political dogma from what I observe. And I know…that the Elves of Rivendell are not Thranduil’s people nor responsible for his actions. But I am only a dwarf and some things are ingrained deeply: I am grateful to the sons of Elrond for their actions. But I suspect that I may never consider an Elf as a close friend though I could be persuaded…as an ally.” 

“And that, perhaps, shows why Ered Luin is all the poorer for your absence,” Gandalf muttered round his pipe. Thorin cast him a glance and then looked over at Bilbo.

“You don’t have to fear to ask me,” he said tiredly, his voice still hoarse from the horrible bruising around his neck from the chains. “I will try to answer, though maybe the words will not be to your liking.” His shoulders slumped for a moment. “Dwarrow are experts at holding grudges and bearing ill will from one Age to the next. We are very different to Hobbits.” Frowning, Bilbo met his eyes.

“Not that different…just less chatty,” he commented. “Some of my family bear me ill will for simply being alive and in their way of inheriting Bag End.” 

“Lobelia,” Thorin murmured as Bilbo nodded. 

“But I won’t tolerate her saying anything against you,” Bilbo said hotly as the dwarf inspected him carefully. “You don’t deserve it.” Gandalf cleared his throat and cast a thoughtful look at the sturdy shape of the dwarf. 

Not all people get what they deserve-either good or bad, but sometimes, a kind deed can place you in danger. I will have to keep a closer eye on the Shire and Bilbo now. Finding Thorin maybe the stroke of fortune we need to bring Ered Luin back from insularity and hostility to the other races. He stared at the smaller shape. I just pray that I-and Thorin-can keep Bilbo safe.

-o0o-

Arriving back in the Shire was uneventful, though Bilbo felt a sense of relief at being back within its borders once more. The Rangers and Elves had left the Wizard, Hobbit and Dwarf at the border and Bilbo had repeated his offer of shelter to the Men and Elves if needed and all had promised to pass the offer on to their fellows. And then they had ridden slowly down until they finally reached Hobbiton, garnering a generous selection of suspicious or downright hostile looks.

Inwardly, Bilbo sighed. He had left the Shire in a hurry, riding out with a Wizard and returning with a Wizard and a dwarf. In Hobbit eyes, he had slid in social standing, from being a generally respectable but slightly suspect Hobbit (for housing a dwarf) to verge in downright outrageous, racing off with a Wizard and returning with a dwarf that everyone in the entire Shire would now know had once, recently, been a slave. And while slavery was illegal and not recognised in the Shire, Bilbo was certain the less charitable gossips would have spun the news as if Bilbo had bought Thorin as a slave and only reluctantly freed him. Or that Bilbo was guilty of associating with someone of such terribly low status that his own standing was tainted. And that his actions were a threat to the safety and security of the Shire.

He paused, staring ahead up the slope to Bag End. In fact, there was a threat to the safety of the Shire and he had been responsible for bringing Thorin-and by implication, the kidnappers/slavers who had come for him-to Hobbiton. The threat was his fault…though a small corner of his mind reminded him that the men may well have come, sooner or later. Bree had not protested provided it was not one of their own and his mind horrifically conjured up a scenario where Hobbits were captured and sold as slaves to other places where Hobbits were unknown and no one would care about their fate. Maybe even Ered Luin, where Thorin had come from, since the dwarrow there hardly seemed bothered by the concept of slavery…?

“You have been very quiet since were arrived back in the Shire,” Gandalf said reassuringly as their horses walked up the Hill. Starting, Bilbo looked up and slowly nodded.

“This isn’t over, is it?” he said quietly, trying not to speak loud enough for Thorin to hear. He snatched a quick glance at the dwarf, sitting slightly slumped in the saddle and looking pale and exhausted. Gandalf shook his head.

“No,” he said gravely. “Whoever tried to kill Thorin won’t give up. He is protected by the obscurity of the Shire but one day, word may get out.”

“And on that day, we will all be in danger,” Bilbo finished, his heart sinking.

“Or not,” the Wizard murmured. “One thing I know, Bilbo, is that Hobbits never cease to amaze me…and I have walked this earth for longer than you can possibly imagine.” Bilbo felt a small smile tug at his lips.

“So not just a wandering fireworks salesman then,” he found himself saying and felt rather than heard the chuckle that vibrated through the tall shape of the wizard, seated behind him.

“Bilbo-continue to be the same person you are now,” Gandalf advised him thoughtfully. “Kindness, decency, honesty, bravery…those will all serve you well in the months and years to come. Never forget that at the start of this, you had compassion for a being you did not know and risked your fortune to free him. You refused to allow him to be homeless and without hope.” Bilbo shifted in the saddle.

“I just did what any decent gentlehobbit would do,” he mumbled.

“No, you didn’t,” Gandalf murmured. “A decent gentlehobbit would have nothing to do with an outsider, a shamed and enslaved dwarf Prince. You, Bilbo, are your mother’s son and I think that will stand you in good stead, no matter what life throws at you.” Then he tugged on the reins. “And we’re here.”

Returning to Bag End was strange because everything was the same as the hour Bilbo left with Gandalf-and yet it all felt different. Hamfast had aired the place and Bell had put fresh flowers in the vases but it was still a little dusty and Bilbo felt a curious curl of shame as he led Thorin in. The dwarf, though, barely noticed, quiet and withdrawn behind his proud front. But his wounds were cruel and both knew that he would need to take time to heal. In fact, it was only when the door closed behind him that Thorin allowed himself to list and rest a hand on the wall to steady himself. Blinking, Bilbo realised that he had maintained his apparent indifference to his injuries simply by strength of will and a small part of him felt honoured that Thorin felt comfortable enough to drop the facade in his presence. Looking closer, he realised that the dwarf looked awful: pale, exhausted and badly bruised, and he gently touched Thorin’s arm.

“You look done in,” he said gently. Thorin stiffened and he looked up, blue eyes dark with shame.

“I am well,” he said gruffly.

“You most certainly are not!” Bilbo told him, his tone exasperated. “Thorin-we both know you were treated badly. I can bring some salves and bandages if you need them but what you need most is rest and a chance to heal. And I will give you those.”

“I…”

“Please,” Bilbo asked him, his voice kind. "I know this is not what you want. I know you would rather be with your own people and not hiding with some silly, fussy Hobbit who probably is far below what you would normally associate with…but I want to help you. So please allow me, Thorin Oakenshield!” Giving a small, reluctant sigh, Thorin nodded.

“Wiser heads than mine have counselled rest,” he admitted. “And though I am certain I will heal without, I accept that…it would be better.” His voice sounded like he was eating thistles. Then he looked up. “But please, do not doubt my gratitude to you or my happiness to stay with you, Master…Bilbo.” He managed a thin smile and then pushed himself away from the wall, stumbling towards his room. Bilbo bustled off and knocked on the door after he had entered, bearing a jug and an earthenware cup.

“I’ve brought you some water, Thorin,” Bilbo said, his eyes uncertain. “In case you get thirsty. I…” Looking up wearily, Thorin nodded in gratitude.

“Thank you,” he said and kicked his boots off, painfully lying on the bed and dragging the blankets up over his exhausted shape. Bilbo carefully poured him a cup of water, arranged the jug on the table and smiled at the weary dwarf.

“If you need anything, just holler,” he said and quietly let himself out. Thorin glanced at the door, feeling sleep weigh his limbs. Stubborn and brave, the dwarf felt shame that he was allowing the aftermath of his captivity to reduce him to his bed and he knew that before he had been enslaved, he would have refused any coddling. But there were limits even to his endurance and between the broken ribs, the lacerations and bruises and the burns he hadn’t shown Bilbo, he had reached them. A day of rest and then he would be able to return to the forge and start repaying his benefactor…his friend. But then his eyelids slid closed and in a moment, he was asleep.

-o0o-

After checking his pantry twice, Bilbo had to concede that he was light on most foods so a trip to the market was in order. Swiftly, he made himself a list and grabbed his basket before he checked once more on Thorin. The dwarf was dead to the world, his drink untouched and silver-streaked raven hair strewn over the pillow. In sleep, he appeared younger and unworried, despite the bruises on his cheek. Carefully, he pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and quietly left a plate of lemon and poppyseed biscuits on the bedside table before he quietly left. And then he headed off down the hill.

The market was in full swing, breads and cakes baked in the morning still on display. Checking his list, Bilbo swiftly loaded up on fruits and vegetables, some fine cuts of beef and pork and butter, cheese and cream. Mrs Greenhand had some fine blackberries and he cheerfully bought a large punnet to supplement the fruits on his own garden. He also picked up some herbs and several of  Polly Newleaf’s patented tonics for cuts and bruises and a new selection of bandages, exchanging a few words with the kindly young woman. He was just considering if he needed more lemons before heading back when a footstep sounded behind him.

“I’m shocked you have the nerve to show your face around here,” Lobelia sneered as Bilbo turned to face her.

“Haven’t you got an animal to torment or a small child to make cry?” Bilbo asked her dryly, setting his basket down and casting her an unimpressed look. Lobelia snorted-she had a magnificent selection-and glared at him.

“You should be ashamed, associating with that-that slave!” she sneered. “Have you no shame? No consideration for your family-your poor Mother and Father…”

“Don’t you even mention them, Lobelia-you certainly don’t have the right!” Bilbo hissed.

“…and your innocent cousins who will be tainted by your disgrace and misdeeds!” Lobelia finished superiorly. There was a small crowd and Bilbo glanced around, seeing a variety of expressions, from confused and sympathetic to disapproving and hostile. He sighed.

“What misdeeds?” he asked her pointedly. She glared at him, pursing her lips.

“You bought a slave!” she spat. The younger Hobbit stiffened, his eyes flashing in anger.

“I freed a dwarf who had been kidnapped and sold into slavery. Who was being held in Bree, only a few miles from Hobbiton!” Bilbo argued. “Can you not understand how wrong that is?”

“He’s a dwarf!” Viola Ashbranch added. “Not our business!” There were murmurs and he glanced at the conservative Hobbits.

“He was badly treated in front of me,” Bilbo argued. “That made it my business! And I could not sleep, knowing that I left him there in such straights.”

“Why was he a slave?” Charlie Bolger asked.

“Yes-what did he do?” Lobelia added. Bilbo heard the spite in her voice and glanced around.

“He saved his family who were threatened with being captured as they travelled home,” Bilbo revealed. “He was taken instead.”

“So he says!” Lobelia sneered. “But you know they sentence criminals to slavery. I wonder what he really did?” There were murmurs around and for a second, Bilbo felt a frisson of doubt flicker through his chest…before he recalled that Gandalf knew Thorin and had told him of the dwarf’s heroic and royal past. Thorin was no criminal, no wrong-doer…merely a dwarf who had been terribly wronged. But as he realised that, he also realised that he couldn’t share the fact he was certain with the crowd. Thorin’s anonymity was his protection.

“I know him,” Bilbo said weakly, hating how lame he sounded. He knew that Thorin was innocent, was a loyal and brave warrior…but no one here would believe him, even if he could tell them. “He’s done everything he promised. He works hard in the forge. He works in the house. He saved the Redfern family-that was no pretence.”

“Anyone can…”

“What? Run into a burning smial and save eight lives? Because so many others were dong that, weren’t they, Lobelia? It took incredible courage to do that!” Bilbo’s voice had risen.

“And then running off with a wizard…” Lobelia sneered.

“To save my friend!” Bilbo protested. “Gandalf was a friend of my grandfather and he made sure we were able to rescue him in time.” He glanced around and saw half the faces still clearly not swayed. Lobelia’s expression was smug.

“I’m complaining to the Thain!” she spat. “You are a bad influence to young Hobbits and that dwarf is clearly a criminal and a trouble-maker. We don’t want his sort here!” And with that, she spun on her heel and the crowd slowly dispersed, leaving a miserable Bilbo in the marketplace. Half the stallholders wouldn’t meet his eye and he gathered up his purchases with his cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He knew that he had not done anything wrong and in fact, he had behaved with compassion…but his fellow Hobbits were insular and wary of strangers. It would certainly make life more uncomfortable for Bilbo and Thorin-who in no way deserved it-and it confirmed his status as an outsider. 

He just had to hope that Lobelia couldn’t persuade the Thain to turn against Thorin because even after so few weeks as a house guest, the young Hobbit couldn’t imagine his smial without the dwarf. Cursing Lobelia, her airs and graces and every Sackville-Baggins, he began the trudge up the Hill to Bag End.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bilbo was baking when the hammering sounded on the door and he sighed. Recently, people pounding on his door had heralded trouble and he wondered if it was possible to develop an aversion to answering the door to people who didn’t have the decency to ring the bell. Maybe he could hide in the pantry and hope they would go away. But the pounding sounded again and he rolled his eyes then wiped the flour off his hands on a tea towel before stomping to the door and wrenching it open.

And then he paused with his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide with shock. Facing him was a dwarf who seemed oddly familiar-yet who he was certain he had never seen before in his life. The dwarf-almost a full head taller than Bilbo-appeared stern, his definite features regal and proud. Cold blue eyes swept over the perplexed Hobbit and raven hair was braided and styled elegantly, a multiplicity of silver and gold beads dotting the silky threads. His beard was beautifully tended with several braids as well and his expression was aloof. He was dressed in robes of deep blue, clearly of a good make and wrapped in a magnificent heavy fur cloak that made Bilbo all the more aware of his slightly dishevelled appearance. Yet the strange dwarf inspected the shocked Hobbit and then bowed. 

“Bilbo Baggins?” The voice was a clear tenor, the tone expecting an answer. Centuries of Hobbit manners overcame his shock and he bowed.

“At your service,” he found himself saying, straightening up to glimpse two further dwarves behind the one facing him. To his eye, they looked younger, their faces unlined and beards shorter-well, the bright blond one had a beard and moustache that included two small braids. The dark-haired one-the only one with dark rather than blue eyes-only had scruff rather than any sort of dwarfish beard.  Both were well armed and dressed for travel. “And who do I address?”

The dwarf looked over his shoulder, as if checking for surveillance and then his head bowed.

“I am Dis, daughter of Thrain,” the dwarf said. “These are my children-Fili son of Vili and Kili, son of Vili.” The two younger dwarves bowed.

“At your service!” they said in unison, both smiling. There was a mischievous look in their eyes and Bilbo realised with a shock that these were Thorin’s nephews, the young dwarves he had spoken of with such affection and love.

“I think…you’d better come in,” Bilbo said, standing aside and ushering them in. As soon as the two younger dwarves had entered, he closed the door and sighed, then walked past them, gesturing for them to hand over their cloaks. Automatically, he hung up their cloaks and heavy coats on the hooks and stowed their light packs in the alcove before he sighed. Silently, they followed him as he led them into the parlour. He gestured. “Please-take a seat. I’ll make some tea and then you can explain why you are here,” he said, his mind whirling. Dis looked as if she was about to protest but in the end, she sat back in the armchair while her sons occupied the couch and Bilbo made a large pot of tea along with a plate of lemon biscuits from the pantry. Finally, when everyone had a cup of the tea and the biscuits were vanishing rapidly, Bilbo settled in the second chair by the fire and turned to his guests.

“How can I help you?” he asked politely. Dis leaned forward.

“Master Baggins-I came to see you because you contacted me about my brother,” she said urgently. Her eyes glittered with determination and he hoped that he had not been wrong in writing to her. “Nothing in your letter gave any clarity so I must speak plainly. For three years, there has been no word of my brother. He has vanished into the wild, cruelly taken into the hands of Men who I have no doubt treated him badly.” She chewed her lip and he knew that she was refraining from using the word that so offended all of their sensibilities. A thousand questions filled her eyes. “Yet you have encountered him. Pray-tell me of him. Is he well?”

It wasn’t the question he was expecting but it was a good opening gambit and his letter had indicated that Thorin was alive.

As he inspected her, he could see the similarities in the identical colour of their eyes, the same eye shape and the hairline but there were also differences in her jaw line and nose. Her manner was proud and regal-almost certainly how Thorin had probably carried himself, before the ambush had stripped him of his identity, heritage and freedom. But for now, Bilbo was touched by the urgency in her eyes, the desperation in her voice and the way she and her sons leaned forward, every fibre of their beings speaking of their desire to hear news of their beloved, missing kinsman. But Thorin’s words-and the message contained within the instructions the kidnappers had carried-made him think carefully about his words.

“He is safe,” he said quietly. Dis bristled.

“What does that mean?” she demanded sharply, her body stiffening in anger. Bilbo sighed.

“Thorin had not experienced an easy time after he was taken,” Bilbo said carefully. “And recently, the same people who had imprisoned him came to the Shire.”

“Be explicit!” Dis snapped. The Hobbit stared into her eyes, his expression hard.

“I got the impression that there were some among your people who were less than upset at Thorin’s fate,” Bilbo said cautiously. “That those who profited from his absence were more than happy to maintain the situation-and ensure that he did not return.”

Dis stared at him and then slowly nodded her head, her shoulders slumping.

“Aye-that is true,” she murmured. “There were enough willing to condemn him for saving my sons and I…and precious few who would entertain a rescue. So few that it was forbidden.” She looked up, her eyes-achingly similar to Thorin’s, now he looked closely-infinitely sad. “But I have escaped from Ered Luin with my sons and now we are free to search for my brother. And you are the only person who has given us hope. Given me hope.”

Bilbo rose, his eyes thoughtful. His heart was telling him that she was sincere, that there really was only one course of action now. And he prayed to Yavanna that he had judged the dwarrowdam right.

“Stay here,’ he said and walked deeper into his home, round the corner and along the passage until he reached Thorin’s door. The previous night, Thorin’s sleep had been riven by horrible nightmares and Bilbo had been helpless to alleviate his suffering, save watching and trying to wake the dwarf. Exhausted by the fractured night’s sleep and still healing from his ordeal, Thorin had finally agreed to defer returning to the Forge for another day and, after helping Bilbo potter in the garden, take a nap-a very undwarvish thing but something his exhausted and wounded body had demanded of him as soon as the prospect was raised. But now Bilbo was going to disturb his much-needed slumber…though he guessed the dwarf would be grateful for the interruption. He knocked on the door.

A low murmur from Thorin acknowledged his wakefulness and slowly, the Hobbit could hear the sounds of movement. A weary-looking Thorin opened the door, dishevelled but dressed. 

“Bilbo?” he murmured, his eyes bleary. But Bilbo was smiling.

“There is someone to see you in the parlour,” he said, his voice quiet. Immediately, Thorin was tense, his eyes wary. “And I guarantee that you will be pleased to see them…” Lifting his head, the dwarf walked slowly past Bilbo, who trailed his friend to the parlour…and then hung back as Thorin rounded the corner. From his vantage point, he could see the dwarf’s face change in shock and the astonishment and joy that filled Thorin’s eyes. He saw Dis stumble to her feet and the boys leap up. But the female dwarf was fastest, flinging herself forward and meeting Thorin, who wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, as if he was never going to let her go. His breathing was shuddering and his eyes closed as he clung tight. Slowly, he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers in a gesture that was curiously intimate and had the watching Bilbo feeling like a voyeur. Then the younger dwarves flung themselves into the embrace and Thorin hugged them fiercely, muttering words in Khuzdul that were returned. Smiling to himself, Bilbo headed back and round through an alternative shortcut through the second pantry to the kitchen. 

It seemed there was something to celebrate.

-o0o-

Thorin would be lying if he denied that he trusted Bilbo. The Hobbit had entered his wreck of a life quietly and cautiously and had done things that the dwarf would never have imagined and all because he had considered them the right things to do. Thorin had winced at the amount that Halford had asked for his freedom, assuming it would scare off the Hobbit and leave Thorin at his mercy once more. Yet the Hobbit and his kin had argued with the smith and negotiated ferociously and having started the process, Halford had been swept along and had agreed to sell Thorin before he had even contemplated the ramifications. And then he had been offered passage to the Shire, to a place where there were no men, where he would be an outsider but where he would be free. And Bilbo-Mahal bless him-had stood by the dwarf and ensured he was homed, fed and offered employment. And even when the men had come, he had insisted on accompanying the wizard on a rescue attempt that had wrestled him from what would be a one-way passage to his destruction.

And he could never express the tsunami of hope he had felt when he heard Bilbo’s voice as he was tied against the tree, awaiting his torture. His heart had soared because Bilbo had come back-and he had freed him. In that moment, Thorin would have spent his life to protect the Hobbit because Bilbo had come back for him. And because the dwarf owed Bilbo everything. And when he snapped at him through his shame and embarrassment, when he thought he had lost the Hobbit’s friendship, nothing had seemed to be left worth living for. He closed his eyes, recalling the black cloak of despair that had wrapped around him. In that moment, it seemed that everything was lost: his people, his family and now his last friend. But Bilbo had forgiven him and had still been willing to continue as before, taking the wounded dwarf home to recuperate. In fact. Thorin had been astonished at the capacity of the Hobbit to forgive what would have been an irredeemable insult in Dwarrow society.

And now…he had found himself chafing at the time it had taken to recover from his wounds. But he had been starved and abused for so long that it was taking his body an age to recover from his ordeals, from the horrific wounds that he had suffered and which he had not shown Bilbo. He was exhausted still, though he forced himself to help about the smial and he had wanted to resume work at the Forge, though Bilbo had vetoed him until he was stronger. And his dreams had been disturbing, imagining a life here, in the shire: a life devoid of duty to his family and people, to those who had discarded and abandoned him and instead, devoting himself to the one person who had cared for Thorin, not the Prince. Thorin had long known he would never marry, would never bind himself to a respectable dwarrowdam but he had accepted a solitary life, eschewing companionship in favour of duty…but his treacherous heart and subconscious had decided that since duty was off the table, love was an option. And images of curled golden-brown hair and kindly hazel eyes had haunted his dreams, offering a future that was as impossible as his return to Ered Luin. There was no future for him anywhere and sooner or later, the shame of his past or the disapprobation of society would drive him away.

He had been disorientated when Bilbo had woken him and wary at his words. A visitor? Who would want to visit him? Maybe one of Bilbo’s cousins or perhaps the Thain, wanting to withdraw his offer of protection and residency in light of the troubles that Thorin had brought to his land…but he would face what came with the courage that his heritage demanded. He may be disowned and outcast but he was still a son of the Line of Durin and he would not disgrace his ancestors by acting the coward.

Yet he had frozen for a long second when he had stumbled into the parlour, his eyes taking in the shapes and wondering if he was still dreaming. Dis-his baby sister-was sitting in the chair, looking at him as if he was a ghost. Dis, who had grasped his severed braids with a wounded look in her eyes and despair in her voice as she had shouted after him as he had been taken. Dis who was the closest relative he had, who he was sure had tried to come back for him and who was rising like an unstoppable force. And he found himself moving as well, accelerating to slam into her sturdy form, feeling her arms wrap around him as he scooped her into his arms and crushed her close, feeling her warmth leech into him and her breathing against him. The softness of her hair and the cold of her beads against his cheek. And her scent, so familiar and long-missed, filled his nose.

“Dis,” he breathed. “Namad.”

“Nadad,” she murmured, her voice as rough with emotion as his own. “I feared you dead. For so long I feared we had lost you.”

“You had,” he murmured. “I was lost. I gave it up for you and the boys.” He moved to rest his forehead against hers, the familiar gesture so intimate and loving that he felt his throat thicken again. “And I would do it again for you. A thousand times.”

“Nadad, you will not,” she replied firmly, the stern edge to her words reminding him that this was his sister, the ferocious Princess who bullied both her older brothers as soon as she was old enough and who never backed down from an argument. The ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as he pulled back.

“We both know I would,” he teased her gently, his head spinning with the unreality of speaking to her once more. “Stubborn as a stone-as any Son of our line…” She frowned at his levity and her calculating gaze swept up and down his rumpled shape.

“You’re thin,” she accused him as if it were a personal insult and he grimaced at her tone.

“Food wasn’t plentiful while I was enslaved,” he murmured, seeing her wince at the word. He knew what he was…had been…and there was no profit in sugar-coating the truth. “But Bilbo has been feeding me up since I arrived here. Believe it or not, this is much better than when he first met me…”

“And when was that, Nadad?” she demanded. “Because I have been…”

“Irak’Adad!” Unable to wait any longer, his sister-sons crashed into him, warm bodies slamming into his and jolting him back almost a pace, even as their arms wound around him. He wrapped them in his embrace, hugging them close and closing his eyes again.

“Fili! Kili!” A shuddering breath shot through him and then he pulled back to inspect them. Fili’s moustache was more impressive and held small braids though the beard was still short. Kili was taller but his beard remained but a scruff, though his hair was longer. Neither of them wore a braid in their hair. He looked over at his sister. “You have grown,” he muttered, sighing.

“Neither would wear proper braids while you were lost,” Dis murmured softly, lifting a hand to his dishevelled mane and lifting his braid while grimacing at the leather tie. She frowned. “Erebor?”

“One indisputable fact they cannot take from me,” he confessed in a low voice. “I cannot claim to be of Durin’s line or of Ered Luin. My name is lost in slavery and shame so my victories and skills are forfeit. But I was driven from Erebor with all of my people and that I will own.” Suddenly, her hands were on his face, her eyes staring deep into his and reading his despair and hurt at the loss of his identity.

“You are still Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” she reminded him.

“Have they disowned me, Dis?” he asked her softly. There was a pause before she lowered her eyes and answered his question without words. He made a soft broken sound and pulled away, walking to the fireplace and poking at the grate so he could shield his face from her. But his shoulders were bowed with grief and she felt her heart break at his pain.

“You are Thorin, nadad of Dis, irik’adad of Fili and Kili, the sons of Vili,” she told him bluntly. “We never disowned you. We never gave up hope.” He nodded, his head still bowed before he squared his shoulders and turned back to face them, the mask of Prince Thorin in place. It broke her heart all over again at seeing him struggle to remain the brother she knew when he could lower his mask to her. But her sons stood at her side and sighed.

“Why is Fili aways first?” Kili asked, pouting. He knew the answer and his older brother elbowed him in response, leading to a scuffle more befitting of dwarflings that nonetheless had Thorin’s lips twitching with the ghost of amusement. 

“I see my absence has seen physical growth but they still remain children,” he murmured as she came to stand beside him, mirroring his posture with arms crossed across the chest.

“You were their only father figure,” she reminded him. “Adad cares not for them, save as Heirs and  Frerin…” She bit off the remainder of the sentence with an audible click of teeth. “Frerin was never more than the visiting ‘fun’ irik’adad. He never bothered himself with any of the duties, only the privileges of having sister-sons.”

“Adad made him the Crown Prince,” Thorin said, his voice without expression. 

“Once you were disowned, it was inevitable,” Dis replied calmly, though her gaze flicked to inspect his face. “The Council demanded it. The line of succession had to be protected and explicit…and with your loss…”

Thorin sighed.

“It wasn’t chance,” he said quietly.

She stared at him, eyes widening at his words. 

“The slavers didn’t stumble across us by chance,” Thorin repeated, his voice lowering. “They were seeking…me. And they have done everything in their power to keep me, to retrieve me…to break me. And if I escaped, they were under orders to kill me. There was to be no chance of ever achieving freedom or redemption…not for me.” Dis shivered and leaned back against the mantlepiece.

“Who would…?” she murmured and then her eyes flicked over her sons who had finally finished wrestling and were righting chairs and ornaments. The Lords she mistrusted the most, those who had seen advancement and far less scrutiny since the loss of the Crown Prince, flashed across her vision. Mur’s revelations about the surveillance of her mail made sense as the pieces fell into place. Suddenly Thorin’s shoulders slumped and he looked older and exhausted.

“Whoever benefits,” he forced himself to say. “But in Ered Luin, that encompasses far too many suspects.” He moved to the couch and sat down slowly, his head bowed. “The slavers deal with an intermediary but the author of my downfall will guess I still live. Though he knows not where I am.” He clasped his hands and stared at the scars on his wrists, the letters of his brand ugly against the skin. Dis sat at his side and stared at the flames.

“Adad is deteriorating,” she said quietly. Thorin’s eyes flicked to inspect her face. “There are more days when he loses himself. Maybe one in every three or four days now. On those days, he does as he is directed, a hollow king. His Council and his son order his compliance and he obeys, passing what laws they request and striking down those they do not support. He no longer rules in the name of the people but only those who are rich and ennobled.”

“The King is the King until he dies,” Thorin muttered bitterly. “There is no abdication or resignation. No matter how loose his grasp on reality, he remains our King and our duty is but to endure his whims until Mahal grants us mercy and takes him to His Halls.”

“Or others take a hand,” Dis murmured. Thorin closed his eyes.

“You think they would stoop to that?” he breathed.

“Why should they?” Fili asked quietly, sitting beside the fire with his younger brother. The golden-haired Prince had been tacitly raised as Thorin’s Heir for as long as he could recall, for Thorin had explained to the dwarfling when he was a little pebble that his Uncle would never father a child. “They have all they want: a puppet King to do their bidding. The situation is to their benefit.”

“Unless it is of more benefit in removing all opposition,” Dis continued remotely. “Framing their last opponents for the murder of the King would cement their positions for a generation or beyond. As long as they are assured that the Crown Prince, the next King, is their ally…” Thorin shook his head.

“Frerin would not ally himself with the men who murdered his father,” he said slowly.

“Frerin…prefers the path of least resistance to applying himself to the difficult duties of Princedom,” Dis said sternly. “He enjoys the pleasures of life rather than the tedium of Court. And if acquiescence releases him sooner, then he is unlikely to fight for people he doesn’t know.”

“Provided there is ale and merriment,” Kili added softly. His beardless cheeks were flushed with shame. “I’ve heard the talk as well, Amad. Frerin is the laughing Prince, the Golden Prince…but they don’t see him as one who will lead us through hard times, only if all is going well. And I feel…ashamed…that he is my kin.” Throwing his mind back to happier days, when they were all children together, Thorin considered his brother and his mind supplied the image of Frerin: laughing, joyous, outgoing and loved by all who met him. His blue eyes sparkled with good humour and his golden hair gleamed in the light of the lanterns, his manner always open and cheerful. As light and friendly as Thorin was dark and brooding, he had always been the favoured son, the one given latitude to skip training and avoid unpleasant or dull duties because Thorin was the son destined for the Throne. For a wild second, Thorin wondered if his brother resented him for their differing destinies but he reminded himself that Frerin had always been the first to sneak out of boring Council meetings or debates that Thorin had been forced to attend-and he had teased Thorin for being boring, dutiful and far, far too serious.

“He was never keen on ruling…and Adad’s sickness must place much greater burdens on him,” he murmured slowly. But Dis snapped a hand up to cut him off and he stared at her, seeing the rage boiling in her eyes.

“Stop it,” she told him angrily “Just…stop it. You and everyone else are all far too willing to excuse his dereliction of duty, his carelessness, his selfishness.” Thorin’s eyes widened: there had been other criticisms? He had assumed that this was just a private discussion rather than sharing of the prevailing mood in Ered Luin. But then Dis shook her head “I am sorry,” she said, her tone contrite. “I am just…frustrated.” Then she looked up. “But my heart is filled with joy at seeing you alive and safe.” Unable to stop the smile lifting his mouth once more. Thorin inspected her then looked over his nephews. 

“Before I catch up on what my nephews have been doing in my absence, can I ask how you tracked me down?” There was an undertone in his voice that had his sister on alert.

“Master Baggins,” she revealed  easily. “He wrote to me in such vague terms that I knew you were alive and ‘safe’ but no more and that he had encountered you in the village of Bree. The only option was to come and speak to him in person to gain more intelligence.” Then she handed over the letter and Thorin scanned the words. Wordlessly handing it back, he rose.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said quietly. “I must go and speak to my host.”

He knew where he would find Bilbo for the appetising smells of baking scones and cakes were wafting through the smial and Thorin found his mouth watering against his will. But his gaze was locked on the small shape deftly mixing the batter for a cherry cake and then carefully pouring it into a lined tin. Bilbo was frowning in concentration as he dunked the now-empty bowl into the sink, filled with warm soapy water and then he looked up. He slipped the cake into the oven before he fully turned to face the dwarf.

“You!” Thorin said gruffly. Bilbo tensed. “You wrote to my sister. You have put yourself in danger from the men who kidnapped me. Did I not say you knew nothing of dwarfish customs?” He paused. “I was wrong. You have brought my family to find me…and I can never repay that kindness.” 

And then Thorin surged forward, his arms wrapping around the smaller shape of the Hobbit, fiercely hugging him as he buried his face in Bilbo’s shoulder. Then after a couple of seconds, Bilbo wrapped his arms around Thorin, hugging him back and feeling the dwarf shaking slightly against him. 

“I know how much they mean to you,” the Hobbit said gently. “I know how sad you sound when you speak of them, believing that you would never see them again. I’m just sorry that it took so long but I didn’t want to risk anyone who meant you harm finding out where you were because of me.” Thorin pulled back a little, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Thank you,” he whispered as Bilbo smiled brightly at him.

“You are my friend and I will do everything in my power to help you-and any who may want to visit,” he said, pulling back and wiping his floury hands on the tea towel. “Now…you have met my family, Yavanna help you…so maybe you should properly introduce me to your sister and nephews.”

Chapter Text

SEVENTEEN.

“Thorin, born son of Thrain son of Thror, you are found guilty of treason, of shaming the Line of Durin, of shaming the Kingdom of Ered Luin and the Kingdom of Erebor. Of being a disgrace to the entire Khuzd race for your cowardice, your shame, your disgrace.”

He struggles because there is still a part of him that remembers the days before, the days when his Adad and Sigin’Adad looked upon him with pride, the next generation of the succession who had done everything and more to ensure that he measured up to their exacting standards. He struggles because he only did what a King must-protect his people, even at the cost of his blood. He grits his teeth against the shameful protest, that his sister and his nephews were held ready to be dragged into slavery. That his blood and Heirs should not have to face such perils when he could stop it, even by surrendering.

That it took more courage than he realised that he possessed not to carry on the futile battle against the slavers, despite Dwalin being down and his family imperilled, because his actions would not have gained anything. And when it was only his life at risk-as in Azanulbizar, when he faced Azog without a weapon-reckless, desperate courage was all he had. But facing the wide eyes of Fili and Kili through the pouring rain, knowing what would be done to break their spirits, imagining the light driven from Kili’s eyes or the fatal bowing of Fili’s shoulders…or what violence would be meted out to Dis who would be almost impossible to break…the choice had been stark. He could be the Prince, the reckless, proud son of the Line of Durin and fight until the end and then his family would be taken anyway…or he could use the decades of training, of lessons and meetings and negotiations that he had endured to do the unthinkable and snatch the least worst outcome from this catastrophe. And so he had lowered the bloody blade and stared at the men and then he had made the deal.

The thud of his sword hitting the sodden ground still haunted his nightmares.

They have him on his knees because it is the position of submission, hands pressing his head forward, bowed in supplication or submission, baring his neck for an axe or a sword because by returning, he has forfeit everything. More hands wrench his arms forward, rending the remnants of his sleeves away to display the burns around his wrists from the steel bands they hammered hot around his arms and the vicious brands marking him as a SLAVE for all to see. Then hands brutally fist his hair and he is dragged further forward, almost crouching over his knees and the rip of fabric is sickeningly loud as they tear his shirt open. The thick white seams of his scars lace his back, evidence of their generosity with the lash as they strove over and over to break his spirit. He recalls every instance, every time he had ground his teeth and swallowed the screams as they tortured him but he could not-and never would-volunteer a number. That pain was his and his alone to own.

And then they haul him up, finally lifting his head and exposing his neck, his eyes able to see the face of his father. A stone settles in his stomach and his heart chills at the expression in the Durin-blue eyes: utterly cold and devoid of any expression, as was expected of a King. Even a King whose son was being manhandled and shamed finally in front of the Court.

“See-he bears the marks of a slave and the signs…of his imprisonment.”

“What else did he do during his captivity?”

The last voice is sly, clearly not an official and low enough to be counted as a private conversation yet-in the manner of dwarrow-loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I was freed.”

His voice is hoarse because they have deprived him of food and water for far too long while they held him, planning this farce. 

“And what did you do to earn such largesse?”

He ignores the implications in the words, the slur of miscegenatious acts almost as offensive as the accusation of cowardice to the isolationists.

“Not all races believe that slavery is an acceptable thing. That it should be allowed to exist. A philanthropist freed me and I repaid him.”

A dwarf must work, must earn his way through the toil of his body, the skill at his craft or the ferocity of his axe.

“Did you surrender to free the Princess Dis and Princes Fili and Kili.”

“I did.”

“Then there is nothing left to discuss,” his father says, looking over at Lord Farag as if for approval. “You admit your cowardice. You are a slave. You have been disowned and banished, yet you returned. There can be only one outcome.”

He flinches then, unable to stop himself because this is what he had feared, what every nightmare had consisted of. Desperate, he seeks out the shape of his closest childhood companion and friend, the golden hair now bounded by a crown that once Thorin wore as the golden Prince sits at the King’s right hand.

In my place.

Prince Frerin, his beloved younger brother and friend, says nothing, his Durin-blue eyes infinitely sad as he steels himself. The rich robes suit Frerin’s elegant shape but the ready smile is missing. And he wishes with all his heart, that Frerin will say something-anything-for his older brother. For the person who gave everything to save their sister and sister-sons…but Frerin remains silent as the sentence is pronounced. Lord Farag, the solid, wide shape in obscenely shiny armour with an elaborate brown beard heavy with golden beads and clasps, recites the words with unpleasant relish.

But he struggles fiercely as the heavy iron bands are hammered closed around his wrists, as they haul his head back and shave his beard, the careless blade nicking his skin more than once. And he howls in rage at the punishment, loud enough for them to slam the butt of an axe into the back of his head hard enough to smear his vision grey and make him almost as boneless as dead thing. But he has no strength or focus to fight as they shear him too, his hair falling in grey-streaked raven chunks, hacked not quite to the scalp but only a couple of inches long and nowhere near long enough to braid. And only when they have shamed him beyond anything he could have imagined do they drag his broken shape up to face the King.

“You are banished forever from all dwarf lands, Thorin. You have no family. No name. No dwarrow will every acknowledge your existence. You will die alone and separate from our people. And you will be returned to the slavery that you willingly accepted for the remainder of you life.”

“NO! NO! Bilbo freed me! I never sought this and no one should be penalised for saving his family. This is wrong. Adad! ADAD! Please…. I am your son…”

But King Thrain looks away as the wreckage of the dwarf who had once been his oldest son and Heir was hauled out, given to the slavers and taken from his home, one last time…

-o0o-

Thorin sat up with a lurch, his heart about to hammer through his chest and his breaths panting desperately as his eyes scanned the surroundings, his mind still reverberating with the aftershocks of the nightmare. His hands fisted the blankets on the bed, the soft wool crumpling under his fierce grasp. Almost unconsciously, he glanced down at the burns round his wrists and the words, mocking his freedom. And the he looked up again, seeing the familiar fixtures of his room in Bilbo’s home…his smial…in Hobbiton.

He was safe. 

Trying with all his courage to master his breathing, he covered his face with shaking hands and closed his eyes, willing his body to come down from the adrenaline high that had every muscle primed to fight and his heart pounding fit to explode. In fact, he wondered that Bilbo hadn’t heard him through the wall that separated their sleeping quarters. Finally, he felt as if he could breathe but there was no way he was going to get any more sleep this night with those images rolling around his brain. So slowly, he pulled the blankets away from the warm and soft bed, ignoring the protests from his wounds and bruises and clambered to his feet. Quietly, he pulled on his boots and then he let himself out of the room, walking slowly to the kitchen.

The sun was just rising, the pink and orange light spilling between the curtains and warming the space. Automatically, he filled the kettle, fed the fire in the stove and started water boiling for a cup of tea, then walked to the little window that overlooked the garden. Still in shadow and peaceful, Thorin quietly waited until the first hints of a whistle called him back. His heart called for stone and rock, for the gleam of crystals embedded in green or red or gold matrix, for the light of a thousand lamps glittering off the seams of gold in the walls of Erebor…but the Shire had its own beauty. The dwarf in Thorin yearned for stone but the Hobbiton Smith was beginning to understand the beauty of the greens of the Shire.

He glanced over when he finished pouring his cup of tea, wrapping the teapot in a badly-crocheted cosy that Bilbo had explained his mother had made. Thorin had learned that Belladonna Took Baggins was adventurous, spirited, brave, sharp and loving but working with yarn was not one of her skills. 

It was not well-crafted, he had noted silently and Bilbo had read the comment in his eyes and burst out laughing.

“It’s terrible and really quite ugly but it was made by my Mum and whenever I use it, I think of her here, making teas and giving me advice, whether I wanted it or not and just being…her.” There had been a smile in his voice at the words. “So I use it because it reminds me of her. Do you understand?”

And Thorin did. The clasps in his hair had been given him by his Mother when he had started his formal training, a year after Frerin's birth, crafted lovingly by her hand to allow her to be with her precious oldest when she had returned to the stone. And he had lost her sooner than he had ever wished, for Fris had died mere months after his sister had been born, leaving only those few ancient memories, more precious than Mithril.  Memories of the woman who had just occasionally whispered to her eldest that it was okay to let his guard down, that he could come to her to complain if his grandfather was being too hard, if he felt stifled or crushed under the weight of responsibility because she was there for him. He was her oldest, her firstborn, her greatest achievement. And though golden Frerin was everyone’s favourite, the personable and fun-loving second son and fierce Dis was counted as a gift from Mahal, the first blood Princess for four generations, his Amad still quietly loved Thorin best.

He blinked, feeling the familiar curl of pain at her loss after so long. How long had it been since he allowed himself to think of her, of the softness of her beard and the kindness of her eyes as she hugged him after a hard day? Maybe it could only be for a few stolen moments-he still recalled the time his grandfather had found him hugging her after a vicious dressing-down in Council and had sentenced him to stand guard alone for twenty-four hours on Ravenhill to remind him that he was a son of Durin, not some pathetic weed-eating Elf-but somehow those precious moments stayed with him longer and more golden in his memory than almost all his time with his father and grandfather.

“I’m afraid the kitchen table will burst into flames if you glare at it for much longer,” Bilbo said from behind him and he started, almost spilling his tea. Then he lowered his eyes and sighed.

“I apologise,” he managed in a low voice.

“Nothing to apologise for,” Bilbo said easily, walking to the pot and peering inside. “Mmm-nicely mashed and still warm.” He poured himself a cup through the strainer and then moved to the table, sitting down. Awkwardly, Thorin sat opposite him. “Anything I can help with?” Thorin sipped his hot brew and absently added a little more honey.

“I was remembering…my mother,” he said after a pause, the tone low and almost ashamed. Bilbo’s eyebrows raised.

“Mother…oh, the tea cosy,” he sighed. “I remember my Mum making it. My father was going spare, desperate to help her, to unravel the dreadful thing and do it properly. But she was having none of it. I still recall the argument…but Mum was determined that it would be all her own work. And despite his grumbles, Dad used it every day as well-because the love of his life made it.” His voice turned wistful. “When they died, there were so many things that I put away because looking at them was painful…or they just were no no use in my life. But the tea cosy…well, I use it every day and even when I’m alone, it feels like they might walk through the door any moment…”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Thorin murmured as Bilbo stared at him.

“You have lost so much more than I,” he commented softly. Thorin’s eyes flicked up.

“The loss of family and especially parents cannot be minimised,” he said tonelessly. Bilbo sipped his tea soberly and then inspected the dwarf carefully.

“Thorin…my life had had its tragedies…and I miss my parents every day…but mine pale before yours. I mean, you have had so many terrible things befall you-I’m not going to list them. But it is not a competition!” His tone was firm, as if forestalling a debate. Thorin took a slow breath and stared at the Hobbit. Bilbo’s tone was so determined and yet compassionate that he felt a small smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. In this moment, he decided that poking this particular wound was worth the effort to prolong the discussion with Bilbo. Somehow, talking to him didn’t make him feel like he might be judged as being weak or a disgrace to his Line as his own conscience kept telling him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” the dwarf admitted slowly. “I imagined my return to Ered Luin. It was…unfortunate.”

“You think they would not welcome you back?” Bilbo asked, his eyes concerned. Thorin’s family had been welcoming and warm but they had scrupulously avoided the topic of Thorin’s slavery, as if mentioning it was a personal affront.

“I have been exiled, disowned,” Thorin explained, resting his mug on the wood and picking at a knot. “If I returned, I would be liable to be imprisoned, exiled…maybe even killed.”

Enslaved.

Bilbo frowned, catching the tone of his voice and wondering when he started to read Thorin like this.

“Your nightmares?” he guessed. The dwarf nodded wearily.

“Everything that I feared most…my father rejecting me, my brother turning away, the self-serving Lords manipulating them…and the chains closing around my wrists after I have been shamed.”

“Shamed?” Bilbo’s eyes were fixed on his face, the incomprehension something that Thorin recognised. Dwarves were secretive and jealous of their culture: it was little surprise that Bilbo did not understand. He sighed.

“Dwarves place great store on their hair and beards,” he explained quietly. “They are signs of a dwarf’s status, his family…and are major means by which we are judged attractive…or not.”

“Your sister and nephews have a lot more braids and decorations in their hair and beards,” the Hobbit noted as Thorin sighed.

“My braids were cut when I was enslaved,” he murmured. “They gave them to Dis when I was dragged away. The beads and clasps were given me by my mother.” There was a little gasp as Bilbo understood the loss, snatching a quick glance at the tea cosy.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You had no braids when…we first met but you are wearing one now.” There was a pause and Thorin nodded.

“Aye. Because I am now a free dwarf,” he told Bilbo, the gratitude in his eyes genuine. “I am sorry. I was never good with words, never skilled at expressing my emotions. I don’t think you truly understand what your actions mean to me. I was born a Prince, raised a Prince, second in line to the Throne of Erebor and throughout my life, there has never been a doubt about my status, no matter that Erebor was lost or that many of our people died in Azanulbizar or that we now rule a tiny Kingdom in Ered Luin, impoverished and precarious. But being enslaved took everything-my honour, my status, any kindness-and replaced it with cruelty, pain, cold, hunger and shame. I was not worthy of any status until you freed me…but my family did disown me. Dis confirmed it, meaning I am no longer the son of Thrain, no longer of the Line of Durin, no longer the Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne. And no longer welcome in Ered Luin. The braid I wear is the braid of Erebor, the Kingdom I was born to, the Kingdom where I was a Prince. It is all I can claim,”

Bilbo felt his throat thicken at the quiet tone, the pain not quite absent from Thorin’s measured voice.

“If I return, no matter how wrong my exclusion, I will be arrested and declared a disgrace for what I did. They will shave my beard and cut my hair. All will see my utter shame and they will turn away from me. They will declare that I will never be welcome in any dwarf settlement as long as I live.”

“They-they can do that?” Bilbo asked and slowly, Thorin nodded.

“The Kingdom of Erebor is-was-the greatest Kingdom of Middle Earth and the greatest dwarf Kingdom. My father, the King-in-exile, wields that authority and the other Kingdoms would respect his decree. The only thing protecting me now is that no one truly knows if I still live.”

“Your sister found out,” Bilbo murmured, a sick feeling roiling his stomach. Thorin rested a reassuring hand on his.

“Your words were clever indeed,” he reassured his rescuer. “They gave her a little hope but betrayed nothing. And she is very certain that no one had the opportunity to read your words since the mail was given to her unopened. You need feel no guilt.” Then his face fell. “Though I wish to Mahal that none of us had to even consider these matters.”

“Will Dis and the boys be safe?” Bilbo asked as Thorin stared at the table, his hair falling forward to obscure his face. His shoulders hunched.

“No, they are not safe,” he mumbled slowly. “By coming to find me, they have declared their position in this conflict. They cannot go back to Ered Luin now-their enemies would never allow them the chance for freedom again. Dis would be married against her will to an ambitious Lord who sought to get close to the Crown…and my sister-sons would be imprisoned and manipulated. And maybe…they would vanish, never to be seen again.”

Bilbo shuddered at the bleak tone.

“What will you do?” he asked in a small voice. Thorin sighed.

“I hoped…” he managed and then his words died. Bilbo inhaled.

“Of course you must all stay here,” he said without hesitation. “They are your family and I have seen how desolate you have been without them. I can’t guarantee my fellow Hobbits will all be welcoming but…”

“But I would relish a meeting between Dis and your Lobelia,” Thorin said with the hint of a smirk in his voice.

“I’ll have you know she is not ‘my’ Lobelia!” Bilbo retorted tartly. “I accept no responsibility for her prejudices, her nettle tongue and her rudeness!” A deep chuckle met his vehement denial.

“As I would not dare accept responsibility for Dis,” Thorin confessed. “She might consider turning her ire on me…” There was a twinkle of humour in his cerulean gaze and Bilbo felt himself mesmerised. It seemed every day there was another little facet of Thorin there for him to discover-the dry humour was a pleasure.

“She is fierce?” Bilbo asked. Having had no siblings, he really had no point of reference for such relationships and even less so for those in dwarven families. There was a louder chuckle.

“Dis is the most ferocious of us three,” the former Prince confessed. “When we were children, she objected that I got to stay up late for a banquet in honour of the delegation from the Grey Mountains. She was so furious that she knocked down four guards before they could subdue her and take her back to her rooms. She was but twenty winters old-a mere child.” The Hobbit’s eyes widened in shock.

“Ah.”

“I do believe that she will be much more circumspect-especially since she is used to living amid the intrigue and observation of Ered Luin,” Thorin admitted.

“So she may not kill me if the room is not to her liking?” Bilbo checked carefully. Thorin squeezed his hand.

“I’m certain she would not,” he said lightly. “She would of course harangue me until the End of Days for bringing her here but not you. You have shown nothing but kindness. Me, she would call her idiot brother.” There was no humour in the last words. 

“Thorin?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not an idiot and I won’t have anyone say that you are!” Bilbo snapped. “Nor a slave or a criminal or anything of that ilk!” Then he calmed his breathing. “Thorin…you are my friend and I won’t let people treat you poorly. Not Lobelia or the other Hobbits or your sister or-or anyone!” A genuine smile lifted Thorin’s lips at the fierce words as something warm flickered in his chest.

“And I am grateful for your stout defence,” he said genuinely. “And maybe one day, I will be able to repay you for your kindness…” He squeezed Bilbo’s hand again as he opened his mouth to protest. “And I know you do not expect payment but in friendship, I would ask you indulge my dwarven sensibilities.” 

“Morning…” a voice mumbled behind them and both jumped, instinctively pulling their hands apart as a sleepy-looking Kili rounded the corner and plopped onto the seat next to Thorin. Bilbo was struck by the likeness between the two as the younger dwarf stretched and then gave a smile. “Any breakfast?” Sharing a quick look with his friend, Bilbo began to chuckle.

“And so it begins,” he commented, rising to peer into his cold store. Bacon, sausages, eggs, bread, some nice black pudding, potatoes and tomatoes would make a decent First Breakfast for hungry dwarves and equally hungry Hobbits. “Is your brother awake?” Kili yawned again as Thorin poured him a cup of tea.

“He’ll be up as soon as he smells cooking,” Kili mumbled sipping his tea. Thoughtfully, the Hobbit slipped some oat biscuits and cheese across to the waiting dwarves as he slipped a slice of lard into the pan and prepared some bread and butter for the table before he put the first few rashers to sizzle in the sturdy frying pan. Both Thorin and Kili had closed their eyes and were inhaling the scents of cooking bacon as Fili and Dis appeared to join them. Popping the kettle back on the stove to make a fresh pot of tea and glancing at the family now sitting at the kitchen table, Bilbo felt a moment of completeness wash over him.

These dwarves were his responsibility now, his house guests because they had nowhere else to go that was safe from intrigue and manipulation. The same people who would use Dis and the boys would kill Thorin, all in pursuit of power in the impoverished and precarious Kingdom of Ered Luin. And whether it be suspicious Hobbits, slavers or malevolent dwarves, Bilbo would fight with everything he had to protect his friends.

But now breakfast.

Chapter Text

EIGHTEEN.

“It's not right at all. Or decent!”

Isengrim Took rolled his eyes as he heard the screeching voice of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins haranguing him. He had tried every tactic he knew to defer a meeting but the woman had been disturbingly tenacious and had waited until he had finished all his meetings and his luncheon before demanding that she needed to speak to him on a matter of paramount importance. Already knowing what she would be complaining about, Isengrim had settled in his second-best parlour-still sumptuous and extremely comfortable-and was nursing a cup of aromatic tea while the woman continued on her diatribe.

“What isn’t right?” he asked evenly. 

“Those filthy thieving dwarves!” Lobelia spat. She was garbed in a lime green and purple combination that Isengrim feared would cause him a migraine, the four tiered hat ridiculous and her rolled ubiquitous umbrella resting menacingly against her chair.

“And what evidence do you have for those claims?” he asked her mildly. She blinked.

“Isengrim-it’s common knowledge!” she pointed out pityingly.

“Not really,” the Thain told her calmly. “You have just labelled an entire race as unwashed and dishonest. So what evidence do you have to substantiate your claims. Especially as you level ‘what everybody knows’-which, by the way, isn’t actually correct-as evidence against specific individuals.”

“You want specific evidence?” Lobelia sneered. “Then that scruffy dwarf you have allowed here is a slave! A slave! And you allow him to mix with decent folk!”

“I know that Thorin has been a slave,” Isengrim told her bluntly. “He was in no way deceitful. He was freed from servitude by my nephews who witnessed the sale and the papers granting his emancipation, a copy of which is filed in the archives here in the Great Smiles at Tuckborough. So he is a free man.”

“But did he tell you why he was a slave?” Lobelia sneered. “After all, they enslave prisoners for serious crimes-recidivist theft, rape, assault, wife-beating…”

“I was not aware you were an expert on other races’ penal codes,” the Thain commented mildly. She hissed. 

“But my point is that the dwarf you have accepted into our lands is probably a dangerous criminal…” Isengrim sipped his tea, which had gone cold. He rested the beautiful West Farthing bone china on the side table and sighed.

“He is not,” he told her bluntly. “I am fully aware of the circumstances surrounding his captivity and they do not pose any threat in the way you are suggesting.”

“And you just took his word for it?” the female Hobbit screeched. There was a pause and the door opened, admitting the bowed but spry shape of Adamanta, the widow of the former Thane Gerontius, and Isengrim’s mother. Her dark eyes glittered in her lined face and she scowled at the other female. 

“Are you so sure of your own prejudices that you cast aspersions on the wit and judgement of your Thane?” she said in her querulous but angry voice. “A man who had been raised to accept this post since childhood. You, Lobelia Bracegirdle, who can barely cook and whose only skill seems to be vicious gossip and stirring dissent and hatred!” The younger woman bristled but bit her tongue, knowing better than to insult Adamanta. The old woman was respected the Shire over and a word from her could reduce Lobelia to a total social pariah.

“My apologies,” she ground out through gritted teeth. 

“I have his word-and independent corroboration,” Isengrim revealed calmly. “The dwarf, Thorin, is not a criminal. He is, in fact, an honourable warrior who has fallen on hard times…”

“But did you know he was kidnapped? Men came to the Shire and attacked him? How is that not a danger?” Lobelia pressed.

“And you would deny a dwarf, who is living here honourably to earn coin to pay his perceived debt to Bilbo, assistance when he is attacked by evil men?” Isengrim asked her. “Those men breached our borders and used force in the Market Place. They would have come back-and they have been dealt with. As far as I am concerned, the matter is dealt with…”

“So you know he’s moved his family in?” Lobelia asked spitefully. Finally, the Thain frowned, his eyes sweeping over her with real dislike.

“What are you talking about?” he asked tiredly. Lobelia sat bolt upright.

“Another dwarf and two younger dwarves have appeared at Bag End,” she told him nastily. “His wife and children, I’ll bet. Poor Bilbo, being taken such advantage of. And Yavanna knows what they’re doing to that lovely Smial when it should be in the hands of a proper Hobbit family…” The Thane narrowed his eyes.

“I imagine that Bilbo, as the only child of Bungo and Belladonna, who built Bag End, has every right to do with his home what he sees fit,” Isengrim pointed out. “After all, your jealousy over his home gives you no right in law to steal it from him. In fact, your manoeuvrings after his parents died were far closer to theft than any of those dwarves have attempted!” Adamanta snorted from the small chair by the fire that she had occupied while Lobelia went a peculiar shade of purple. “I am sure that Bilbo is in full command of his home and whether he offers others lodgings or not is his business.” Then he leaned forward. “I would be most disappointed if I found that you were spreading malicious gossip about my nephew when all he has done is offer kindness to others. Perhaps if you took his example, you would not be so despised.”

Lobelia shot to her feet, her knuckles white around the handle of her umbrella. For a moment, she looked as if she was about to attack the Thane but then she gave a huge snort and spun on her heel.

“I should have known better than to expect any sense from a-a-a Took!” she spat. Then she paused by the door. “And I think you’ll find that the decent, upstanding people of the Shire have a much better idea of what is right and wrong than you do!” Then she stormed out, slamming the door. Isengrim stared after her.

“I fear she will cause poor Bilbo more troubles despite my words,” he sighed. Then he caught his mother’s expression. “And yes, I know I insulted her but sometimes, a Took has to be true to himself…” Adamanta smiled.

“All the same, it may be prudent to pay young Bilbo a visit…maybe to check how well the dwarf, Thorin is doing,” the old Hobbitess said. “And maybe see just how many dwarves he’s actually hiding in Bag End.”

-o0o-

“You know this is going to be dangerous?”

“Are you serious? You arranged a meet to ask me that?”

Balin winced at the sarcasm, pulling his hood further forward to shield his beaked nose and twinkling eyes. There was little he could to to disguise his magnificent beard though. But in this miserable and depraved corner of Ered Luin, few would pay him much heed, since hoods and cloaks were de rigeur and he doubted a single patron here gave his true name.

“I needed to check, laddie,” he said kindly, his eyes darting around the room and scanning the other inhabitants of this cramped and sweaty tavern for threats. It was a skill that Thorin had possessed to an enviable degree and Balin found himself wishing his Prince was at his side. And then he shook himself: if Thorin was here, there would be no need for him to be huddled in the nook of this seedy place in the first place. 

“I’ve been your informant and agent for the last five years, old man.” The tone was mocking. His companion was sitting back, sheathed in shadow. At ease and surprisingly light on his feet, the other dwarf was known as a thief and a rascal, a dwarf who had few boundaries and was incredibly handy with his knives. What no one else knew was that he had been a spy for Balin for half a decade. Absently, he cleaned his nails with a gleaming stiletto.

“This time, I fear I am in the minority and the actual government is on the other side,” Balin muttered. The eyes inspecting him narrowed and the other dwarf sat up sharply.

“So technically…this is treason?” he growled and Balin sighed.

“It depends whether ye think kidnapping and enslaving the rightful Crown Prince in order to snatch the Throne of Ered Luin is treason or not,” he said quietly. “The people who had Thorin clapped in chains and dragged off-threatening the lives of the Princess and her sons in the process-would say no. I happen to be in the other camp.”

The other dwarf sat back, the fuggy torchlight highlighting his bronze hair amid the smoggy atmosphere of the tavern.

“I hate politics,” he grumbled. “Thorin, eh?” Balin nodded.

“The only one who refused to pander to the Lords who wanted to pull the strings. The King…is unwell and his will is not as strong as if once was.”

“Meaning he’s a puppet,” the other dwarf murmured. “Explains the new laws where pretty much being poor is a crime. And the new taxes that ensure everyone but a Lord is poor.”

“Not the finest pieces of legislation in our Kingdom’s history,” Balin murmured. The other dwarf balanced his knife on a finger, absently focussing on the blade as he considered.

“I need something doing in return,” he said gruffly. 

“What?” Balin asked. “My brother is no longer Captain so he…”

“Not him,” the thief said with amusement. “Though it would be useful to have him in my pocket. No-I need you to get my brothers out of this thrice-damned place. If I am to work for you, I want no leverage here against me, no one who could be threatened.”

“Your brothers…?”

“Dori-the tailor. He’ll grumble but he’s no fool and with his skills, he’ll thrive anywhere. Though don’t tell him that because he would scoff that I said anything positive about him. And Ori, my younger brother. He’s smart and deserves more. Kid can’t keep his nose out of a book and shows an interest in Elves and other races. He writes all the time and draws and…well, I guess having a scribe in the family wouldn’t be a total disgrace. See it happens. Help him get an education and become a scribe…but not here.” The dwarf looked up. “Those are my terms.”

“You know that I am leaving as well?” Balin murmured. “It’s no longer safe. Hizair and Vurth have been making less than discreet comments about my suitability for the post and it will only take one bad day for the King to decide he wants more reliable advice. Especially when my brother is the guard Captain who lost the Prince in the first place…”

The other dwarf chuckled.

“Normally, I would be amused to see Captain Dwalin reduced but considering the alternative, sometimes it is better the devil you know,” he commented. “How will I get in contact?”

“I am heading for the village of Bree,” Balin revealed. “Direct any reports to the Inn there and I’ll get them. I’ll notify of any changes…”

“No,” the other dwarf snapped, his eyes glittering. “No communications with me unless crucial. I don’t want any evidence tying me to you.” Balin nodded and rose to his feet.

“As you wish,” he said amiably. “We leave tomorrow at dawn. Have your brothers ready to go and waiting in the Gneiss cavern half an hour before that time.” The thief rose and nodded.

“They’ll be there, old man,” he said lightly and turned to vanish into the crowd. Balin watched him slide away and duck from view.

“Good luck, Nori,” he said.

-o0o-

Despite Bilbo’s fussing, Thorin had insisted on going to the Forge the day after his family’s arrival, unwisely taking the boys with him. Dis had lectured them for fifteen minutes on what she expected and Bilbo decided she was probably terrifying and wondered if he would earn such a lecture as well for making his scones the wrong way… But Fili and Kili had been quiet and meek until they had made it out of earshot of Bag End when their normal mischievous demeanour had returned and Thorin knew that he would have his hands full keeping them out of trouble. And that was on top of apologising to his customers, apologising to Muzzy Snowmane, clearing up the mess the fight had made of the Forge and trying to actually get some work done.

Yet there was something about walking alongside his nephews that stirred memories of earlier times, of days when he was the Crown Prince, armed and proud and respected. The boys looked at him and there was still pride in their eyes, mixed with happiness that they had him back, no matter how changed the circumstances. Both were mischievous and playful but both had shown through their closeness how happy they were that they were reunited. When Dis lost her husband, Thorin had stepped in when no one else had bothered, helping his sister raise the boys and in the process, becoming the father figure they were missing. In his heart, they were the sons he would never father and his heart had soared at the sight of them: even bruised and battered, he found himself walking taller with them alongside, not wanting them to see how far he had fallen.

"So what is it like here?” Fili asked, his blue eyes inspecting the market that was still in the process of being set up for the day. Hobbits were friendly and fussy creatures but they took their meals seriously. No decent Hobbit would dream go going out before First Breakfast and precious few would do much between First and Second Breakfasts so the stalls were still being set up. There was a preponderance of tablecloths, gingham and flowers on the stalls. 

“Different,” Thorin admitted as they approached the Snowmane Smial. “To be honest, most have made me welcome. They were suspicious of an outsider-as any would be-but they accepted me far more willingly than any dwarrow.” Fili smiled.

“Our people are a lot less…flexible,” he agreed.

“Mahal made us of stone and though we are hardy and strong, we are not good at changing our minds,” Thorin commented. There was an awkward silence. 

“Though some seem willing to allow their minds to be changed,” Fili muttered as his Uncle watched him thoughtfully. Fili was growing up, almost at majority, and he had always been more serious than his younger brother. Thorin had tacitly been training the lad as his Heir and knew that Balin would have stepped up to continue his lessons as Fundin had continued Thorin’s, despite the sack of Erebor and the hardships of the road. Then a surge of guilt assailed him as he realised that he had missed three years of Fili’s maturation, three years in his critical transition…years stolen from him. And the image of the small, golden-haired dwarfling Fili had been decades earlier flashed across his memory. Where had the years gone? Where had that little one vanished to? His Heir was on the brink of adulthood and Thorin was left wondering where the time had gone-and how many hours he had wasted in duties and politics when his nephews were growing up. Kili gently nudged Thorin, who had stopped dead.

“Uncle?” he asked as Thorin forced himself to smile.

“I was just wondering where my two dwarflings had gone,” he murmured. “I see two young warriors in their place.” Kili grinned.

“We’ll protect you from these fearsome Halflings,” he promised as Thorin gave a small shake of the head and walked to Muzzy Snowmane’s door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

There was a pause and then then the blue door opened. The wizened shape of Muzzy looked up at Thorin and then surged forward, wrapping the astonished dwarf in a brief hug. Shocked, Thorin hesitantly returned it  before the old Hobbit pulled away, his eyes twinkling as he looked up into the dwarf’s face.

“Master Thorin! I am glad to see you back,” he said cheerily. “And I am so sorry I was unable to help you fight off those scoundrels…” But Thorin smiled at him, seeing the old Hobbit ball his arthritic hands.

“Master Snowmane, no one is more glad than I that you did not intervene,” he told the old Hobbit warmly. “If I, a veteran of more wars and fights than you could possibly name, could not halt them, then the casualties among your peaceful folk would have been terrible.” But Muzzy gave a cheeky wink. 

“Hobbits are fiercer than we look-and there were more of us than of them,” he reminded the dwarf. “We could’ve taken ‘em if the rest of them hadn’t got their heads up their asses!” Then his eyes fell on the two shapes beside Thorin. “You brought help, Master Thorin? Your sons?” Taking the time to look embarrassed, Thorin shook his head.

“My sister-sons…my nephews…arrived yesterday looking for me,” he explained. Then he smiled. “Though I helped raise them in place of their dead father…” The younger dwarves both executed a neat bow in perfect unison.

“Fili…”

“…and Kili…” 

“…at your service!” they announced, straightening up with a smile. The old Hobbit grinned.

“Polite boys you got there, Master Thorin,” he complimented the dwarf Prince and for a moment, Thorin gave a genuine smile.

"Oh, this is very much the exception,” he confided. “Their mother threatened them if they misbehaved…” The old Hobbit chuckled. 

“Maybe some good hard work will keep ‘em out of mischief?” he suggested.

“So I had hoped,” Thorin confessed. The old Hobbit dug in his pocket and handed over the keys to the Forge.

“I locked up and tidied as much as I could…but I am sure it won’t meet your standards,” he smiled. “But call me if you need a hand…” Thorin gave him a grateful nod. 

“I’m sure Fili and Kili will be up to the task,” he said as the Hobbit gave him a cheery wave. Sighing, he headed down the road and along to the forge. Fili appraised the building and hummed.

“It doesn’t look like much,” he commented as Thorin unlocked the Forge and sighed.

"It's far more than I had and more than I deserved,” the former Prince commented, checking the space. There was still some chaos from the fight but his book-the book Bilbo had given him-was still in place and more shockingly, the little leather purse was where he had left it. Hand shaking, he lifted it and checked: every single penny was still there. Fili frowned.

“The money is still there?” Thorin nodded.

“Would never happen in Ered Luin,” Kili said, popping up. “Some thief would have taken the chance to fill his pockets the moment he knew the smith was away.” Thorin tightened his grasp around the pouch and then tucked it in his tunic.

“Hobbits are amazing creatures,” he explained as they began to tidy up and light the fire. “Hobbits-never Halflings, which they find insulting. They worry more about respectability, decency and politeness than bravery, strength or skills. Hospitality is taken extremely seriously. But don’t mistake them all for friendly: strangers are suspect until you prove yourself, don’t make any ‘humorous’ comments and be polite. If someone thinks we are less than they are…” He sighed. “In my case, they were probably right.”

His nephews stared at him before he felt Kili’s hand rest on his arm.

“No,” he said. “No, Irak’Adad. These Hobbits assume too much. And I can see that some things are similar as is their value-friendship, family. And you gave everything up for us-your family. You are still our Uncle, still the dwarf who fought to keep us from chains, which you accepted in our stead. You ensured…a nightmare. But you are free and whatever you may imagine, your worth is equal to or greater than any and every Hobbit in the Shire!”

Staring into the wide, dark eyes of his sister-son, Thorin blinked. When had Kili grown up and developed such wisdom under his playful exterior. But he knew: when he had left them exposed to Ered Luin’s brutal and cruel politics that had forced them to close ranks or lose everything. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart even as he forced a small smile on his lips.

“Maybe we’ll see how our hosts react to my return,” he found himself saying as he flicked through the book. There were still open orders and perhaps, it was his chance to teach his sister-sons more than the History of Erebor, weapons craft and politics. “And maybe you two can show me how your smithcraft has developed in the time I have been gone.”

As anticipated, he was met with immediate protests. Thorin was a skilled blacksmith, his ability to bend iron to his will equal to some of the finest Masters in Ered Luin but he had never forced his nephews to his own craft, believing they should choose that which called to them most deeply. When he had been captured, Fili was studying with a Master Goldsmith while Kili had shown an uncommon skill on manipulating gems. Dis-herself a skilled jeweller-had suggested that her younger son’s acute eyesight allowed him to pick the brightest and least flawed gems and Thorin had no reason to doubt her expertise, though he had ensured his nephews still had some skills in working iron, in case they needed to effect repairs to their weapons. And it was in ensuring they had maintained this skill that he teased them about helping him.

In fact, they helped him clean up the Forge and move materials and then Kili manned the hatch, using his ready smile to charm anyone who attended. For the first few customers, Thorin had stood beside him, explaining that his nephews were helping him with the Forge and that he would be trying to catch up. To Thorin’s surprise, every Hobbit who came to the hatch was understanding, expressing their relief that he was safely returned and enquiring after his health. And everyone had been happy to wait for their orders, now that Thorin was back. Kili helped immensely because he was relatively undwarflike in that he had only a scratchy stubble, rather than a beard and was cheerful and personable. He smiled easily and joked with the Hobbitwives, who to a Hobbit all seemed to feel that he was in need of serious mothering. So Kili charmed the customers and in return, he had several plates of scones, cakes and meat pasties stowed behind the counter to feed him-and his kin-which he had gratefully and willingly accepted while Thorin and Fili worked hard to catch up with the orders.

But the next customer brought his pleasant morning to a screeching halt. A sour-faced Hobbit female stomped up to the hatch, her face pinched with an expression that would curdle milk and a large ridiculous hat with feathers, wax fruit and even a stuffed bluebird threatening to topple off her head. She gave Kili a most hateful glare.

“Good morning, Madame Hobbit,” Kili began, still smiling. “How may we…?”

“What do you filthy greedy grasping violent dwarves think you’re doing here?” Lobelia screeched.

Chapter Text

NINETEEN:

“What do you filthy greedy grasping violent dwarves think you’re doing here?”

Kili stared at the screeching Hobbitess, her eyes narrowed and face screwed up in a particularly hateful expression. Her clothing seemed extraordinary and he stole a brief glance at the other Hobbits in the market, dressed comfortably but much more simply than this hostile one. Though usually taken as not the brightest and rather mischievous, Kili was in fact pretty observant and able to size up dangers rather quickly…even though he usually made a joke of it. But in this circumstance, he swiftly decided playing dumb and unthreatening would be a good starting point. 

“We’re running the Forge, Madame,” he said cheerfully. “My Uncle does a great line in pots, pans, skillets, knives, cooking tongs…or if you are of a more horticultural bent, maybe a fine set of gardening tools, forks, spades or even scythes. Name your blacksmithing requirements and I am confident we can service you.”

“Madame? MADAME? How dare you insult me in such a way, you horrid little goblin?” Lobelia screeched. A crowd was starting to gather with a number of rather prim-looking Hobbitwives crowding behind Lobelia, seeing her harangue the obviously-young dwarf. Kili looked pained.

“I am so sorry, Mistress Hobbit,” he tried, his tone apologetic. “I meant no offence. I used a form of address that is recognised across the West of Arda as respectful to those ladies of a certain age and marital status. If you are indeed a spinster, I am truly sorry for making such an assumption.” There were muffled sniggers and Lobelia turned red. 

“You may think that trying to deflect from your own status is funny, you nasty little orc, but I can see through you!” she spat. “First one, then now three more. How long will it be before your filthy kind are swarming our towns, taking all the food, stealing the business from our merchants and turning us from our homes! We don’t want or need such ugly, underhand criminals infiltrating our peaceful land. It’s not enough to have that convicted slave over there amongst us…” She gestured behind Kili and the young Prince felt his face harden even as a few murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Mistress, you may insult me all you wish but you must not speak against my Uncle, the bravest and most selfless dwarrow on Arda!” he said sternly, suddenly standing straighter. “In mere worth, he outstrips you a thousandfold!”

“Impudence!” Lobelia shrieked and poked him viciously in the chest with her umbrella. Not protected nearly enough by his leather vest, Kili flinched and then had to duck as she cracked the weapon across his shoulder. She swung again-but a swift movement grabbed her umbrella before it could make further contact and she tugged, furious, to see Thorin’s hand locked around the object without any sign of strain.

“Mistress Sackville-Baggins,” he growled, his eyes glittering with anger. She pulled more desperately but he would not budge an inch.

“Let me go!” she yelled. He stared at her.

“Why would I do that, Mistress?” he asked her sarcastically. “You have just attacked my nephew with this item. I have restrained you from hitting him again. Why would I hand your weapon back when I have no guarantee that you will not repeat your assault?”

“Let me go you, vicious mongrel!” she spat. “I know all about you. I know why you were a slave, what crimes you committed! You shouldn’t be allowed among decent people…” Thorin stared at her, shoving her back and releasing the umbrella. “You saw that, didn’t you?” she sneered, appealing to the crowd. “He attacked me! What else do you expect from dwarves? They should all be driven out of the Shire…”

“I think you may have been at Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms!” Inigo Greenthumb yelled from his produce stall. “All I and everyone else saw was you going up to the Forge to cause trouble. You insulted that young lad every which way from Sunday and all he did was apologise and treat you with respect. That and making a lot of unfounded accusations and slurs against his people.”

“Everyone knows dwarves are nasty, dirty, greedy violent creatures!” Lobelia snapped.

“I make no comment about your hygiene, Mistress, but the only one here being nasty and violent would seem to be you,” Fili commented from his brother’s shoulder. The female Hobbit snapped round and snorted furiously, the swung at them with her umbrella again. Thorin blocked the blow with his arm.

“I am not familiar with the laws of your land, Mistress Sackville-Baggins, but in most other lands, assault upon an unarmed minor is frowned upon,” he told her gravely. “Both my nephews are not of age yet and neither bears arms nor has made any aggressive move towards you. Why do you make such cruel accusations and vicious attacks when we have done nothing against you or any other one of your kind?”

The murmurs in the crowd were back, louder now as Lobelia leaned forward.

“You know what you are!” she hissed. “You are all devious underhanded creatures who seek to abuse the hospitality of my poor foolish cousin and sponge off his generosity until you can make off with everything you can carry!”

In a flash, the door of the Forge was flung open and Thorin surged forward, his eyes flashing as he stopped a mere foot from the spiteful she-Hobbit. Breathing hard, his fists curled at his side, he glared at her truly furiously.

“Madame!” he snapped, hanging onto every last shred of his temper that he could manage. Back in Ered Luin, Thorin had been known for his temper and his pride but both had been tempered by his time in slavery. Certainly his pride had been eroded by three years of abuse and cruelty though it was not gone and he had learned to hang onto his temper better…though not completely. And attacking those Thorin cared for was a guaranteed way to enrage him. “You are entitled to your own opinions-born of ignorance and prejudice rather than any actual knowledge-but I will not tolerate your baseless jealousy of Master Baggins. He has shown I and my kin nothing but generosity and kindness in a world where my kind are usually ostracised, cheated and abused. I will not permit you to undermine his character, his intellect or his choices by your own venal spite. Everyone here knows that you sought to steal his inheritance from him, to turn him from his home because your twisted mind imagined that you deserved his home more than he did simply because you had a husband and he was alone. And in any decent settlement, you would be judged and treated accordingly as the vilest and most wretched of creatures.” He took a deep breath. “Master Baggins is my friend and I owe him my life. I would spend my life in a moment to protect him.”

Lobelia glared up at him, her face twisted in fury and her hand tightened on her umbrella.

“LOBELIA!” Bilbo’s voice rang across the market as she froze. The younger Hobbit approached almost at a run, the sandy-haired faunt who had sprinted to fetch him speeding behind him in anticipation of a good show. “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you!”

“You think I’m intimidated by this…slave?” she spat. Bilbo arrived at Thorin’s side, flushed and breathing hard.

“You should be,” he told her calmly. “You have insulted him every way you can-and his kin. But if you attack him, he may defend himself-and as he’s a dwarven warrior and much stronger than any of us, that won’t go well. You’ve said your piece and made yourself look mean-spirited, spiteful and prejudiced. I’d withdraw when you’re still not losing too badly!”

“You!” she spat. “You should curl up in shame. Your parents would be turning in their graves at the shame you have brought upon the Baggins name. Consorting with these filthy dwarves! Putting them up and letting them ruin your smial…”

“I believe you put it well, Lobelia,” Bilbo said with forced amiability. “My smial. My home. And who I ask to stay as my guests is solely my choice. It’s really nothing to do with you, is it?” Then he gave a bitter smile. “In fact, the only person shaming the Baggins name currently is you!”

Spluttering in shock and glaring at the young Hobbit, Lobelia turned and opened her mouth to launch another vitriolic volley at him-when another voice interrupted.

“I believe my nephew is correct,” Isengrim announced, ambling up with Adamanta at his side. A pony trap was parked by the baker’s stall. “You are certainly shaming your family by this public display. These dwarves and Bilbo have shown much more restraint than you. So I suggest you go home before you make a complete spectacle of yourself.”

Shaking with rage, Lobelia glared at the Thain before shoving her way through the crowds and vanishing to titters from the female Hobbits she had hoped would support her and guffaws from the others. Isengrim shook his head as Bilbo bowed his head in greeting. 

“Is this lucky timing or should I be concerned?” he asked, seeing his grandmother eyeing Thorin and the boys thoughtfully. Her quick eyes saw the shape of Dis, hanging back a few yards and observing the confrontation and she elbowed Isengrim lightly. He glanced up and saw the Princess and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“I think we need to talk,” the Thain said.

-o0o-

Bilbo had felt his stomach drop to his feet when he heard Isengrim’s words, spoken in such a stern tone. Intellectually, he realised that the Thain had a duty to investigate unusual happenings-and Thorin seemed to be surrounded by them-but in his heart, he knew this was another of Lobelia’s cruel actions in trying to drive out Thorin and leave Bilbo more isolated and damaged than before. His Uncle had suggested that the dwarves all returned to Bag End for the discussion and, recognising the order for what it was, Thorin had bowed his head and shepherded his nephews back into the Forge to complete their current tasks and close up. Dis had headed silently back up the hill as the young Hobbit stared. Adamanta winked.

“Bilbo-don’t look like the world is ending and another Fell Winter has just arrived,” she advised him with a warm smile. “There is nothing that family can’t sort out.” But the younger Hobbit looked even more devastated as he heard her words, his mind wondering whether that truly applied to dwarves, for most of Thorin’s family and people seemed to have abandoned him. 

“I-I don’t want to let them down,” he murmured as his grandmother slipped her arm through his.

“I cannot imagine my Belladonna’s only son would ever let someone down he had promised to help,” she murmured and pressed a light kiss on his cheek. “However, my old knees aren’t so sprightly as they used to be and the Hill is rather long and steep. Isengrim will take us up by pony trap-and I’m sure he’ll have a few words with many people on the way. Could you put the kettle on?” The twinkle in her eyes and kindness in her words calmed Bilbo a little, reminding him of happier times, baking in her kitchen and staying at the Great Smials, when a scraped knee or a fall would earn a warm hug and an equally warm caramel biscuit to soothe his sorrows. He nodded and cast a last look at the Forge, where the hatch was already closed, before scurrying across the Market and back up towards his home.

By the time he had reached home, his mind had swung back to the Hobbit norms of hospitality and as soon as he was inside, he headed for his kitchen, filling the kettle and fetching the bigger teapot. It was nearing lunchtime and Isengrim and Adamanta would expect food to be served. His mother and father would be spinning in their graves if he didn’t offer the best of hospitality so he set to work with a cheerful urgency, fishing out a newly baked loaf from the bread bin, some cheese scones and a freshly churned pat of butter, along with a selection of cheeses, a green bean pickle and two relishes and a selection of cold cuts from his cold store. Then he set to hard boiling some eggs and while the pan was bubbling away, he went to collect some fresh tomatoes, some celery and cucumber and a selection of salad leaves from his garden and from his pantry, a selection of pickled onions, gherkins and beetroot. He also grabbed a bottle of elderberry cordial and some ale as an afterthought and began to think about laying the table. 

When he emerged from the pantry, Dis was sitting stiffly at the table, her face carefully neutral and eyes wary, her hands clasped tight in front of her. Sighing, Bilbo poured her a cup of tea and then sat opposite her, pushing the honey towards her.

“I have packed,” she said stiffly, her eyes flat. He started.

“Dis-I am certain that won’t be necessary…” he said though his tone didn’t even convince him. She gave a bitter snort.

“Oh, I have no doubt that you are still welcoming but the scene I witnessed was one that our people are all too familiar with-and it only ever ends one way,” she told him grimly. “We will be run out of the Shire with only what we can carry. My brother will be granted no rest or respite and my sons will be exposed to the road once more.” 

“No, they won’t,” Bilbo told her with absolute certainty. “I will not have you exiled again. I promised I would give you a home and if Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is tolerated here-when having an orc in the neighbourhood would probably raise the general standard of manners compared to hers-then I will fight tooth and claw to ensure you are granted safe haven here.” Her eyes flicked up and there was a flash of amusement in her expression.

“You are fierce for such a small creature,” she commented as she saw him fold his arms and glower at her.

“Your Highness is scarcely one to talk on the scale of all on Arda,” he retorted and then he sighed. “I am a perfectly respectable size for a Hobbit! But my mother was a Took-the same family as the Thain-and she was wild and fierce and would never back down when she knew she was in the right.”

“And you take after her?” Dis guessed. Bilbo sipped his tea and relaxed a touch.

“I won’t let you down,” he promised as there was a knock on the door. He rose, looked anxious and halted as the Princess sniggered.

“I have seen brave warriors look less harried before a battle,” she commented as he scuttled to the door and opened it, smiling at his Uncle and Grandmother and exchanging pleasantries. Dis had withdrawn to the parlour as the two Tooks were shown in and served tea. 

“I’ve a lunch for us,” Bilbo explained, handing round a plate of lemon and poppyseed biscuits and some carrot cake squares, frosted with cream cheese, “but I was guessing that you would want to eat after you have spoken on the reason you both came all the way from Tuckborough.” Isengrim nodded, sipped his tea (which was excellent) and gave a small smile.

“I see my sister still lives in her son,” he commented dryly. “You are correct, of course.”

“And I recognise my best Carrot Cake recipe,” Adamanta added. “You have truly done it justice. Good work, Bilbo.”

“Thank you, Gramma Adamanta,” he replied with a smile as the door opened and Thorin and the boys returned, instantly looking wary. However, Kili advanced towards Bilbo, a broad smile on his face and he offered a lumpy brown paper-wrapped parcel to their host. 

“Some lovely lady Hobbits gave us these, Bilbo,” he said easily. “And as you have been so kind to us, it’s only right we share them with you.” He rubbed the back of his neck as Bilbo accepted the parcel with a smile. “Um…we may have eaten all of the cherry scones and half the meat pasties. But it was Fili’s fault…” Adamanta raised her cup to conceal the smile lifting her lips. She recognised the expression from her own twelve children. 

“Kili-it’s fine,” Bilbo interrupted him, also smiling. “It’s very kind of you to share these kind gifts.” He glanced over to Thorin and realised who had prompted Kili to hand the food over with the words he had used. “And no one begrudges two growing lads any food…or their hardworking Uncle.” He sighed. “Now I think you maybe need to wash up your hands and then the Thain will want to talk to you all.” Bilbo busied himself in taking the food to the kitchen and by the time he had put the cakes and scones on a plate under a cloth, the dwarves had cleaned up and all four were sitting in the parlour, stiff and anxious as Adamanta joined him in the kitchen.

“For now, Isengrim wants to speak to your dwarves in private,” she told him, achingly settling on the kitchen chair and accepting one of Bilbo’s honey biscuits. “In the meantime, maybe you can tell me the whole tale of how you came to be running a dwarf boarding house?” The twinkle in her eye and the tease in her voice had him grinning as he sat opposite her and began to explain.

In the parlour, Isengrim looked over the dwarves facing him, his astute examination reading their expressions. Thorin was already mildly familiar, the bruises on his face a reminder that he had only recently been rescued from a violent kidnapping that Gandalf had reported was designed to kill the dwarf. His blue eyes were resigned, though he held his head proudly, belying his patched clothes. The two dwarves at his side were clearly much younger-his nephews, from what he had overheard-and both looked alert and wary. The dark-haired youngster only had scruff for a beard while the golden-haired youngster had a much better beard, neatly trimmed and a thoughtful, appraising look in his blue eyes. The last member of the family was, he realised, a dwarrowdam-female dwarves were rumoured to be exceptionally uncommon. Her face was similar to Thorin’s with the same blue eyes and raven hair, though hers was elegantly braided and her beard was a work of art, with braids and beads. Her clothing was composed of a knee length tunic that was fitted and embroidered in gold with geometric patterns and a small septet of stars on the collar. Her breeches were crisp and good quality and a belt resplendent with silver and gold inlay looped around her waist. Even her boots were good quality, sturdy and well cared-for. 

“I think some introductions are in order,” the Thain suggested. “My name is Isengrim Took and I am the head of the Took family and Thain of the Shire.” All the dwarves bowed their heads and he snorted. “It’s a largely ceremonial post-my only responsibility…to the King of Arnor or his legally-recognised representative…is to raise an army when the Shire is under attack. But I am the head of the richest family in the Shire and that accrues me some respect.” The female dwarf narrowed her eyes as Thorin spoke up. 

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he said quietly. “I apologise if…” But Isengrim raised a hand.

“Master Oakenshield, when we first met, I asked if you had any family who would miss you,” the Thain said. “You replied that they were lost to you, separated by a chasm too wide to cross.” A small smile crossed his lips. “But I realise that one should never underestimate the tenacity of dwarves. Because I can see familial similarity in the faces beside you. We can discuss the how’s and wherefores in a moment, when I know what kin have come to your side.”

“I am Dis, daughter of Thrain, King of Ered Luin,” she announced proudly, her voice a clipped tenor. The Thain bowed his head.

“You are most welcome, Princess Dis,” he said gravely.

“Dis, Thain Isengrim,” she replied equally gravely. “I left my title behind when I left the Ered Luin. If my brother is stripped of his title, I am not worthy to retain mine.”

“Amad!” the fair-haired dwarf interrupted. Then he bowed. “Fili, son of Vili, son of Dis daughter of Thrain. At your service.”

“Kili son of Vili, son of Dis daughter of Thrain,” the youngest dwarf added with a small bow. “At your service.”

“Your sons?” the Thain checked and was rewarded with a nod and look of pride in Dis’s bright eyes.

“A pair of scamps but any mother would be proud of them,” she admitted as Thorin felt his lips tilt up in an unwilling smile.

“Thain Isengrim-what do you want to know?” he asked carefully, seeing his sister’s eyes flick worriedly over him and back to the grey-haired shape of the Thain. Dis took a deep breath.

“Perhaps you need to know that there is intrigue in the court,” she began. “Our father’s health is failing and greedy and venal Lords manoeuvre for position. Our brother-the Crown Prince-takes no part in the intrigue but nor does he stop it. And there is no hope that they will ever allow Thorin to come home, no matter that he accepted disgrace to save us from the slavers. And the truth is that there were dwarrow there, the moment we arrived home, who were falling over each other to condemn my brother for his ‘cowardice’ and ‘dishonour’ when he threw down his sword and offered himself instead of his sister and sister-sons. Men who never left the mountain in their lives who scorned a brave warrior and leader who sacrificed everything to save those he loved. And no one, not one single official or Lord or…or King…would authorise a patrol or army to go out and rescue our Crown Prince. Instead, they swept him away like discarded metal shavings and carried on as if he had never existed!”

Dis’s voice had raised, ringing through the parlour, her anger visible in her flushed cheeks and shining eyes. 

“We heard the declaration,” Fili said, his voice low with emotion. “Naming our Irak’Adad a coward and without honour. Erasing him from the line of Durin. Trying to wipe his name from the histories, despite his heroism. The one who had helped Amad raise us when Adad died. The person who had held us at night when we were scared by nightmares, who had taught us to fight, who had cared for us when we were sick, who had worked in the villages of men when food and money was scarce so we could eat. They called him a coward and nothing when all the time, they are nothing.”

“And there were more rumours,” Kili added unexpectedly. “Rumours that Lord Vurth or Lord Hizair would marry Amad-against her will. That we would be removed to the care of Uncle Frerin as his Heirs. That Balin would be removed from office.”

“Balin?” Isengrim asked.

“A cousin and loyal friend, my tutor and adviser,” Thorin said gruffly. “He-as his father before-has no truck with the intrigues of court and disloyal men manoeuvring the honest aside for their own advancement. I am surprised he has lasted this long, to be honest.” And then he sighed. “Dwalin?”

“Demoted to guardsman,” Dis said softly. “I try to speak to him or Balin every week and I know Dwalin takes the boys for their training but he is deeply affected by your loss, Nadad.”

Isengrim narrowed his eyes and inspected the former Prince, his eyes filled with concern for the dwarf named Dwalin. The Thain was not blind: nor was he stupid and he had seen the concern in Bilbo’s eyes as he had stepped forward to defend his dwarves. Already, he would have affection for them…especially, Isengrim suspected, the former slave who had been his companion and friend for some time. Thorin had stated his friendship for the Hobbit openly in the market, a much warmer term than he had used in his previous meeting with the Took. Thorin clearly had more than familial concern for the dwarf named Dwalin and he owed his nephew to ascertain its nature.

“And who is this Dwalin to you?” he asked bluntly, exploiting his age, seniority and Tookish nature. “A comrade? Friend? Lover?” Thorin started.

“My shield-brother and closest friend…naught more,” he said evenly. “We have fought shoulder to shoulder almost my whole life. But do not fear…I have my sister and my nephews here. There is no partner or lover to join me.” His tone confirmed there had never been anyone to fill that post. “Dwalin is not my lover nor ever will be.” Then Dis sighed.

“But he may follow me,” she conceded, her voice a little less certain. Isengrim was a master at his position, skilled at maintaining his face as a mask of indifference and allowing the people he was speaking with to fill in the blanks. The only clue he gave was the gentle tapping of his finger on the arm of his chair. 

“Why?” the Thain probed. Thorin clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his hands.

“Because he is honourable and to be penalised for the actions of others is a terrible fate for such a warrior,” he murmured. “Now Dis has escaped with the boys, he and Balin will leave. They will be under suspicion anyway and they no longer need to remain to protect the Princess and Princes.”

“Not that we needed protection,” Kili muttered.

“You all did-from those who would attack you not with knives and axes but words and laws,” Thorin told him bitterly. “They could confine you to your rooms, the Heirs of Frerin, because of some unspecified ‘threat’ to you and suddenly, you are a prisoner every bit as much as I was. Except the cage has a comfortable bed and there are no whips.” The young dwarves looked stricken and leaned against their Uncle as Dis took a slow breath.

“What is the threat to the Shire?” Isengrim asked. “Is there one? Do we risk invasion, annexation, for offering you sanctuary?” Thorin shook his head.

“No one knows where they are,” he confessed. “Dis left no note. The men who captured me were all slain. The Shire is insular and contacts with others are scarce.” He looked up. “But if you wish us to leave, Thain Isengrim, we will. I would not bring any harm down on your people-and especially Bilbo-no matter the risks of the road.” Isengrim gave a small smile, hearing the urgency and the absolute honesty when he said Bilbo’s name.

I was wrong about you. Your honour remains-it just needed nurturing, like a plant crushed underfoot. And I know for a fact that Bilbo is an excellent gardener. That you would give up a safe home for you and yours to protect him tells me what I need. No matter how many relatives and supporters come to stay.

“That will not be necessary,” the Thain said calmly, seeing both adult dwarves exhale in relief. “Notwithstanding that my nephew would never forgive me for driving you from safety. You and your kin are welcome in the Shire, Master Thorin. I am presuming these dwarves…Balin and Dwalin…are on their way and will arrive at some point. Are there any more who will come?”

Thorin was staring at him in astonishment.

“Lobelia does not speak for the entire Shire and I am a Took,” Isengrim smiled. “I would rather do what is right than what is safe any day of the week!” Then he paused. “But I would make a bargain with you, Master Oakenshield.” Thorin straightened up, his face impassive. “I would like to be informed when new members of your kin and group move here. Also if there are any imminent dangers that threaten my people so that I can take steps to protect them. And if there is an attack on the Shire, I would expect those of you who are warriors to step up and help protect my people.”

“We are all warriors,” Dis confirmed as Isengrim’s eyes widened.

“Amad is deadly with a sword and axe,” Fili answered proudly. “And she could even outfight Thorin.” The Princess gave a small smirk.

“Now, certainly,” Thorin muttered, hunching his shoulders. “Before, it would have been more even…”

“In your dreams, Nadad,” she told him smugly. Unwillingly, the Thain found himself smiling. Finally, they sounded like any other family and that revelation was more reassuring to him that he had made the right choice. 

“Maybe we can schedule a visit to the Great Smials, Pr…Dis…” Isengrim said. “I would like to discuss the court with you in more detail and I suspect that you would be more up to date than Thorin.” She inclined her head.

“I would be honoured…though Balin is the one you really want to talk to,” she confessed. “He is an adviser and administrator down to his bones. He could answer any question you want.” Then she raised her chin. “Are there any rules you want us to abide by?” 

“No weapons except a simple belt knife,” the Thain said automatically. “Though I would suggest you use the Low Meadow for weapons practice. It would help your youngsters to burn off some energy and keep your skills honed in case the worst happens.”

“You just need to say the word and we will fight for the Shire-to the last drop of our blood,” Thorin said clearly. “You are more generous and more accepting than anyone I have met.” The Thain chuckled.

“No-I came a distant second to my nephew,” he told them honestly. “Bilbo is your benefactor. His acceptance and his kindness is why I have decided to let you stay-you and whoever joins you. But I will not allow you to abuse my nephew’s trust. If there are too many you for this home, I would wish you to make alternate arrangements rather than overcrowd and strain my kinsman’s resources and nerves-Bilbo would willingly help you and so would I.”

“Agreed,” Thorin said quietly. “I would not harm Bilbo.”

No, you wouldn’t.

“Then I am happy to welcome you to the Shire, Thorin, Dis, Fili and Kili,” Isengrim said, rising from his chair. “Now, if I am not mistaken, I can smell minted boiled new potatoes in butter which means that lunch is ready. Come. This Thain may expire from hunger if we wait longer…” And then he headed for the dining room at a pace belying his age. Dis stared after him and chewed her lip, trying not to laugh.

“I think there are almost none in Ered Luin who could match him,” she commented. “I suspect he’d eviscerate them with half a sentence. Brother, I commend your choice of sanctuary-and your choices of saviour and his Uncle.” Then she followed the Thane. Fili and Kili were already moving towards the food, scuffling as they went but Thorin paused, standing up and feeling the tension tight across his shoulders and neck. A large part of him had fully expected to be kindly but firmly told that they were unwelcome. Yet here they were-safe, warm, food waiting, his sister and sister-sons safe and welcome extended to any who wanted to join him. And all for the price of keeping the Thain informed of who arrived and any news from Ered Luin…and the promise to help protect the Shire, if required.

He blinked and felt a sudden revelation.

Isengrim had treated him as the leader of his family and of any dwarrow who arrived in the Shire. And, Mahal bless him, he knew and did not care about the declarations of Thorin’s own people. He had rendered his own judgement and found Thorin worthy. He swallowed and closed his eyes to master the surge of emotions that suddenly swamped him. 

How could the Hobbits be so welcoming and kind when his own people were the opposite? Why would they all accept him so willingly when any dwarrow would refuse to even acknowledge his existence? But he already knew: the evidence was all around him.

When he looked up, a familiar head had popped found the door to check he was alright when he hadn’t appeared after his nephews. Bilbo’s eyes widened and he looked concerned to see his friend standing alone and looking shaken in the centre of the parlour but Thorin gave a small nod, the expression in his eyes filled with gratitude and warmth. And his heart soared as he was rewarded with a smile in return. 

And then they went to join the others for lunch.

Chapter Text

TWENTY.

Something had changed. It wasn’t obvious because Bilbo was always a perfect host, caring for his guests as if he was their mother rather than a Hobbit making room on his smial and his life for a quartet of exiled dwarrow, but Thorin knew. 

After the Thain had given the dwarrow his blessing to remain with the conditions he had set out, Thorin had finally felt a tiny flicker of hope and relief run through him, as if a crushing weight had been lifted very slightly from his shoulders and the fear that they would be run from the Shire without provisions, weapons or hope of a destination was pushed aside…for now. Thorin was under no illusion that he was safe but for the moment, life seemed much less precarious than it had been. Naturally, his family had seen his relief and had responded, embracing him and welcoming back into their embrace as if they were back in Ered Luin once more, back in the rooms that Thorin had visited so often that he almost lived there. The boys had grown up so much in only three years and they had endless tales of their exploits and of the mischief they had gotten up to. And listening to them excitedly sharing their tales, interrupting each other and finishing each other’s sentences, he had felt the warmth of home blossom in his chest once more. He had smiled, laughed and shaken his head in disbelief that these two young dwarrow could really cause so much chaos-but the pained look in Dis’s eyes confirmed that they may exaggerate a little but that the substance of their stories was true. And in all honesty, he couldn't get enough of it, couldn’t wait to spend time with the boys who were in all honesty more sons than nephews. 

They had settled rapidly into a new routine, despite his lingering wounds from his kidnapping. In the morning they rose, breakfasted and headed down to the forge to start work on whatever commissions they had for the day. Kili would usually man the hatch, dealing cheerfully with the Hobbits, most of whom seemed to have adopted him as in need of serious mothering while Thorin and Fili did the hard work. And once he was free, Kili joined them or ran errands or whatever the others wished him to do. His skills at blacksmithing were definitely inferior to theirs but he was a dwarf and willing to do whatever he had to. But he was also far better at negotiating in the Market and could charm any faunt who came to have a stare at the strange dwarven smiths. Sometimes, Bilbo would come along and bring food for lunch but once he came and found them eating pasties from the Market, he had stopped coming.

Once the work was done, they headed to the low meadow with Dis joining them for weapons practice. The boys and Dis had brought their own weapons from Ered Luin while Thorin had made himself a sword among the first few things he had forged-carefully adding the costs of material to the debt he owed Bilbo, for he could not, in good conscience, expect the Hobbit to provide him with that on top of the other generosities that he had shown Thorin. And sparring with the boys, correcting their technique and honing his own skills against his sister-herself a vicious and relentless fighter-made him imagine that he was almost back home. But as he and Dis parted, both breathing hard after an especially vigorous battle, she had fixed him with her piercing gaze.

“Your Hobbit doesn’t like us,” she said without preamble. Catching his breath and flicking his hair off his face, he stared at her.

“What makes you say that?” he asked. She snorted and sheathed her sword.

“The way he looks,” she commented. “He serves breakfast and then retreats, listening to us. He scuttles around like a servant, snooping. He makes dinner and never says a word. He leaves the house without explanation and returns without a word. He is watching us, brother and though he wrote to me to alert me to your continued survival…I don’t know what to make of him. His welcome seems very different to the way he behaves now.”

Every instinct was screaming for Thorin to leap in and defend his friend…but the truth was that he had noticed something off in Bilbo’s behaviour as well. He could understand that Dis would be suspicious of anyone she didn’t know, given that she was fresh from the political pressure cooker of Ered Luin, and her judgement was usually swift and harsh. Yet he held his tongue because he had been away from the cut and thrust of dwarven politics for three years-and his judgement had never been the best. Quick to anger, self-assured and brave, he was an archetypal dwarrow Prince and subtlety was not his strong suit. Balin had spent decades telling him that his diplomatic skills were minuscule at best and needed work and that above all, he should think before speaking. It seemed that all it took was three years of slavery, abuse and cruelty to get that last lesson into his rock-hard skull. So he bowed his head and walked up the hill, deep in thought as his nephews continued their discussion of which of them was more awesome at swordsmanship.

Bilbo was cooking when they returned and Thorin waved the boys to wash up while Dis returned to her rooms to prepare for dinner as he walked into the kitchen. Bilbo glanced up and there was a vaguely relieved smile on his familiar face as he looked up from where he was peering into the oven.

“I’ve made a mutton cobbler,” he said. “With creamy mash and root vegetables. Will that be alright?” Thorin nodded.

“Your food is always delectable, Master Baggins,” he said, inspecting the young Hobbit facing him. Bilbo had never given him any reason to doubt him-so why should he allow Dis’s words to affect him so much? Why should he trust the impressions of a few days over the kindness and generosity of weeks in Bag End? But it was so tempting to rely on his family, to want to protect them from a potential threat, from the faceless villain who had condemned Thorin to life in chains. Unconsciously, he wrapped a hand round his wrist, the brand and burns concealed once more under the leather straps he had salvaged. Bilbo closed the oven and sat back on his heels.

"Is something wrong?” he asked seriously, his eyes concerned. “I can see it in your face, Thorin. I hope you know you can trust me…” Unbidden, Thorin grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and sat down, his shoulders slumped.

“We will not impose on you any longer than we need,” he said flatly. “As soon as I have a few more coins, we will find somewhere else to stay.”

Unsure what to say, Bilbo blinked, his eyes widening in what could only be hurt before he composed himself. If he hadn’t been looking for it, Thorin would have missed the brief expression and the immediate erection of the calm facade. 

“There’s no need for that,” he said quickly. ‘I said you were welcome here as long as you wanted-and I meant it.”

“And my kin?”

“My offer extended to you all-as Isengrim said,” Bilbo told him quickly. “I don’t mind you being here at all. I…” And then he closed his mouth and clambered to his feet, wiping down the kitchen surfaces unnecessarily. But Thorin shook his head.

“Clearly our presence here displeases you,” he said firmly. “Because since they arrived, your behaviour has completely changed.” Bilbo glanced up.

“Oh?”

“My sister has spotted it-and I have noticed as well, Master Baggins,” the dwarf pressed on. Bilbo stiffened and gave an exasperated exhale.

“Bilbo,” he said tightly. “My name is Bilbo. I have asked you as my friend to call me that. And you did. You even went as far as to name me your friend when Lobelia visited the forge.” He sighed. “I might have guessed it wouldn’t last.” Now Thorin was frowning.

“Speak plainly,” he said, more harshly than he had intended. Bilbo’s shoulders slumped.

“Having seen my awful relatives at their worst, seen how they tried to turn half the town against you, is it any wonder you decide to spend all your time with your family?” Bilbo said and then gave a small smile. “Not that I blame you. You missed them so much. It must be nice to catch up, to share all those times you missed, to speak your own language again…”

Thorin stared at him as he scuttled off in the direction of the pantry and then covered his face with his hands. He had been speaking Khuzdul to Dis and to the boys. It was instinct, familiarity, the ability to express himself so much more precisely and honestly than in Westron. His grandfather and father had always insisted that they speak the secret language in the family home when he knew many families used Westron in all aspects of their lives. Some of the Broadbeams of Ered Luin didn’t speak any Khuzdul at all but the Longbeard Royalty, the descendants of Durin the Deathless, were scrupulous in maintaining their mastery of their ancestral tongue.

And Bilbo couldn’t speak or understand Khuzdul. Thorin may have mentioned the language was secret and that outsiders were not permitted to learn or understand it. The language had been gifted to them by Mahal himself and to share it with a non-dwarrow was unthinkable…especially to the more conservative of Lords and Scribes among his people. Abruptly, Thorin rose and followed Bilbo, finding him pulling a fresh loaf from the bread bin in the cool corner of the pantry. In fact, the Hobbit jumped as Thorin entered the space and backed up a pace, his face determinedly amiable though his eyes looked alarmed.

“Master Baggins…Bilbo…” Thorin began and took a deep breath, advancing until he was within a few feet of the Hobbit. “Do you feel…excluded by us?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and then he shook his head so urgently that Thorin knew he was lying.

“Of course not,” the Hobbit gabbled. “It’s only natural you would want to spend time with your family-especially since you have been separated so cruelly from them for three years. No one has been particularly kind to you and so it must be a relief to be back with them. It’s completely normal to want to talk with them…”

“…in Khuzdul,” Thorin realised. 

“Which I know is a secret language and honestly, your sister keeps glaring at me whenever I’m in the room and you’re talking in your secret language so I don’t want to be a poor host and eavesdrop. So I leave and give you your privacy. I mean, it must be something private for you to be using your secret language.”

Thorin thought back to the boys’ tales of their exploits and pranks, their squabbles and jokes and realised that basically nothing that they had been talking about could have been considered secret or private in any way. It was nonsense, the discussions every family has over breakfast, the family jokes and comments on their day and arguments and nothing to be sensitive about. Except they had spoken in a language that specifically excluded their host from participating and because Bilbo had felt sorry for Thorin’s isolation and glad that his efforts in getting his family back had worked, he hadn’t spoken up. Thorin was very certain that being a good host didn’t include being excluded from every conversation in his own home, that it didn’t mean being reduced to a servant and a ghost in his own home when it was only due to his generosity that his guests were permitted to stay in the Shire at all. And the sudden realisation shot through Thorin with an enormous side-order of shame and embarrassment.

“No,” the dwarf said. Bilbo blinked.

“Um…no?” he asked.

“No,” Thorin repeated, moving a little closer and looming over the Hobbit. Bilbo was looking up into his face, seeing his features set in a stern expression that caused the younger creature to half-raise the wholegrain bloomer in his hand like a shield. “There was nothing in our words that was secret or private or in any way needed you to withdraw. My sister was not discussing state secrets: she was relating Kili’s efforts in practicing with his bow that ended up pinning Lord Gurth’s cloak to the walls of the Assay Office.” He sighed. “Bilbo…Master Baggins…I fear that you have been misused. My family and I have been thoughtless in the extreme and rude to an extent that I believe that even Mistress Lobelia Sackville-Baggins could not match.”

Bilbo stared up into his face.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“My family automatically spoke in Khuzdul because our family-unlike most-uses it as the common language within our home. My sister and I were raised with Khuzdul as the only tongue we spoke when we were young though we learned Westron later. The boys however were born in a household where their father did not speak Khuzdul so they were raised speaking only Westron. But as sons of…our House, Dis and I made sure they learned Khuzdul. I taught them Khuzdul. And whenever I came round, we would converse in our ancient language to ensure their skills were up to the level they needed to be for their…future positions.”

“I know you are a Prince, the son of a King,” Bilbo said, his tone a little snippy. There was hurt in his eyes now, at hearing that he had been excluded from their conversations by thoughtlessness on the part of his guests and that Thorin was still dancing around the truth. “You don’t have to pretend who you are. I won’t tell everyone else but Gandalf told me your story.” His eyes glittered. “I thought that maybe you trusted me to be honest. I thought that maybe I had convinced you that I mean you no harm. That I am your friend. But it seems that a mere Hobbit just isn’t good enough to be included in your conversation when you have your own people around.” 

“Bilbo, I…”

“No.” Bilbo took a step forward and glared at him. “Now will you please step aside? The casserole will burn.”

“Bilbo…I must apologise…” Thorin said but Bilbo took another step forward and then slipped past.

“What difference will it make?” he asked in a weary voice. “It’s all secrecy and obfuscation with you, isn’t it? You left a lot of very important facts out of what happened to you and who you were. You are suspicious and quick to anger. As soon as your family arrives, you spend all your time with them and even at meals, you make sure I am excluded from any conversation. You are welcome to stay here, Thorin-I promised you that. But I’m not going to feel like a stranger in my own home and I would ask for some basic manners.” And then he headed into the kitchen. Thorin stared at the floor, wondering how it had come to this. No matter his intent, he had hurt Bilbo and made the generous and kind Hobbit feel that his friendship was being spurned. Then he turned and stalked out, walking wordlessly through the kitchen and into the parlour, yelling for his family in Khuzdul. He needed to have a discussion.

In the kitchen, Bilbo watched him go with a feeling of resignation. Really, he should have kept his mouth shut and just tried to put up with the situation with good grace. After all, he knew what it was like to be isolated after the death of his parents and the way many of his family treated the slightly odd young Hobbit. Bilbo had spent many days, alone in his Smial, surrounded by memories like echoes of happiness slowly being buried under years of dust and loneliness so he could empathise with Thorin’s plight. And the dwarf had been gruff and very private but he had slowly been opening up to the Hobbit, spending time sitting with him in the evenings, talking about his family with love and pride and giving a precious window onto who Thorin had been. But since his family had arrived, Bilbo hadn’t spent more than a few minutes with the dwarf and he found himself mourning the loss of his friend. And he spent a lot of time berating himself for wanting something that clearly was not his to claim: Thorin was his own person but Bilbo already thought of him as a friend and as such, he had gotten used to seeing the sturdy shape around the smial, of sharing a smile and maybe a few words. But as soon as his family had returned, Bilbo found himself relegated to the sidelines. Even on the few times when Thorin had turned to Bilbo and opened his mouth to speak, one of the others had swiftly spoken up and Thorin had turned back to them and answered in his own language. 

“You’re being very silly,” he muttered as he lifted the casserole out of the oven and placed it on the cast iron pot stand, checking the seasoning and glancing at the table. He had laid five places but found his appetite had quite vanished. “And why would he want to spend time with me anyway? I mean, it’s not like the rest of the Shire has made him welcome at all! He must be glad he has his own people to talk to and maybe discuss how pathetic and strange we seem to him. “ He set the bowl of creamy, buttery mash onto the table a little harder than he had intended and headed back for the vegetables as the voices in the parlour grew louder and louder. Thorin and Dis were having an animated discussion that almost certainly sounded worse because it was in Khuzdul and Bilbo swiftly carved some bread and set that and a pat of ice cold butter on the table before he glanced up-to see Fili and Kili sidling rather sheepishly into the kitchen. The voices, if anything, had gotten louder.

“Mister Boggins,” Kili began, his expression mildly subdued. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“It’s Baggins not…” he began and then he sighed. “What does it matter? I’ve told you a dozen times and you never bother…” Fili stared at his brother and elbowed him hard in the side. Before the younger dwarf could protest, the golden-haired dwarrow stepped forward and bowed.

“Mister Baggins,” he said carefully. “It’s become very obvious that we have treated you discourteously and have rewarded your amazing generosity with feelings of exclusion and unhappiness.” Bilbo stared at him.

“Amad and Uncle Thorin are having an argument about it,” Kili explained as Bilbo stared towards the parlour. The two adults were bellowing at one another now and sounded like they were an ace from declaring war on each other.

“That was not my intention…” he said hurriedly as the young dwarves both stepped forward and bowed deeply.

“We know,” Fili said honestly. “I think we were just so relieved and happy to see Thorin again that we forgot that you couldn’t understand us. And Mahal, that sounds awful and really wasn’t meant like that.”

“Amad insists we speak Khuzdul when Uncle visits because he’s far the best of us at it,” Kili said, his dark eyes embarrassed. “And when we found him, Amad kept giving us that look she has and we just…acted like we did at home…”

“I think we never even considered that we were excluding you,” Fili added. “It was rude and it was wrong. Thorin has insisted we all speak Westron here so that you do not think we are talking about you behind your back or not inviting you to join the conversation.” He shoved Kili gently. “And while we need the practice, we are here in this lovely cosy Hobbit Hole because of you. Uncle is alive because of you. And it’s clear he holds you in high regard.”

“Why are they arguing?” Bilbo asked, his stomach dropping. Did Dis not approve of friendships beyond her own race? Was his act in contacting her to try to find Thorin’s family going to lose him Thorin’s friendship? Kili rolled his eyes.

“Amad being Amad,” he sighed dramatically and collapsed into one of the seats.

“Our Amad is a Princess and sometimes she acts like one,” Fili translated. “She is pretty smart and good at assessing people but she’s not very good at admitting that she has made a mistake. She’s also very stubborn.”

“Though maybe not quite as stubborn as Thorin,” Bilbo murmured. They stared at him. “He survived three years of slavery. And he was treated very badly. Even when I met him in Bree, he was still refusing to compromise who he was. And his…the man who was holding him as a slave…was very cruel to him.” Fili sat next to his brother.

“Do you know what happened to him?” the older brother asked quietly. “We have tried asking him but he won’t say. He just…goes quiet and ignores the question.” Bilbo sighed.

“It really is his story to tell,” he explained to the young dwarrow, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “What I do know, which I suspect he wouldn’t mind me saying, is that he never gave up hope of returning home, that he never surrendered and always acted as a decent and brave dwarf. They kept him alive, I gather, because he was a very good smith and he never compromised his standards. And he was the proudest, most stubborn person I have ever met from any race.”

“And have you met many races?” Fili asked him, his blue gaze appraising.

“Men, Elves, Hobbits, Wizards and now dwarves,” Bilbo revealed. “And Thorin is definitely the most stubborn.” There was a loud slam and the sound of steps entering the room.

“No, I just lost that position to my sister,” Thorin said wearily. He bowed. “Bilbo-I am sorry. I truly had not realised what was happening until we spoke. And my sister-who is suspicious at best-is refusing to acknowledge that we are the ones who caused your behaviour to change. I may have pointed out that it was her insistence that her sons only spoke Khuzdul to me that is the root of this. Maybe it was helpful when they were little pebbles but now, they are not that far from adulthood and they can choose what language they wish to use. Especially since our use of Khuzdul excludes our most gracious host.” He frowned.

“Oh thank Mahal,” Kili said quickly. “It was almost like being at school the entire time. Amad scowled at me every time I fumbled.” He glanced over at Fili. “You’ve always been better at it than me…”

“It’s in those lessons Balin kept giving me,” Fili complained. “Honestly-did you have to study with him as well?” Thorin nodded and slowly walked to settle at the table.

“If anything, he’s going easy on you,” he admitted. “Bilbo-please sit down. You have made this delicious-smelling meal and we would be fools to let it go to waste.” The Hobbit looked confused.

“But Dis…?” he asked, glancing in the direction of her room. There was a pause in which the three dwarrow exchanged glances.

“We can save her some,” Fili suggested, lifting the lid from the casserole. “Mahal, this smells…”

“…amazing…” Kili finished, salivating. “I am never leaving here. Ever.” Bilbo smiled and swiftly dished up portions, making sure the boys had vegetables along with their mash, though both complained. Thorin gratefully accepted his portion and glanced at his host.

“Bilbo…” he began but the Hobbit managed a smile. 

“Eat,” he advised. “Few things make hobbits happen than meals-especially meals that are appreciated by their guests.”

“And afterwards, we can do the washing and tidying up,” Thorin said firmly. “While Bilbo takes a well-earned rest in the parlour. After we have finished not destroying the kitchen…” He cast a baleful look at his nephews. “…we will join Bilbo and you two can explain just what mischief you may possibly get up to so that he can look out in case you stop being on your best behaviour.” Bilbo stared at him. “I am their Uncle but I am under no illusion that they will remain the model Princes they are trying to be at the moment.” The Hobbit gave a small smile. 

“I have plenty of nieces and nephews and I think that now I am warned, I can keep a closer eye on this pair,” he replied. “Now maybe you could tell me about your day…?”

The meal passed very pleasantly. Partway through, Dis joined them, her face controlled and shoulders taut but she managed a stiff apology to Bilbo before she fell upon her food with relish. And notably, everyone spoke Westron so that everyone could understand the conversation. And as he watched, he noted that the dwarves used Khuzdul terms for each other-Nadad, Namad, Amad-but otherwise used Westron terms. The main course was followed with a strawberry and cream pavlova which could not have vanished faster if a group of hungry Hobbits had fallen on it. Finally, replete and grateful, Thorin had dragged the boys to do the washing up while Dis had tidied the table. Embarrassed, he had jumped up but the Princess had been adamant: they had been remiss and unpardonably rude and they owed Bilbo amends. And also, they should help in cleaning up. The Hobbit was an excellent cook and a generous host: dwarrow were not created to sit idle and it reflected poorly on them that they had sat back and essentially treated Bilbo like a servant. She had paused then and offered a low bow of apology.

Walking thoughtfully towards the parlour, Bilbo had jumped as he heard an urgent hammering on the door. Recalling his growing dislike of people who did not use the doorbell, he walked slowly towards the door. It was gloomy and dusk was falling. Without really thinking, he opened the door and faced the largest dwarf he had ever seen. 

The massive shape glared at him, fists bunched and balding head caught by the pinkish light of the sunset. He was wearing armour and had two large axes slung across his back. He leaned forward and growled at Bilbo:

“Where is Thorin?”

Bilbo fainted.

Chapter Text

TWENTY ONE.

"WHERE IS THORIN?” 

The words echoed through the entrance lobby of Bag End as Bilbo hit the ground, unconscious. Alerted by the noise and the silence from their host, Thorin rushed forward, his hands sudsy from the washing up and a still-damp carving knife clamped in his fist as he burst round the corner and into the hallway-and then he paused.

Standing in the doorway was Dwalin-his friend, shield-brother, cousin, protector, sparring-partner-standing over the limp and unconscious shape of Bilbo. Taking a breath and not pausing even as the other’s dark eyes widened in shock at seeing him, Thorin surged forward, the knife still raised as he shoved Dwalin back and glared into his face.

“Th-Thorin…” Dwalin’s gruff voice was shocked, his jaw hanging slack as he glimpsed his friend and Prince for the first time. He stumbled at the push, unbalanced by the shock and blinked as Thorin almost growled at him.

“What did you do to Bilbo?” the former Prince demanded. Dwalin blinked again.

“Bilbo? Ye mean this deformed little goblin who’s been keeping you prisoner…?” he began but Thorin looked away from him and dropped to a knee by the Hobbit, laying the knife aside. Tenderly, he lifted the Hobbit in his arms and smoothed the curls off Bilbo’s forehead.

“Bilbo? Bilbo?” the former slave murmured. “It’s okay…” Almost as he spoke, Bilbo’s eyelids flickered and his brow furrowed slightly. His nose twitched and then slowly, his eyes opened.

“Wh-what…?” he murmured. Thorin stroked his head again, the gesture tender and gentle.

“You are safe,” he said calmly, feeling Bilbo stiffen.

“Someone came looking for you…” he said suddenly. “You could be in danger…” And then he opened his eyes wider and caught sight of Dwalin. Giving a little scream, he tried to cringe back but Thorin tightened his arms around him and the Hobbit found himself cringing against the dwarf’s broad chest.

“You are safe,” Thorin repeated gently. “I will not let you be hurt. But you do not need to fear Dwalin. His bark is worse than his bite.” Bilbo raised a hand cautiously and rubbed his forehead, where he had impacted on the doorstep. There was a small red mark.

“Dwalin?”

“Aye-this graceless thoughtless lump of rock is Dwalin son of Fundin, my cousin and shield-brother,” Thorin explained, still in the same gentle voice. Bilbo sat up straighter and frowned.

“Dwalin…wasn’t he with you when…?”

“Thorin-what in the name of Mahal’s hairy bollocks is going on?” Dwalin growled, folding his arms and glaring. Finally releasing the Hobbit-once he was sure that he had regained consciousness and his stability-the former Prince clambered to his feet and then carefully helped Bilbo up. The Hobbit scooted back instantly, warily observing the large and heavily-armed dwarf. But Thorin walked up to him, his match in height and grasped his upper arms-then slammed his forehead against Dalin’s. There was an audible thud and the watching Hobbit winced at the impact, fully expecting the pair to collapse back, stunned-but instead the two embraced.

“I am safe,” Thorin reassured him. Finally, Dwalin gave a relieved laugh.

“Mahal, it’s good to see you again!” he exclaimed. “You cannot imagine what we thought as we rode up to find you…”

“We?” Thorin frowned, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, Balin’s here, of course-you think he’d let me go off and start a string of wars accidentally with my extensive diplomatic skills and loveable personality?” Dwalin commented dryly. “And we’ve got a couple of hangers-on…part of a deal Balin made with one of his agents to make sure his family is safe…"

“Dwalin…I think you better introduce yourself properly to Bilbo-your host-and then fetch the others,” Thorin commanded, his brow furrowed. “There is more going on than even Dis has told me and…”

“Dis is here?” Dwalin blurted out urgently. “Thank Mahal! When she vanished, the Crown Prince and Council were in a frenzy and sent out hunting parties in all directions…”

“Frerin did what?”

“Mister Dwalin!” Kili round the corner and gave a big grin, followed by Fili, who sketched a bow first and then scooted forward to stand with his brother. The warrior gave a relieved grin.

“I might have known I’d find you two troublemakers here,” he commented as Fili adopted a hurt expression.

“I’ll have you know that my brother and I are models of dwarven propriety,” he replied loftily. 

“Aye-I’ll believe that when the sky is made of lapis and the sun a giant topaz,” Dwalin scoffed as a throat was cleared pointedly behind him.

“You haven’t caused more trouble-have you, brother?” a clear voice asked. Bilbo peered around the warrior and saw a shorter dwarf of maybe his own height with bright, intelligent eyes and a wry expression on his lined face. His receding hair was white and his long, groomed beard was also pure white. Despite the warmth of the day, he was dressed in a long red coat and wore gloves. Thorin’s face lit with relief and he pushed past Dwalin, treating the older-looking dwarf to an equally-brutal head-butt and a warm hug.

“Balin!” the former Prince rumbled, a genuine smile lighting his face. “Thank Mahal you’re here to bring some sense into proceedings!”

“Aye, well I may be shorter but I received the sense for both of us,” the older dwarf commented dryly, his lips curling in a smile. Then he peered directly at the Hobbit, who was trying to peek round the corner at his guests. “And the manners, I would guess. Are you not going to introduce me to your host, Thorin?” Ducking his head like a scolded child, the raven-haired dwarf nodded and turned to Bilbo, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Bilbo-may I introduce Balin, son of Fundin-my cousin, counsellor and trusted friend-and Dwalin, son of Fundin, my cousin and shield-brother. This is Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo-my host, saviour and friend.” The two new dwarves stared at the shape of Bilbo, who was blushing slightly and then both bowed low to the Hobbit.

“At your service,” Dwalin growled while Balin nodded and fashioned a bright smile.

“I apologise for the fright my idiot brother gave you,” he said in a reasonable voice, walking forward and nodding to the Hobbit. “His heart is in the right place but his manner sometimes resembles that of a grumpy dragon.” Dwalin cast him a bruising look and folded his arms with a growl while Fili and Kili started snorting with laughter and even Thorin chuckled.

“I apologise,” he said honestly. “I had no idea they were coming…especially after…” Bilbo cleared his throat.

“Where are my manners?” he asked and then bowed to the newcomers. “Bilbo Baggins-at yours and your family’s…” And then he glanced around. “Though I guess most if not all of them are already here?” Balin chuckled.

“He’s sharp, Thorin,” he commented. “Aye-we’re all of Thorin’s kin who will acknowledge his existence now…” If he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed the brief flash of pain in Thorin’s eyes-but he didn’t. So Bilbo walked to stand by his friend and patted his hand.

“You and your family are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay,” he murmured gently. “Now you mentioned others?” he added more loudly to Balin. The dwarf nodded, then glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to the last members of their party. Two more dwarves approached: a solid shape with his grey hair elaborately and elegantly braided on his head, his clothes neat and fussy and beside him, a thin dwarf with a wispy beard and a surfeit of knitted garments, wearing fingerless gloves despite the weather. They both bowed.

“Dori and Ori-at your service,” the older dwarf said, his eyes suspicious. Bilbo bowed.

“Bilbo Baggins at yours,” he replied automatically and then glanced around. There were faces at every window, ears metaphorically wagging and eyes definitely on stalks. He gave a nod and a smile to Hamfast before he gestured into his home. “Please-come in, all of you! It’s terribly bad manners to hover on the doorstep and worse manners to keep guests outside. Do you have any luggage? You’ll need to bring it in and then I would put your ponies in the lower meadow for the night-I’m certain we can find stabling for them in the morning. Oh dear me…I’ll need to sort out the last spare rooms. Do you mind sharing? I only have five useable guest rooms and I’ve already got three occupied and…”

“Bilbo! Relax!” Thorin said suddenly, grasping his arms gently and staring into his frantic eyes. “I am certain they will be grateful for your hospitality. And I will assist you in getting the rooms ready for them…” There was an outbreak of protests from the others which Thorin silenced with a glare. “But now they will all go into the smial and we can continue our private business in private !” 

There was a moment of silence before Dwalin and Dori grabbed the bags and tethered their ponies before all filing into Bag End. Thorin made sure all were inside before he nodded to Hamfast who was pretending to prune his roses and then went inside. Bilbo fled for the kitchen as Thorin directed the newcomers where to leave their packs and weapons-to much grumbling from Dwalin-and then they headed into the parlour where Dis was already seated, sipping a glass of red wine. She rose as they entered and for a moment, there were all manner of greetings and exchange of news-until Fili cleared his throat.

“There is one rule we must insist upon,’ the young Prince announced, his eyes hard. “While here, you must speak Westron…unless maybe you are in the privacy of your rooms. Our host does not speak Khuzdul and it is profoundly rude to exclude him and make him feel as if we are keeping things from him when in truth, all we are doing is gossiping.” 

Balin nodded in approval as did Dori. The older unknown seemed to be a rather fussy and precise dwarf which had annoyed Dwalin no end on the journey from Ered Luin: Balin had found it incredibly amusing. The fact that Dori was also very handsome and seemed blessed with common sense in abundance had also eased the Adviser’s qualms about bringing him along. And though he seemed excessively over-protective of his much younger brother, Ori, Balin could understand the sentiment as the older, though Dwalin had been much more independent from a young age. Then the Adviser glanced over at the familiar shape of Thorin, standing straight and tall, his arms folded across his chest and leaning his head towards Dwalin and exchanging a hissed conversation. The former Crown Prince was thinner than he had been, almost-healed bruises on his face, but he was able to appear as regal as ever and clearly was comfortable in their surroundings. What struck Balin was his reaction to the Hobbit’s faint: it spoke of a friendship that defied every norm of the Ered Luin court. Yet the young Princes and Princess seemed at ease and their host seemed inoffensive, matching up with every meagre fact he had gleaned about the Halflings. Quietly, he resolved to have a detailed discussion with Thorin and find out precisely what had happened.

Nodding curtly, Thorin turned and left, heading for the kitchen and almost bowling over the completely frazzled Bilbo. Steadying the Hobbit, the dwarf paused.

“Calm down, Master Hobbit,” he murmured, plucking the tray from Bilbo’s hands. “Take a moment more and compose yourself. Neither of my cousins bites and the others seem amiable. I will carry this and you can serve and then you can direct me to help you prepare the rooms.” Bilbo stared up into his face and nodded, the panic fading from his face slightly.

"You know being a host is a serious business as a Hobbit,” he murmured. “I can’t shame my parents by letting the Baggins name down…”

“And I will not allow you to do so,” Thorin assured him in a low voice. “I realise this must be intimidating for you and I would ask that if you find this too disruptive, you let me know. I promised your Uncle that I would not impose upon you or allow you to be taken advantage of and I hold to that.” He looked away briefly. “Much has been taken from me, Bilbo, but my word is one thing that I can still claim.” There was an edge of pride to the rich voice and the Hobbit stared into the clear blue eyes of the dwarf before nodding. 

“I promise,” he said and tugged on his waistcoat to straighten it up. “I just hope your friends and relatives appreciate what I’ve managed to come up with at no notice…” Thorin smiled. The tray was laden down with a large jug of ale and various flagons, a steaming tea pot, a bottle of wine and glasses, a plate of scones, a plate of cheeses and crackers, some cold cuts, some freshly boiled and minted potatoes, freshly baked white bread and a plate with chutneys and preserves on.

“I am surprised you managed to lift this,” the dwarf commented with a raised eyebrow as he headed back to the parlour. Then he paused and indicated for the Hobbit to go first. “After you, Bilbo. You are the host and I am merely your assistant.” 

He found a small smile tugging his lips at the thought and wondered how his mood could feel so light when he had felt so apprehensive and confused earlier. He paused, his gaze trailing over the Hobbit. Since when did the good opinion and concerns of Bilbo Baggins mean so much to him? But he knew, though he had tried hard to ignore it. He had been wary, grateful and confused in equal measures when Bilbo had first insisted of freeing him and despite every attempt he had made at distancing himself from the Hobbit, he had found himself considering the other as a friend. But it had been that moment, bound and helpless and expecting only torment and death, when Bilbo had appeared and freed him that had had the most profound impact on him. Bilbo had not just spent money from his considerable resources to free a stranger from slavery but he had also risked his life to rescue the surly dwarf. He had treated Thorin as a normal person and ignored the shame of his station, calling him friend and defying his own kind to stand up for the dwarf. And though he had felt an immense relief at the reunion with his closest kin-all due to Bilbo’s intervention-he had been hurt and upset at the apparent withdrawal of the Hobbit from him. And he had found that his days without those moments with Bilbo, even with Dis and the boys present, were colder and bleaker than he had imagined.

He blinked and walked after Bilbo as the Hobbit entered the parlour, watching the smaller creature  swing into action as a perfect host. Uncomplaining, Thorin helped serve the guests-and his sister-sons who decided to snatch additional scones and jam, though they had just eaten-and had placed the heavy tray on the occasional table by the window as the guests had tucked in, sharing small tales of their journey and renewing acquaintances. Thorin sipped a small glass of red wine as Bilbo settled to one side, drinking his tea and watching his guests. Finally, Balin frowned and looked over the room.

“You need to know what is happening back in Ered Luin,” he said gravely. And then he cast a wary look at Bilbo, his thick brows dipping. “But I must ask you to reconsider allowing an outsider to be informed of the innermost workings of our government, Thorin. There are matters that should remain within our own race. You must understand…” But in an instant, Thorin was on his feet, his eyes flashing. And though he did not roar at Balin, his voice was harsh.

“I understand very well,” he snarled. “But I wonder if you do? Any of you?” He turned and looked at the other dwarves. “I was taken three years ago, ambushed when we were targeted on the orders of those who sought my removal. It was planned to the last sword-blow and when I surrendered, I knew that I had forfeit all that I had. But even as I was dragged away…” He reached down and absently unwound the leather strips from his wrist. “…I clung to hope that if I delayed, then my people, my kin , would come for me. So I escaped, I fought, I endured. Beaten, whipped, starved, traded like a beast…I still hoped my people would come…until they hammered the red hot bands around my wrists and branded me a slave…” He turned his wrists over and demonstrated the scars. Balin paled and Dwalin growled, his fists creaking as they tightened. 

“Ye have to understand, Thorin,” Balin replied calmly, his eyes filled with pity. “Dwalin was badly wounded and blamed for your loss. He was summarily demoted and was lucky to keep his beard. The Lords-Hizair, Hoglo and Praga-all spoke against wasting men and resources in chasing the Men down. They all argued you were certainly dead.”

“If they had wanted me dead, they would have killed me before my family,” Thorin replied in a dead voice.

“They insisted that no one was sent,” Balin explained in an even voice, though there was shame in his tone. “No one would listen and though Dis and I argued that you were alive and needed help, we were comprehensively overruled. No one else spoke up.”

“Not Adad . Not Frerin,” Dis confirmed. 

“All our positions were precarious, Thorin," Balin told him gravely. “There were voices suggesting that the Sons of Fundin were responsible for your loss. That we had orchestrated the whole thing.”

Thorin gaped. He was breathing hard, his fists clenched.

“Those rakhâs uzuznâi …” he growled through his teeth, his eyes flashing with rage. Then he stared at his cousins and his face fell for a moment before his mask slipped into place, his eyes filled with sorrow. “You had to play the game, didn’t you Balin?” The words were a statement and Balin lowered his eyes. 

“There was no other option if we didn’t want to lose our beards and our freedom,” the older dwarf said, his tone ashamed. Dwalin looked pained.

“My brother spoke for us both, as Head of the House,” he growled and then lowered his head. Bilbo looked puzzled.

“Thorin?” he asked. The former Prince took a shuddering breath.

“They renounced me,” he said tonelessly. “When the rest of the court declared me dead, they went along with it. They renounced kinship as well. Those I hoped would lead a rescue had surrendered. I just didn’t know it.” Then he turned to look at his cousins. “While I hoped that rescue would come. But as time passed, as every act of defiance was treated with worsening harm, I slowly lost hope. I tried to escape but they watched me fiercely and treated me worse. On occasion, I would see dwarves and every time, they looked away, seeing a slave with no braids, something of less worth than an axe or blade.” And then the former Prince turned to look directly at the Hobbit. 

“I had given up,” he said softly.

Every eye focussed on him and Bilbo met his cerulean gaze, his own eyes filled with sorrow.

“I knew that Halvard would kill me, sooner or later,” he said quietly. “I was already starved, chained, beaten and abused worse than an animal. A handful of dwarrow had passed through Bree and every one looked through me. It was like a knife being stabbed through me, again and again. And then Master Baggins…Bilbo…arrived. He treated me like a normal person. He thanked me for my work. And…he came back. When he learned that I was a slave, I expected never to see him again. But instead, he and his comrades returned and insisted on buying me.”

Dwalin’s growl was audible but Thorin was looking only at Bilbo. 

“I was suspicious-because nothing had given me cause not to be,” he admitted. “I guess I could have run but would the Hobbits not send their guards after me? So I followed Bilbo to their wagons. He gave me food, worried that I had not eaten. He apologised profusely. And once we were safely away from the forge and sitting by their wagons ready to head home, he handed me papers: a copy of my purchase…and the papers freeing me.” He took a few steps forward. “I didn’t know what to think. For a moment, I wanted to leave…and I know Bilbo would not have stopped me. But where could I go? I had nothing. I was nothing. So I accepted the offer to come to the Shire and found myself welcomed, given a chance and offered a home and friendship.” He turned and looked at his kin. “Everything my kin failed to restore to me was given without hesitation or obligation by Bilbo. So you need to understand that there is nothing I am willing to conceal from him about the affairs of the innermost workings of the government and the family that abandoned me to torment, slavery and death. My presence is a danger to Bilbo and everyone else here so they will know what perils face them.”

Balin sighed. Thorin was among the most stubborn of dwarrow and he knew that the former Prince would not alter his view. So he looked over at the Hobbit and saw Bilbo stare up into Thorin’s eyes. More shockingly, Thorin dropped gracefully to his knees and sat back on his heels beside the Hobbit’s chair, the gesture an extremely pointed demonstration of where his allegiance lay. There was a movement and the boys scurried over, Kili settling on Bilbo’s other side and resting his head on the Hobbit’s knees.

“You don’t mind, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked and then closed his eyes. Fili settled at his side and rested against him.

“Um…no… Uncle ?” Bilbo gabbled at glanced over at Thorin, but the dwarf was trying not to smile.

“So not content with stealing my brother, you now burgle my sons as well?” Dis asked, her tone dry.

“I…”

“I am not displeased,” Dis commented. “You’re welcome to them!”

“ Amad !”

“Thorin!” Bilbo hissed, leaning close to the dwarf. “Please get up. I’m not sure you sitting there is helping your family trust me any more and you’ll hurt your knees on the floor…” Thorin chuckled, his head dipping and grasping the Hobbit’s hand.

“We were carved of stone, Master Baggins,” he reminded his host. “I think my knees can stand a few moments on the floor.” Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“Just as long as Lobelia doesn’t catch you sitting there like a dwarvish ornament,” he muttered. Instantly Kili sat bolt upright and blinked, looking around urgently.

“Lobelia? he asked in a worried voice. “She’s not here, is she?” 

“No, you’re safe…” Bilbo began as a hammering sounded at the door.

“BILBO BAGGINS!”

“Speak of the Fell Beast and she shall appear,” he sighed as Kili cringed. But Thorin immediately rose and headed for the door.

“Peace, Master Baggins,” he said firmly. “I shall face her.” The others stared at him and Balin leaned close to Dis.

“Is this ‘Lobelia’ a fearsome foe?” he asked in a low voice. Dis chuckled, her eyes amused.

“Watch and see,” she murmured as Thorin reached the door-just as it slammed open and Lobelia glared into the entrance lobby. Dressed in garish green and fuchsia pink with an enormous hat of lime green topped with dyed pink and orange plumes and a lemon yellow bow, she advanced, her umbrella raised threateningly. Thorin dinked sideways and blocked her entrance, his arms folded across his chest.

"Out of my way, you foul goblin!” she spat. “Where’s Bilbo?”

“I believe that Master Baggins is engaged at present and does not wish your presence,” he said in a low voice. She hissed at him.

“I wouldn’t expect a wretched slave to know the principles of Hobbit hospitality!” she spat. “I am a guest and it is his duty to welcome me, no matter what else he may pretend to have to do.” She tried to get past him but he remained in the way, earning himself a painful and vicious jab to the chest from her brass umbrella ferrule. He narrowed his eyes.

“As an intruder who broke in without invite, you shall not pass,” he said firmly. “Madame, you are not welcome here and you should leave now.”

“What do you know, you filthy orc?” she sneered, jabbing him again. He grabbed the end of her umbrella and his hand tightened. There was an audible crack and the end six inches of the umbrella hung limp. She snorted but continued her diatribe. “I’ve seen you-smuggling more of your filthy kind here. I saw four more of your misshapen goblin friends coming up the Hill and entering Bag End. And we won’t stand for it any more. This is the Shire and Yavanna made it for Hobbits, not your greedy, evil breed. No matter what the Thain says, when half of Hobbiton is in revolt, he will have to drive you out-you and that wretched Bilbo with you. They’re already calling him Mad Baggins, you know. And you did that to him! He should have left your wretched hide to rot in Bree and now you’ll be the reason he is driven from Bag End and I finally get what is rightfully mine!”

Silence hung through Bag End as all the dwarves stared at Bilbo, who was white with a mixture of shock, anger and concern. Dwalin was grasping for his axes, forgetting that Grasper and Keeper were resting neatly by the cloaks while Dis looked cold and angry. Balin shook his head as Kili and Fili tried to cringe behind each other.

“I see,” he murmured. “If anything, you underestimated her ferocity.” But as Bilbo slowly rose, Thorin lunged forward and grabbed Lobelia by the scruff of her neck. 

“Mistress Lobelia Sackville-Baggins,” he growled, his voice almost cracking with the effort of not roaring at the wretched female. “It is only the respect and honour with which I hold Master Baggins that preserves your life.” He glared and Bilbo was shocked that Lobelia hadn’t burst into flames. “I am eighteen decades old and in my years, I have fought countless battles including against a numberless legion of orcs at the very gates of Khazad Dûm. And there, even facing the most repugnant and evil of their foul number, I never encountered such a vicious and disgusting specimen as you. Your malice and greed knows no bounds and the fact that you persist in the delusion that the home Master Baggins’ father built for his mother and their children should be yours rather than his instead of acknowledging common decency merely illustrates your evil. He has every right to bar you from his presence and avoid your toxicity and in that I fully agree. So I am giving you a final warning…”

Bilbo stared at him. He was holding Lobelia off the ground, struggling furiously. Her beautifully groomed feet slammed into his legs and his step hitched but he continued forward, over the threshold and down the path to the gate. She was thrashing with her wrecked umbrella and landed a couple of painful blows on his head. He ignored them as Bilbo scampered to the window with Fili and Kili and Dis a pace behind. Thorin lifted her over the gate and finally released her, dropping the spitting and cursing Hobbitess in the road like a pile of trash.

“Why you…”

“You are not welcome in Bag End, Mistress Lobelia,” Thorin announced. “If you trespass again, you will be met with all the prejudice that any intruder into a dwarrow-protected home can expect and this time, you will never walk away.” Then he turned and walked back into the smial, closing the door with a final slam.

Fili and Kili were cheering and Dis was smirking. Balin shook his head while Dwalin had managed to approximate a smile. Dori and Ori both looked relieved that the upset was over but Bilbo was running towards the dwarf and he stiffened, fearing for a second that he had offended him by throwing out the unwelcome relation.

And then Bilbo hugged him, his arms as tight around Thorin’s chest as he could manage and head buried against his heart. There was a long second before Thorin wrapped his arms around the Hobbit and gave a relieved smile.

“Thank you,” Bilbo breathed, pulling back a fraction to look into Thorin’s eyes. “She will be back…but for now, that was the funniest and finest scolding I have ever witnessed.” He smiled. “Thank you-for protecting me.” Thorin buried his face in Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Always,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

TWENTY TWO.

“Ah. I was expecting you a bit earlier actually.” Isengrim’s voice was vaguely amused as he sat back in the high wing-backed chair and inspected the visitors. Thorin straightened his back as he faced the Thain, his face neutral but anxiety fluttering in his chest. The best parlour of the Great Smials was warmed with sunshine and a tray with a nice hot pot of tea, fine gilded bone china cups and saucers, a coffee walnut cake and a pile of tea plates were all sitting on the polished walnut coffee table. Balin, Dwalin and Bilbo were seated in a loose semi-circle facing the Thain, flanking Thorin. Only Bilbo held a cup of tea while Dwalin was casting unsubtle glances at the cake, though he remained stony and motionless at the end of the line.

“I was informed by Master…Bilbo…that it was considered ill manners to visit someone before Second Breakfast,” the dwarf explained slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He was very insistent that I should not offer insult to you by disturbing your early morning for something that was not a life and death emergency.” Isengrim sipped his tea then placed the cup down with a slight chink of porcelain in the silent room.

“He is absolutely correct, as I would expect of a Baggins,” he noted thoughtfully. “Though, of course, the person who hammered on my door after dark last night was crying riot, insurrection and blue murder.”

“What?” Bilbo’s voice was unmistakeable and he frowned as his Uncle nodded.

“I was treated to a late night visit after supper and close to bedtime by Lobelia who was insistent that I send the Sheriffs out to arrest Thorin for his unprovoked murderous assault on her person which was apparently witnessed by half of Hobbiton!” the Thain commented dryly, helping himself to a slice of cake.

“That lying…” Bilbo hissed as Thorin took a shaky breath and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. He forced his impassive mask back into place.

“I assure you that there was no assault, no murderous intent and what I did was certainly not unprovoked,” he said coldly. “Lord Isengrim-that foul women felt that she had the right to trespass in where she was not welcome. She assaulted me with her weapon-twice-and insulted me, my race and Bilbo in every conceivable manner. She threatened to incite her fellow Hobbits against us and have us and Bilbo driven from the Shire. So I snapped her umbrella and lifted her by the scruff of her neck. And then I dumped her on the road like the trash that she is. There was ample provocation. There was no assault. And I believe that most of the Hill witnessed the confrontation.”

“Hamfast Gamgee and Violet Underroot of Bagshot Row and at least Letty and Gervaise Greenthumb of the Hill were hanging over their fences to watch the show,” Bilbo put in. "If you wanted to call the Sheriffs, they could easily verify Thorin's statement. And mine. And the others. We all saw and heard what went on.”

Isengrim raised an eyebrow but his expression remained cool.

“They wouldn’t credit the word of a dwarf,” Thorin said quietly, squaring his shoulders and trying to keep the pain from his voice. “No race but our own credits dwarves with any worth. Driven from our home, spurned like rabid wolves, ostracised by our own people, blamed for Azanulbizar despite our crippling losses, treated like animals as our women and children starve and freeze and are taken by disease and wild animals. ‘Everyone knows’ that dwarves are dirty and vicious and thieves and beggars. But no one but our own kind see the woman nursing hungry babes, see a couple slowly dance under the moon as they celebrate an anniversary, see friends laugh about a fire, sharing jokes and songs…or watch family mourn another infant life cut short due to lack of food or warmth or simple medicine. Dwarrow are seen as little more than animals, despite the fact we create the most beautiful things and finest weapons on Arda, despite the fact we love but once and are devoted to our spouses and families for all our long lives, despite the fact we do not prosper except in our rightful homes. My people are slowly dying, year by year our numbers dwindling. Fewer dwarflings are born and not all survive, female offspring are rarer still and many of my people never find our Ones, yet we still fall to murder or disease or war. Mahal treats his creations hard and we can only pray that in the future to come, when the world is remade, that our lot will be kinder than it is now. And that other races will finally believe that we have the right to exist as much as they do.”

Bilbo blinked, his eyes blurred with tears at the words, spoken with a quiet passion and despair that tore his heart. He knew his own people had endured hard times in their wandering days though they were centuries behind them and he wondered if his self-absorbed and definitely self-satisfied neighbours even considered how lucky they were. Everyone knew that Elves were blessed, the chosen of Eru, the Firstborn. Men, the Secondborn, were determined and inventive. They lived brief, fierce lives and bred and spread across Middle Earth with passion and curiosity. But no one ever mentioned the dwarves except with a sneer on their lips and disgust on their tongue. So many misconceptions, so much prejudice, so much sorrow…

“That’s not true,” he found himself saying in a thick voice. “I believe you. I know you. I would do anything I can to protect you and make sure you are given a home and safety and warmth. I know you are a brave, decent, honourable person-as much as any of my own people.” There was a soft noise of surprise as Thorin looked at him, his eyes filled with shocked gratitude at the immediate defence.

“But in the end, my friend, your Thain will so what he must to protect his people and the security and peace of the Shire,” he said, his voice despondent. “And though she is loathsome, your Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is not the only Hobbit in the Shire who dislikes the presence of myself and my people. So though she is prejudiced and cruel, she speaks for a proportion of your people. And I cannot expect Lord Isengrim to risk dissatisfaction among his people for a handful of refugee dwarrows. So though she is the author of this conflict, we will be asked to leave to preserve the peace of the Shire.” Bilbo opened his mouth. “And it is right, Bilbo. Any leader must put the needs and concerns of his own people above the welfare of strangers and outsiders. It is the way of the world and my people know that all too well.”

“But it’s not right,” Bilbo protested. “Lobelia is a vicious witch who just wants to drive me from my home. She hates you because of me.” Thorin gave a grim chuckle. 

“If I did not have Hobbit feet, curly hair and no beard, I would never be acceptable in her eyes, no matter if I lodged with the most respected of families,” he sighed.

“You are,” Isengrim said sharply. “There is no family more respected than the Baggins. Not the Sackvilles-oh no, they are definitely an inferior twig on the Baggins family tree. And the head of the Baggins family is Bungo’s Heir.” He nodded at his nephew.

“Bilbo?” Thorin murmured. The young Hobbit’s shoulders slumped.

“Maybe not so respectable now,” he sighed. The Thain lifted his chin and absently picked a walnut from the top of the coffee cake.

“You asked your guests to adhere to Hobbit conventions regarding visiting while one of our own disturbed me at bedtime for a matter that is quite frankly ridiculous!” he said in a suddenly angry voice. “I have endeavoured to be as fair and even-handed as I could but this is completely beyond the pale…” Thorin sat up straighter, expression leaving his face and took a small breath, as if waiting for the order for his own execution. 

“Uncle…”

“I will dispatch the Sheriffs to take statements and of course, they will do their duty as they see fit,” the Thain decided. “They can then report to Adelgrim who will be acting as magistrate in this matter. He will determine the correct penalties for those involved…all of them.” There was a dangerous smile on his lips. “Though, as outsiders, you would not be aware that there are penalties for behaving like a boorish intruder and a bad guest in Hobbit society.” Balin and Dwalin shared a surprised look. “I’ll have Pondo Uffington come and take statements from all those in your smial as well as those witnesses you named later today.”

There was a pause. Thorin swallowed.

“We are permitted to stay?” he checked as Isengrim crunched through his walnut half and reached for his tea. He frowned slightly.

“Of course, Thorin Oakenshield,” he replied as if it was a stupid question. “Why would I renege on my vow to grant you sanctuary in the Shire when you have done nothing wrong?”

There was an awkward silence.

“Because everyone else does,” Bilbo said quietly. “Because being cheated, treated poorly and driven out are what they expect because that is all they have encountered.” There was a slight clatter as Isengrim almost tipped over his (almost empty) cup. 

“I fear you are correct, nephew,” he said heavily, glancing at the three watchful dwarves, sitting stiff and tense on their seats. “And I am sorry that they cannot trust us enough to believe us. When I make a promise, I keep it and by Yavanna, I will keep this one.” He rose achingly and walked to stand opposite Thorin. Then he offered his hand. “Thorin, you are safe here as long as I am Thain. You and your people are granted the protection of the Shire. And if you-any of you-have any further issues with Lobelia, I want to hear of them. I will not have her disgrace the reputation of the Shire for hospitality with her groundless prejudice and vicious antics.”

Thorin took his hand, closing his larger, calloused grip around the old Hobbit’s hand.

“Thank you, Thain Isengrim,” he said honestly, feeling disorientated. Never had the difference between Hobbits and Dwarrow been so stark! His own people would have driven out a Hobbit associated with such trouble, no matter the rights or wrongs of the matter…and that caused a huge jolt of shame to curl in his chest. “I have no words for such generosity…” Isengrim grinned, his eyes twinkling like a mischievous faunt.

“Ah-but that’s the absolute key to being a Hobbit-generosity,” he told the dwarf in a low voice. “A virtue my nephew demonstrates in absolute abundance.” Then he returned to his normal voice. “Now, I believe you were about to introduce me to your kinsmen?”

-o0o-

“What are my options?” Lobelia’s shrill voice was like the scratch of nails on a blackboard in the wood-panelled and traditional offices of Hugo and Iago Proudfoot, Attorneys-at-Law (Hobbiton) Ltd. Otho sat at her side, his dumpy and comfortable shape topped by a mildly dissatisfied jowly face and clothed in overly ostentatious salmon pink waistcoat and aqua blue dinner jacket that clashed rather unpleasantly. Lobelia was in a mango and lemon silk brocade dress with lace, beading and bows that gave the rather unwanted impression of an explosion in a haberdashery. Iago Proudfoot, the senior partner, sat back behind his desk and steepled his fingers.

“Well, you could always take out a restraining order against the dwarf to prevent him harassing you any further,” Iago suggested, sitting back. His dark eyes were intelligent and calculating as he watched the couple. He, as everyone else, knew about Lobelia’s desire to steal Bag End from her cousin, its rightful owner, and had already guessed this was another plot to disadvantage the young Hobbit. Lobelia perked up.

“So I can prevent him from going to the Market, the Forge, Bag End…” she began spitefully but Iago sighed and rubbed his forehead. Lobelia always gave him headache: she was simply managing it much quicker today.

“You cannot bar him from a public place nor his place of work,” he told her firmly. “Only the Thain can banish him from public spaces in the Shire and I doubt you would get the popular support you wish. And as Musskin Snowmane has handed the Forge over to him, you cannot bar him from his own property.”

“And Bag End?” Lobelia hissed.

“Bag End is not your property!” Iago told her sharply, wearying of her vindictiveness. “He is a welcome guest of the owner and the only person who can bar anyone from there is Bilbo Baggins, the legal owner.”

“But it should be MINE!” Lobelia snapped.

“Well, it isn’t!” Iago told her coldly. “You’ve exhausted every legal avenue through a variety of groundless and frankly insane arguments and you have been banned by the Shire Court from ever litigating for the ownership of Bag End ever again.” In fact, the person most likely to be prevented ever entering the place again is you, he thought as he shuffled the papers on his desk. “You can only restrain him from coming to your property or Otho’s place of work. And I must say, Lobelia, that if you wish to avoid seeing the dwarf Thorin, then you should avoid going to places where you know he will be-such as the Market, the Forge or Bag End.”

“But…”

“You have NO legal right to enter Bag End-and when you tried to push past the dwarf to enter, you lost legal protection,” Iago told her bluntly. “In fact, with my knowledge of dwarvish customs, I am only surprised that you still have all your limbs still.” She glared at him. “Of course, you may visit the market but you must not approach the dwarf. You should not approach the Forge-there are alternatives that I suggest you use.”

“Bywater? Bree?” Lobelia snarled.

“If the dwarf was not here, then you would be using them anyway,” the lawyer told her flatly. “I am afraid those are your only legal options.”

“Here,” Lobelia said suddenly, her eyes narrowing. “I can send Otho to collect my orders from the Forge. I can avoid those disgusting creatures in the Market. But there shouldn’t be no punishment for that wretched creature. And if the Shire is afraid to deal with him, I need to find those who will not be.”

Otho made a small grunt and looked unhappy but said nothing. Iago sat forward.

“Speak plainly, Lobelia,” he said.

“I want you to write me a letter,” she said waspishly. “To the King of the dwarves in their local kingdom…”

“The Blue Mountains,” Iago interjected, his eyes never leaving her face.

“I want you to demand what crime he committed to be put into slavery and outline that he is a violent, vicious criminal who needs removal from our lands,” she said cruelly. “And I want you to request that the King sends guards to take this criminal back to their land and dispose of him.” Iago sat back and stared at her.

“Lobelia, you do not have the authority to invite the guards of a foreign kingdom into the Shire to kidnap one of their citizens,” he told her, aghast. “That is almost treason.”

“But not quite,” Lobelia spat. “Are you going to do it or not? Because I am certain I can find another lawyer to do it for me…”

“You do and I will turn you over to the Sheriffs myself,” Iago threatened.

“What about lawyer-client privilege?” Otho asked slowly, his eyes inspecting the older Hobbit.

“You both know that is null and void where the security of the Shire and a direct threat to the legal authorities in the Shire is concerned,” Iago told her sharply. He glared and Otho subsided, his comfortable shape slumping. Weak and hen-pecked, his role was very much as provider and cheerleader rather as a force in his own right. Making a quick calculation, Iago laced his fingers across his ample middle. “Lobelia, I will write the letter-at five times my normal rate. I will approve the wording, not you. There will be no mention of any welcome or invitation of any foreign forces to the Shire. You will inquire about his history and inform them of his current transgressions. And then they can decide if they wish to retrieve him or not. But with my wording, you will in no way be culpable for any outcome. All you have done is sent an enquiry to the local dwarvish authorities and informed them of the actions of one of their citizens.”

Lobelia sat forward and gave a ghastly smile.

“Do it,” she said.

-o0o-

“May I present Balin, son of Fundin, lately Chief Adviser to King Thrain of Ered Luin and Dwalin, sin of Fundin, former Guard Captain of Ered Luin,” Thorin said evenly, introducing his cousins in turn. Isengrim met Balin’s eyes-twinkling with humour and a glitter of intelligence-and nodded, knowing this was the dwarf he needed to talk with at length. And then he looked at Dwalin, who was scowling at the Thain, his arms crossed over his massive chest, the tattoos on his head and arms alien and exotic. Twin axes were crossed over his back, the light gleaming off wickedly sharp edges.

“You are the cousins that Thorin spoke of with affection and concern,” the Thain commented. “You are both very welcome.” Dwalin grunted.

“I knew he’d been hit over the head one too many times,” he commented gruffly as his brother’s smile grew strained. Thorin looked pained. Isengrim suddenly burst out laughing.

“I believe that there are more similarities between our races than we realise,” he guffawed. “I can hear at least three of my two dozen cousins saying something very similar!” Bilbo nodded. 

“Adelgrim and Prim would definitely say the same about me,” he piped up as the three dwarves untensed very slightly. The Thain gave a smile. 

“Master Balin-I believe you and I need to have some discussions about the situation in Ered Luin,” he said amiably. There was an awkward silence as Balin’s face hardened and he snatched a glance at Thorin.

“Lord Isengrim…you have to understand…” he began, his brows dipping as he saw no reaction from the former Prince. “Thorin! I…” 

“Balin-these are my allies and they deserve to know the perils on their borders-especially as it may impact on them since I am here,” Thorin told him sternly.

“And you know the wishes of the King, the conventions of Council…the very ways of our race!” the old Adviser hissed. 

“I told you at Bilbo’s that I would not deny him honesty about our home-and that courtesy extends to the Thain,” Thorin insisted. There was a frosty silence.

“Ach, laddie…” Balin sighed, his tone disappointed. “You know, if I am asked if you have betrayed secrets, I will have to say…”

“Say what, Balin?” Thorin growled, his eyes flashing with anger. “What secrets? That my father’s mind fades more each day, his sanity ebbing with the cursed madness that haunts my line? That the Council-all venal, spiteful, ambitious dwarrow-are manipulating our hollow king to promote their own interests and enrichment, to isolate us so they can cling to monopolies while our people lack essentials, just so their coffers can swell? That my place as Crown Prince has been given to my brother without any real opposition from Frerin, who always said he would rather die than accept the responsibility? That no one-not one of my kin, my Lords, my people-would authorise a mission to retrieve me when I surrendered to save my family from slavery? That my capture was no chance event and that the dwarf who had me enslaved sent his men to find me when I was released so that I could be slain and my body dumped in the wilds for animals to gnaw, never to know the embrace of stone? That someone-probably someone very powerful and senior in our court-wants me dead? And that if that person finds me, they will try again and that will bring danger to the Shire?”

The Adviser pressed his lips together in an impatient look.

“I see my lessons in diplomacy still haven’t sunk in,” he said shortly.

“Or maybe you should recall that diplomacy is a polite way of saying ‘lying’,” Thorin retorted. “And that is unacceptable to those on whose generosity we depend. We always complain that we are treated shoddily by other races, lied to and treated as inferior. Yet you ask me to treat our Hobbit hosts in just such a way. I am not about to shout our politics from the Market Place but the leader of the Shire and the Hobbit to whom I owe my life deserve nothing but honesty.” Balin blinked. Occasionally, Thorin surprised him.

“Aye, there is that,” he commented and sighed. “Lord Isengrim, I am happy to discuss the current situation in Ered Luin with you-though things do change, which is why I am here. And I would appreciate that our words are only shared with your most trusted and discreet counsellors.” 

“Isengrim,” the Thain said with a smile, turning to the younger brother. “I am no Lord, nor a King…”

“You fill the job of one," Dwalin commented gruffly. “May as well take the title as well.”

“Though Hobbits set little store on such titles, as we have little care for gold and gems,” Isengrim replied cheerfully. “Food, family, a merry song and a gathering filled with laughter and love are the things we value above all.” The big warrior nodded.

“Aye, there is that,” he commented.

“Captain of the Guard?” the Thain asked and Dwalin stiffened, his face closing.

“Former.”

“I suspect your abilities and skills remain commensurate with that position, since I would guess your removal from the post was politically motivated,” Isengrim said, staring disconcertingly into Dwalin’s eyes. The warrior suddenly felt as if he was facing his elder brother at his most astute. “We have a few Sheriffs, who police by consent, and the Bounders, a small border force who are very lightly armed and superficially trained. I wonder…” Dwalin arched a bushy eyebrow.

“Yeh want me to train ‘em up?” he asked dryly. Isengrim nodded.

“I suspect even a little advice from a warrior such as yourself would be invaluable to our unwarlike people,” he admitted. “And any assistance you and your companions could offer in the event of an attack would be gratefully received.”

“All dwarrow are warriors,” Thorin confirmed. “We will fight for our allies and to protect those who have welcomed us into their homes.”

“Lobelia’s in trouble then,” Bilbo murmured, causing Isengrim to smile…and Thorin as well. 

“Two others accompanied Balin and Dwalin,” he continued. “They remain at Bag End. Nether are kinsmen to us but instead those dear to an agent of Balin’s.”

“And their removal here is necessary?” Isengrim asked, frowning. Balin sighed and nodded.

“The same Lords who probably arranged for Thorin’s removal have no qualms in taking hostages or in removing family as a means of control...or punishment. Dori is a tailor, a sensible and caring dwarrow who raised his younger brothers from when the youngest was but a babe-in-arms,” he revealed. “He is also extremely strong and skilled in combat if required. Ori is his youngest brother, an apprentice scribe who is under my tutelage. He is a pleasant and kindly young man. Neither will cause any trouble: in fact, I rather feel Dori will feel quite at home here. Especially if the selection of teas I noted in Master Baggins’ pantry were to be believed…” Isengrim resumed his seat and drained the last drops of tea from his cup.

“Then they are very welcome…and any more that you feel need to be here for safety,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “If things are getting crowded, I can find other accommodations for extras close to Bilbo’s home. I just as to be kept apprised of how many dwarrow we have in Hobbiton. Just in case Lobelia chooses to bend my ear once more.” He winked. “Doesn’t look good for the Thain to be learning things from a complainant when I should be ahead of that woman and able to answer any objections she has in light of full knowledge.”

“Understood,” Thorin said, feeling exhausted by the release of tension. The more he saw of the Thain, the more he respected the Hobbit and briefly wished that men of his calibre were in charge in Ered Luin, rather than the venal, treacherous specimens that currently ran the place. He shifted in his seat and unconsciously, his hand brushed against Bilbo’s. For an aeons long second, he didn’t know what to do…whether to snatch his hand away would be insulting or welcomed…but Bilbo glanced up, smiled and pressed his hand deliberately against Thorin’s before calmly withdrawing and resting it back on his lap.

“Thank you, Uncle,” the young Hobbit said cheerfully. Isengrim nodded.

“Now, I think we could maybe have a quick overview of how you are all going to occupy yourselves in the Shire…” he said and smiled. “After we’ve all had some cake…”

Chapter Text

TWENTY THREE

“Again!” Dwalin’s bark echoed across the lower meadows as the young dwarves broke away, breathing hard. With a roar, Fili charged Kili, his two swords swinging. Kili waited until the last moment then ducked, his own sword swinging up to parry before he stumbled back. Swaying sideways, he planted his feet and met the attack with surprisingly steady defence, though he was watching his brother closely and had lost all of his animation. There was no joking or playing now: this was taking all of his energies and concentration just to keep his brother off him. 

"Get those feet moving!” Dwalin roared. “An Orc isn’t going to wait for you to remember to get your ass moving! He’ll chop it off!”

Fili surged forward, his swords zinging as he clattered against Kili’s defence. Close they were but it was clear to Bilbo’s inexperienced watching eye that their kinship meant nothing when they were competing. A pang of envy jabbed his chest, for without siblings, he could never appreciate the bond this two shared. And a sibling would have eased the aching, impossible loneliness and pain that he had endured when he recovered from the illness to realise that he was alone.

“I yield!” Kili yelled urgently, backing away. Fili had managed to knock the sword from his hands and he was unarmed against two swords. His brother grinned, his eyes still focussed on his younger brother.

“And if I don’t accept it?” he asked. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the floor.

“I’ll tell yer mother,” Dwalin drawled, causing the young Prince to gulp and lower his weapons. 

“You wouldn’t be so cruel,” he protested. The warrior chuckled. 

“Your training isn’t in weapons but in obedience,” he reminded the older Prince. “You were told the parameters of the exercise when we started: if you are not capable of retaining and obeying orders, then you are of no use to me in a battle, as a soldier or a Commander.” Dropping his eyes, Fili flushed. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking his feet against the grass of the Low Meadow after Dwalin had put him back on his feet. “I just wanted to remind him who is the older and better swordsman.” Folding his arms across his massive chest, the dwarven warrior grunted. 

“That’s not always a benefit in reminding the younger of what he already knows,” he said slowly. “Nor does it always help relations.” He cast Kili a look. “Kili has his own strengths and skills-the swords aren’t first among them, true. But can you match him with a bow?” The older Prince looked up sharply.

“You know he is unmatched among us,” he admitted slightly sulkily. 

“Probably,” Dwalin breathed under his breath. “Though your Uncle taught him and he’s a pretty damned good archer when he forgets it’s a weed-eater weapon…”

“But we all have to learn a proper weapon in case the enemy engages hand to hand,” the older Prince continued, still arguing his point. “And with a sword…”

“Kili is adequate,” Dwalin said sternly. The younger Prince looked up and nodded. “Which is why he will be training with me next.”

“Awww…” KIli whined. Unable to help himself, Fili sniggered. 

“Not sure why you’re looking so smug,” Dwalin told him gruffly. “You’ll be training with your mother.”

“WHAT?” Fili exploded. “No-Dwalin-I thought you liked me. I can’t train with Mum. She’ll dismember me and then kill me all over again. She never goes easy on anyone…”

“Which is what you need today,” the older warrior told him with a grin, glancing up the hill to see the lithe shape of the Princess walking determinedly down the slope to join them, her sword grasped in her hand. The older Prince scowled at him, momentarily looking eerily similar to his Uncle.

“You really are trying to kill me…” he sighed.

Bilbo sat back against the willow tree and watched the training session continue. Since arriving, Dwalin had thrown himself into training anyone who wanted, along with his scheduled sessions with the boys, their mother and Uncle. Sometimes Balin and even Dori joined in but usually it was Dwalin and Thorin’s closest family. 

After the meeting with the Thain, Dwalin had agreed to assess the local Shire law enforcement and border guards and offer what training and advice he could. What the Thain hadn’t appreciated was that the former Guard Captain of Ered Luin was incapable of doing half a job: if he had agreed to train them, then they would be trained to the best of his ability. The Sheriffs had been put through fierce fitness assessments and their lack of weapons skills had Dwalin tearing out what remained of his hair. Sheriffs were usually armed with a truncheon and a bell and policed by consent rather than walking around, armed to the teeth and carrying the threat that they could beat any recidivist into submission, as was the prevailing manner of guarding in Ered Luin. The Bounders had a different remit: to patrol the limits of the Shire, log threats and help repel them in conjunction with the Rangers who protected the Hobbit homeland. As such, they had some weapons skills-mainly with the sword and the bow-but they were only superficially trained and, in Dwalin’s opinion, they would be swiftly overwhelmed by any sort of determined enemy.

So he had set up sword clinics, putting the Bounders through their paces, improving their fitness and making them a more coherent and skilled force. He also wanted to talk them through tactics and battle plans, first taking the time to listen and learn what their remit was and how they fitted in with the Rangers. But he had realised that if the Rangers were held up, then the Hobbit Bounders would be the last line of defence and needed to know enough to take matters into their own hands fit they were alone. And also, he thought privately, if they needed to fight alongside the handful of dwarrows who were staying in the Shire.

When he had arrived back at Bag End after the meeting with the Thain, Dwalin had sat in the room he was sharing with his brother and had stared at his axes, Grasper and Keeper. They had been his most faithful protectors throughout the years, yet they couldn’t prevent the capture of Thorin and the loss of honour that had led to. If he closed his eyes, he could still see that dark, stormy night and hear Dis’s scream as the Crown Prince was taken. He closed his eyes, an image flashing through his memory: the edge of a jagged symbol, peeking under the tattered edge of a sleeve. And Thorin-straight, unbowed unbroken, knowing what he was giving up and silently extracting the promise from his cousin and shield-brother that he would protect them in Thorin’s stead. There hadn’t been a day that Dwalin hadn’t castigated himself most savagely for failing to prevent the ambush…and if they had take his beard and exiled him, Dwalin would not have resisted. No, he would have dedicated the remainder of his life to finding and rescuing the Prince…and failed his promise to Thorin in the process.

He clasped his hands together and stared at the wall. The ambush was a deliberate attack on the Royal family by people who would gain from the removal of their Prince. It had to have been planned from Ered Luin with ties to those close to the Crown-and both Dwalin and Balin had their own personal favourite candidates. He knew his older brother had been playing the game with skill and subtlety and that he had agents in play…but all Dwalin could offer was his service as a common guard and willingness to do whatever it took to support his brother, protect Dis and her sons and try to get his friend back.

And it seemed that whatever included exile in the Shire, a land of loam and water and trees rather than the rock that called to the very souls of dwarrow. In his heart, Dwalin missed his home-but he knew that he may never return to Ered Luin. Wherever Dis and Thorin went, he would follow. And if he stayed in the Shire forever, then so be it. But in doing so, he would have to protect the Hobbits as well as he would protect his own people. So if the Shire was attacked, Dwalin would stand at the borders, swinging Grasper and Keeper and spilling the blood of whatever enemies were stupid enough to threaten the peaceful and kindly haven in Eriador. While not the most emotionally intelligent of dwarves and never one prone to ever discussing his feelings, he would have had to have been blind to have missed the friendship between his shield-brother and the little Hobbit who had rescued him. Without hesitation, Bilbo was mentally added to the list of people that Dwalin would willingly shed his blood and spend his life to protect. 

So Dwalin did what he had always done, working hard and being the very best he could be. He was fierce and determined, never surrendered and never hesitated and when he crossed swords with Kili, the young Prince gulped and his face briefly flashed with anxiety before he pulled himself together and began to use the sword skills that had been painstakingly hammered into his thick skull over the years.  Grinning without humour, he attacked harder and drove the younger Prince back.

“He won’t harm him,” Thorin murmured into Bilbo’s ear, causing the Hobbit to start and almost squeak. He hadn’t heard the former Prince approach because Thorin hadn’t come up the road from the Forge but rather had walked relatively quietly along the river bank, the thick, lush grass muffling his steps and the shadow of the line of trees dappling his shape as he made his way to join them. It was a warm day and the combatants were red and sweating as they furiously continued their practice. Smiling, Thorin crouched by the Hobbit and Bilbo inspected him. The Forge was very hot and he had shed all but his thin dark blue shirt, his tunic and overshirt hanging over his arm. Tendrils of raven hair were stuck to his neck and cheek as he laid his folded tunic on the ground.

“It looks very fierce,” Bilbo commented. “And Kili looks worried…” Thorin chuckled and sat next to him. 

“Dwalin has been training with the boys since they were pebbles,” he reassured the Hobbit. “He wouldn’t hurt them. Much. Maybe a knick here or a scratch there to make sure they remember the lesson…” Absently, Bilbo fished in the large wicker basket by his side and pulled out a flask of lemonade, kindly handing it to the parched dwarf at his side. Thorin drank with a relieved sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he glanced back at the young Hobbit at his side, seeing his eyes still glued to the battles before him. Thorin could recognise a look of longing and envy there and part of him desperately hoped it was for the activity and not any of the participants.

"You wish to learn," he said. It wasn't a question.

Bilbo started, his eyes widening and a guilty look flittering across his face. Suddenly he was inspecting his lap, a hand twisting blades of the lush grass aimlessly.

“I…I…” He gabbled and then he nodded. “I know it’s highly improper,” he confessed miserably. “And I know it will mean people like Lobelia will think I’m even less of a Hobbit than they consider  me now. But…” Then he looked up. “I remember when I went with Gandalf and the Rangers when you…”

“…were kidnapped,” Thorin said, his voice gentle. It was another painful and shameful memory that he owned but it wasn’t Bilbo’s fault. The Hobbit nodded and tore at another patch of grass. The faint smell of the bruised blades wafted in the balmy air.

“And I felt so absolutely and completely helpless when we caught up and I was told to hide,” he confessed ashamedly. “And I felt so useless when that Man came for you. You had to hide me and deal with him, even though you were wounded…”

Thorin’s chuckle filled the air between them and Bilbo finally looked up.

“Bilbo-even if you were a skilled swordsman, he was a foe beyond your capabilities,” he told the Hobbit kindly. “He was a dangerous fighter and enjoyed the infliction of pain. I have been fighting since I was able to lift a dagger and I only ended him by stealth.”

“But what if more of them come?” Bilbo asked, his expression distressed. “I want to fight. You are my friend and I won’t let anyone capture you again…” Thorin sighed and sat back against the trunk of the tree. It was unlikely any more men would come for him and he had a nasty suspicion that the next people looking for him would be dwarves-armed and with their orders. And no amount of Hobbit courage and determination would stop them.

“I am safe here,” he lied, closing his eyes for a moment. The soft plash of the water in the stream and the gentle trill of birdsong almost made him believe it…if not for the sound of his sister’s voice and the rising clangs of weapons as his family practiced against the day when they were found. “But if you wish, I will teach you…the basics, at least.” He opened his eyes once more. “Your people seem to have excellent aim. Would not the bow or sling be better?” Bilbo sagged and then  he sighed.

“I know we must seem soft and weak to you-and to be honest, I’m certain I couldn’t have survived what you have-but I want to have some hope of protecting myself and my friends,” he said and then looked up, his eyes determined. “I want to do this.” Then he sighed. “And what happens if the enemy is too close for an arrow or a sling? If I have no other skill…”

“You could run.”

“Hobbits rely on stealth, not speed-especially since every other race has longer legs,” Bilbo retorted. Thorin sagged.

“Then I will teach you-enough to buy time,” he said quietly. “But my aim is not to prepare you for war or for you to line up to go into battle.”

“My mother travelled,” Bilbo revealed. “She went all the way to Rivendell. She had a sword…”

“And I wager she did not use her sword for finding trouble but merely to get out of it, especially when there was no other option,” Thorin guessed. The young Hobbit sighed and gave a small nod.

“She was brave and wild but not insane,” he agreed. Then he gave a small smile. “Thank you.” The former Prince inclined his head and then rose, walking away from Bilbo and back the way he had come, his eyes sweeping the trees until he found a couple of small branches that served his purpose. Swiftly, he broke them off them stripped the bark and shaped them using his knife. Munching a slice of pork pie, Bilbo watched him walk slowly back, his eyes focussed as he shaped the wood with skill.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously, watching the dwarf slowly kneel then sit back, his focus still on his work. It was fascinating that his hands, so much larger than Bilbo’s own, were able to manipulate the knife with such delicacy and skill and for a moment, he glimpsed the gift of the dwarves, the innate skills that Mahal had gifted to all his children. Everything he had read-much of which was derogatory about them-talked about dwarves being, stubborn, hostile, secretive, untrustworthy. But very few remembered to mention that dwarves were exceptionally skilled with their hands, that they could create jewellery of exceptional beauty, weapons of surpassing skill and mechanisms of unexcelled cleverness and delicacy. And even in crudely shaping a wooden sword, Thorin managed to produce a well-crafted piece of work. The dwarf looked up and offered the ghost of a smile, the merest hint of a tilt of the lips.

“I am hardly likely to let you start with a real blade, Master Hobbit,” he said, his voice amused. “No offence intended, but you have less knowledge than any dwarfling. At least in a dwarrow family, the pebbles have seen their elders wielding weapons from the day they were born.” His eyes shadowed slightly and Bilbo knew he was recalling his own childhood, times with his parents and siblings… “I know Fili and Kili always watched when Dis, Frerin and I practiced.” The tone was perfect, gruff and detached but Bilbo knew Thorin enough to read the flash of pain in his eyes. The Hobbit gave a small smile.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Master Dwarf,” he replied. “I know how to use a pitchfork and could make a fair fist of harrowing a field and hoeing a row of potatoes but I have never had reason to watch sword practice…until your family arrived, that is…” Thorin nodded and rose, handing Bilbo the wooden sword. The young Hobbit blinked: there was a good approximation of a hilt, an indentation and suggestion of where the crosspiece would be and then a leaf-shaped blade with a blunt point and edges. “Um…”

“Show me how you would hold the sword,” Thorin said, his tone now more businesslike. Bilbo frowned and then nodded, rising to his feet and gripping the hilt with both hands, waving the sword  wildly at arm’s length. He backed up as the dwarf rose, still waving the sword.

“I’m ready…” he said. Thorin sighed, rolled his eyes and rapped his own wooden sword sharply on Bilbo’s. Immediately, the wooden weapon flew from his grasp and he hissed, his hands stinging.

“That’s not how you hold a sword,” Thorin told him unnecessarily. “Every joint was rigid and your grip ridiculous. A sword is made of metal and will not bend: any impact will be passed into your hand and arm. If your wrists and elbows are rigid, the impact all lands on your hands and you will drop the sword. Your grip needs to be tighter anyway and with a single hand, not two, but keep your wrist and elbow supple…” Retrieving his sword, Bilbo tried until Thorin walked forward and firmly adjusted his grip, tightening his hand around the hilt until it was tight in his grip. His warm hand remained closed around the grasp. “This is the position and the tightness required,” he added. “Practice…”

Bilbo sagged.

“I will,” he promised but his expression looked ashamed.

“Bilbo, you should not be embarrassed that you live in a peaceful and bountiful land,” the former Prince told him honestly. “Be thankful that you people now know peace and security so much that such pursuits are frowned upon and felt to be unacceptable in your society. Your courage and dedication do you great credit…but cannot make you a swordsman.” He grasped the wooden sword in his hand and twirled it absently. “I have been practicing with the sword since I was old enough to lift the shortest practice blade and while have some skill, my sister is more ferocious and Balin probably has more innate skills than I. Dwalin…” He gave a nostalgic smile. “Dwalin never has any training session but one that would crush the opponent-even if the opponent was me. We all have more to learn…but you have started.” And then he beckoned the Hobbit closer.

“So how long have you been practising?” Bilbo asked him pointedly. 

“Maybe a hundred and seventy years,” Thorin replied as Bilbo groaned.

“Hobbits generally only live to a hundred or so,” he said slowly. “Grandfather-Gerontius, the ‘Old Took’-made a hundred and thirty and he was the oldest ever recorded Hobbit. I fear I will never master this…” Thorin shook his head and grasped the Hobbit’s shoulder firmly.

“You can-if you practice,” he reassured his friend. “Men live shorter lives than either of our races and yet there are those among them very skilled with weapons. It is not length of use but how much dedication you put in and how much determination you show. I am certain you lack neither of these, Master Baggins.” Then he relented. “There is another exercise I need to give you to help you practice the basic movements that a swordsman should know. And this does require much practice to attain…Thand zul.” He frowned at Bilbo’s curious expression. “Arm memory…I have heard Men call it ‘muscle memory’…” Then he stepped back and stared into Bilbo’s eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Immediately. Bilbo nodded, his gaze locked with Thorin’s.

“Yes,” he said as Thorin hefted the wooden sword in his hand. Vaguely, Bilbo registered that the wooden blade was more angular than his, similar to his real sword. 

“Then remain still,” he advised the Hobbit and his arm swung round, the sword level as the blow aimed directly at the side of Bilbo’s middle.The blade halted less than an inch from his skin. Then his arm swung round his head to slice the blade round to hover an inch from the other side of his middle. “Standard cut and parry,” Thorin said. Then he swung round, the blade arching down to hover inches from each side of his neck in turn. Then he spun, his back almost to the Hobbit as he spun, the blade slicing backwards to cut at Bilbo’s body from below. Finally, Thorin spun back, his hand rising to chop the blade straight down at his head. The wooden blade almost brushed his hair as the dwarf Prince halted.

The Hobbit hadn’t flinched once. His eyes were wide, amazed at how gracefully the dwarf could move with the weapon in his hand, the blade twirling as if in a dance.

“I couldn’t possibly do that,” he murmured. Thorin chuckled.

“You know, I thought Kili would never learn,” he admitted. “His mother was worried he would chop his own ears off first. Needless to say, she bent my ear for being a poor teacher. Though she forgets that I taught her the basics before we left Erebor because she stole our Adad’s dagger to practice with. I had to steal the wooden practice swords after making her promise she would not touch another real blade without permission.” His face fell slightly. “My Grandfather was not pleased that I had taken the practice swords or that I had allowed a mere pebble to pretend to learn to fight.” He forced away those memories, concentrating on the Hobbit standing before him rather than the image of the enraged, gold-mad face looming over him, spittle spraying from his mouth as he castigated and shamed his grandson in front of the court…

“You taught your sister these exercises,” Bilbo murmured and Thorin blinked and then backed away.

“I mean no offence,” he said suddenly, the wooden blade held limply at his side. His heart beat painfully, fearing that he had insulted his host by treating him like a child.

“No, starting with children’s exercises is very wise-especially since I have larger ears than Kili and so am in more imminent danger,” Bilbo said with a straight face. “I am not offended, Thorin-I am incredibly grateful that you are taking the time to teach me when I must be the worst pupil you have ever encountered. I promise that I will practice hard…but…” And then he sighed. “Could you take me through those moves again? I was a little…distracted while you were showing me them.” Thorin chuckled, then walked to his friend’s side, tightening his hand around the hilt of his wooden sword and then standing behind him, his arm laying along Bilbo’s as his hand covered the Hobbit’s.

“Trust me,” he murmured in Bilbo’s ear as he began the first swing.

-o0o-

“When did this arrive?” 

Lord Farag was at his desk, carved from a giant geode that had been found in the mountains of the distant north and which Farag had bartered, lied and killed for. His family had not been born to wealth, not been blessed with the legacy of blood from one of the Seven Fathers but in the real world, that hadn’t mattered. Power came to those who had the will and willingness to grasp it and Farag’s forebears had been endowed with those abilities in spades, treading over the bodies of their enemies in their rise to power and influence…until his ambitions were blocked by the arrival of the Erebor refugees. Before, he had been the dwarf essentially in charge of the Blue Mountains and after…he was subservient to the landless King of Erebor, descendent of Durin himself, who had lost his kingdom to a dragon, most of his people to defeat in Azanulbizar and, it was whispered, his mind to the curse of his line. In what world should Farag have to bow down before such a thrice-proven loser?

It turned out, the dwarrow of Ered Luin were blinded by a tragic story and the stardust of Durin’s blood over the steady and prudent stewardship of Farag and his puppet Council. Some had seen it as an opportunity for advancement on the new arrivals’ Council and Farag had needed to claw his way up again, finally elbowing his way to the Senior position in the Council to King Thrain-only to find his desires blocked by a whelp, the proud and arrogant elder son and Heir. Thorin “Oakenshield’, named for his heroic defiance amid the slaughter at Khazad-Dum’s gates, his slaying of the White Orc and avenging of his Grandfather, King Thror. A military hero Farag could deal with but the damned Prince was sharp and he listened to his own counsellors rather than the duplicitous whispers of Farag’s men, finding injustices that Farag would have preferred remained in his favour and trying to rebalance the economy so that the poorer members of the community had more and Farag lost some of his leverage.

Now Thorin was gone and no one on the Council wanted him back. Thrain’s weakness of mind had made him easy to manipulate, even when he wasn’t as lost as a child, and the banishment and disowning had been a pleasurable spectacle for Farag and his allies. Prince Frerin was much less concerned with the needs of others and far less inclined to intervene with those who actually did the business of the day to day ruling-an ideal replacement for Farag. But there was always the suspicion that Thorin may one day attempt to return…

“An hour ago,” the door ward said, bowing. “I pocketed it and brought it here. It is unusual enough to warrant your personal attention.” Farag frowned, his bulbous features furrowed by the expression. His brown hair was liberally streaked with grey and his beard was elaborately braided and filled with beads and clasps, each highlighting his personal wealth and influence. His hair was curled into a thick ball at the nape of his neck, braids mixed into the mass but he habitually wore a polished helm, decorated with gold and garnets, at all times. His beard beads never clicked or clashed to minimise opportunities to approach unseen and he employed a personal taster: he knew that powerful men made many enemies.

“To the Person In Charge of the Dwarf Community of The Blue Mountains,” he read aloud. “I certainly meet that criterion.” He looked over at the door ward. “You have my gratitude, Kharon. I do not forget those who serve me.”

“My Lord,” the door ward said and bowed, then left. Quickly, Farag scanned the words, written in a hand that was flowing and rounded, accents above certain characters alien to the dwarf. Then he looked up at his scribe, standing quietly in the shadows. 

“The Shire,” he murmured. “On our very doorstep.”

“My Lord?” The scribe looked dried out and beaten down, his fingers stained with ink and clothes scruffy from many hours bent over documents and books. 

“I have found him. The renegade. The disgraced Prince.”

“A happy day,” the scribe said, his dark eyes flicking up.

“Not for him-or for any who shield him,” Farag said. “Fetch me Prason. This needs handling with skill and subtlety. Even the idiot-King won’t authorise execution of his outcast, disowned son if he is quietly living in another land. But if he dies, who is to complain on his behalf. Who cares if he meets his end in another land. The Halflings?” He gave a scornful chuckle and shook his head. “Fetch Prason now and then arrange a fast horse for him. I want this done before the King’s health deteriorates further. I will not have any of these damned Erebor dwarves thwarting my plans once more.”

Chapter Text

TWENTY FOUR.

"Have you noticed anything different about Uncle?”

Fili looked up from where he was sitting on the floor by the fire in the parlour, polishing his swords and inspected his younger brother. He could still remember when they were deemed old enough to start practicing with actual blades-Kili had been the limiting factor then, he recalled, since Amad and Thorin hadn’t been sure for the longest time the younger Prince wouldn’t accidentally stab himself as a joke. And to be honest, Fili hadn’t been sure his younger and far less responsible self wouldn’t have joined him in the mischief-if only to see if they could frighten Amad. Both of them knew that they wouldn’t be held responsible for any damage, only their Uncle, who had accepted the responsibility in training them.

He paused. When you soberly reflected on their thought processes, it sounded absolutely despicable. He and Kili still worked as a double act-bantering, arguing, scuffling, pranking-but they at least had something of a sense of responsibility, born of necessity in the pressure cooker of Ered Luin politics and the ice-cold of the family. Other dwarrow clans were warm and welcoming, treasuring their cousins and young as much as siblings and parents but the direct Line of Durin was a strange family, blighted by misfortune, political manoeuvring and madness. Fili was old enough to know that his great-grandfather, King Thror, had been mad as a box of rubble, consumed by the Dragon Sickness that had never relented even after the Lonely Mountain and Kingdom of Erebor was lost to the dragon. His grandfather was, by all accounts, also afflicted, his mind wandering and often as lost as a young child, needing guidance from those who ruled through him as a dwarf of straw. Even Uncle Frerin, who had been so much fun when they were younger, had become distant and cold, refusing audiences and never contacting his nephews. Only Thorin had been a constant.

“What do you mean by different?” he asked, switching cloths. Like any warrior, he always carried what he needed to maintain his weapons, all superb quality for they had been forged by Thorin for his sister-sons as they needed them. Crown Prince he may have been, but he never shirked his duty to his family. When their Adad had returned to the stone, Thorin had stepped up, standing by his devastated sister and promising that he would do his best to ensure they never wanted for anything. So he had been there when they were ill, when they needed bedtime stories and weapons lessons, he had taught them Khuzdul and Westron, told them of their history, taught them of their duties as Princes and what they owed their people. And while people around them saw nobility or Royalty as a free ticket to take, Thorin’s lessons had always been about service, duty and honour. 

Fili frowned and rubbed a little harder to buff the blade to a brilliant shine. There had been times before they reached Ered Luin, when they were wandering and still scorned that Amad had told him about, when the nomadic Ereborean refugees had suffered. No one would offer them a place to stay permanently and they had been driven off by force more than once. Food was often scarce and many had lost dwarflings and pregnancies due to severe hunger. Fili shuddered: he had been sensitive enough to read the unspoken sorrow in his Amad’s eyes as she had spoken of their wanderings and he knew then that somewhere on the road, a younger brother or sister had lost their battle even before they had the chance to first breathe. Their father had hunted and he knew that Thorin and a few others had worked as smiths, accepting abuse and being cheated all for enough coppers to bring bread and a little other food in. If he concentrated, he could recall hunger, recall crying as his stomach hurt even as Thorin had fed the meagre contents of his own food bowl to the little Princeling. Even after they had finally reached Ered Luin, times had been tough as they established their colony amid unproductive rocks and poor quality seams so there was a desperate shortage of food in the mountain. There hadn’t been enough work, nowhere near enough fo everyone and somehow, the lack had affected the Princess and her little sons. Not the King, of course, nor his fat and well-fed Lords but the weakest and youngest-supposedly the most precious members of the community-had been left to starve. Everyone was hungry but it had been Thorin who had gone out to work, to earn money for food from the villages of Men. Thorin alone of the family when Frerin was equally capable of work. Amad had repaired clothes and made trinkets for sale but she was limited by caring for two young boys. It had struck him then and it struck him now: why had it only been Thorin?

Kili shrugged. The younger Prince could recall hunger as well, for things had been precarious. When there was an illness among the villages of men or crops were poor, they did not trade or had no surplus to sell and the dwarrows starved. The divisions in society sharpened into acute focus then and Kili, though outgoing and cheerful, was no fool. “He seems…lighter.”

Fili hummed as he sheathed one of his swords and moved to the other. Thorin had taught them how to care for their weapons, explaining with a reverent tone how their blades would save their lives, that they were the last ally against an enemy orc or goblin and most importantly, you could not rely on an ally if you treated him badly. And then he had shown them Deathless, his sword that he had maintained with devotion since he inherited it. The blade was keen, the edges perfect and ferociously sharp and there was not a spot of rust, corrosion or dirt anywhere on the weapon. He recalled touching the sword respectfully, Thorin’s larger hand hovering to ensure he didn’t harm himself on the edges.

“Lighter?”

Kili looked up, his dark eyes thoughtful.

“He always seemed so weighted down by duty and responsibility back home,” he said slowly. “Whenever anything needed doing, it was always Thorin that did it. Whether it was leading a scouting party to track down Orcs or travelling to the Grey Mountains or the Iron Hills or dealing with complaints from miners and artisans, he always did the hard jobs.”

“Sigin’Adad was the King. Is the King. He could not ride out and lead raids,” Fili pointed out.

“Nor should the Crown Prince,” Kili argued suddenly. “That’s why we have Generals and Captains of the Guard. Even younger brothers.” He gave a cheeky grin then but resumed his serious expression instantaneously. “But Sigin’Adad and the Council charged Thorin with doing everything. Every hard task and dangerous mission. And they seemed ever more angry when he succeeded.” Fili nodded. 

“You know they call home ‘Thorin’s Halls’?” he asked his brother, switching cloths again. “Not Thrain’s Halls. Thorin’s Halls. Because Uncle Thorin was the one who was always there, always doing what needed to be done. If there was an accident, Thorin was the member of the Royal family who went, helping and reassuring or offering condolences. If there was unrest, Thorin was sent to quell it. When the Third Shaft West collapsed, Thorin went in with the miners and helped dig the miners out. He paid for the medicines and even gave money to the families until they could work again. They made him do everything: in response, the people see him as the only one doing anything. The King is invisible, the Council is hated and the guards…” He looked up. “The guards aren’t trusted.”

“You really think someone back home arranged for the attack?” Kili asked him quietly. 

“Two days earlier, Thorin had sent a raven to inform the King that we were almost home,” Fili said slowly. He had been mulling the news over since they arrived at Bag End. “It would not have been a secret from the court where he was and what route he was likely to take.” He chewed a lip. “You know they refused to send a larger escort? Sigin’Adad said that speed and stealth was likely a better protection than a large column of guards protecting his heirs.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded bitter. Kili nodded slowly.

“Uncle smiles here,” he said quietly. “You’ve seen, haven’t you? He smiles. I never thought we would ever see him again, let alone smile like he did when we were young.”

“He’s not smiling for us,” Fili pointed out. Kili gave his sword a final rub and then sheathed it once more.

“No-but he's smiling for someone,” he replied. “Before he was…taken…he always looked so grim. Even when he was round visiting Amad, he never smiled. But here…well, he looks like he’s home. He knows his way around the kitchen, he helps Bilbo, he smiles and jokes. He made it clear to Balin and Dwalin that he’s given his allegiance to Bilbo. You saw him while we were practicing?”

“Um…no…” Fili replied. “I was trying not to get cut into small pieces by Amad.” Kili chuckled.

“Serves you right for trying to cut up your poor baby brother,” he teased his brother. “I was only having to deal with Dwalin…” He shuddered-and then he sighed. “Uncle offered to teach Bilbo.”

“Really?”

“He whittled them wooden swords and gave him a lesson-you remember the most basic exercises we used to do when we first learned? And then he stood behind Bilbo and guided his arm through them. Twice. He looked rather red afterwards…” Kili’s eyes were sparkling.

“It may just be gratitude and friendship,” Fili pointed out, not wanting to crush his brother's enthusiasm but equally, not wanting to misread the situation. “I mean, Thorin has been through some really hard times. He's been a slave…and treated really badly. Bilbo rescued him and offered him a home and hope. He's defended Thorin against his own people…” Kili winced.

“Lobelia,” he muttered.

“But I guess she won’t be the only one who doesn’t want one of those ‘thieving dwarves’ in the neighbourhood,” Fili reminded him. 

“But that’s it,” Kili interrupted, fishing for his quiver and starting to inspect every arrow in turn, checking the fletching with an expert eye. “Bilbo. He’s generous, brave and kind. And I don’t think anyone has been kind to Thorin for a long time.”

They fell silent with the only sound being the gentle swish of Fili’s cloth. 

“You’re right,” the older Prince sighed. “Thorin sometimes looks at Bilbo…like Adad looked at Amad.” Kili frowned and the older brother grasped his shoulder reassuringly. “Sorry. I know you never really knew Adad. I only have memories…a few and faded, like old manuscripts…but that look was very clear, every time he came home and looked at Amad.”

“I’ve seen Bilbo watching Thorin,” Kili admitted. "There's that little smile when he sees Uncle come in from work, the way he almost lights up. I don’t think he even realises he’s doing it…but he is. I mean he’s so kind to us all and makes us so welcome…even Dwalin has settled in and appreciates his plate of biscuits when he returns from whoever he’s training.”

“Amad is still suspicious…but then, she’s always suspicious,” Fili agreed. “But I think she’s mainly upset because we’re exiled because it’s not safe. She knows what the Council was planning for her…and us.” The smile vanished from Kili’s face and he nodded, his eyes shadowed.

“She and Thorin, Balin and Dwalin have lost two homes now,” he murmured. “One to a dragon…and one to dwarrow who are as bad as one.” Fili clapped him on the shoulder, hating seeing the shadow in his bright and cheerful younger brother’s eyes. 

“Kee-we’re together here and the Hobbits have given us safety,” he reminded his brother. “Bilbo is the best host and seems to have adopted us.” The younger brother gave a small grin.

“He gets flustered whenever we call him ‘Uncle Bilbo’,” he pointed out. 

“Which is why it’s fun,” Fili agreed. “But Thorin can never go back. In fact, if they knew where we were, he and Bilbo would be in real danger. I think he may have accepted that finally he has no chance to return…and that instead of spending his life in the service of the dwarrow of Ered Luin, he can maybe seek happiness for himself.”

“So we may possibly end up with a real Uncle Bilbo?” Kili asked, his enthusiasm infectious. Fili forced himself to remain the voice of reason. 

“We’re talking about Thorin here,” he reminded his brother. “Thorin who would put himself last in any consideration. Thorin who would ignore his own heart because we are here and need looking after. Thorin who would manage to be an idiot if it disadvantaged himself because he never thinks he has any value. Doubly so since he is disowned and has had everything he was born to be taken from him.”

“I’m not sure Bilbo is much better,” Kili admitted. “He’s snatching little looks at Uncle but he seems almost afraid to say anything.” He chewed his lip. “I think he’s seen as a bit of an unusual Hobbit and maybe…he doesn’t have that many friends? Maybe he doesn’t want to put Thorin off?”

“He lost his parents suddenly only a year ago and he’s been alone since,” Fili mused. "None of his neighbours or family have come round since we arrived…except the gardener.”

“Hamfast,” Kili added. “He seems to like Bilbo. But you’re right: no one else seems to be that friendly. We’ve seen the Hobbitwives in the market and they keep bringing us food but they barely exchange a word with him when he’s shopping.”

“Yet he came flying down the hill and laid into Lobelia when she starting shouting at you and Thorin,” Fili noted. “And they supported him then…” Kili’s face fell as a horrible thought struck him. 

“Do you think we’ve harmed Bilbo by being here?” he asked urgently but Fili shook his head.

“If they aren’t friendly towards him, it’s not new because he would be more upset,” the older Prince guessed and then he sighed. “I guess we haven’t made things better for him…”

“Among his own people, maybe…but I don’t think us being here has made him unhappy,” Kili said and ran his hands through his hair. “I get the impression he really enjoys our company. He seems to like cooking for us and is treating us…like family.” And then he flopped back onto the floor, staring up at his brother. “We need to help him.” Fili slid down and lay beside him, staring at the whitewashed gently curved ceiling of the parlour.

“You mean you want to give him and Uncle a little…push…” he guessed. Kili laced his hands behind his head and sighed.

“You’re going to be the voice of reason and tell me it’s a bad idea,” he said but Fili grinned.

“No…I was about to say that Uncle deserves to be happy and Bilbo as well,” he said. “Just promise me that neither of us will own up to anything if Amad finds out what we are doing.” Kili sat up, shocked. 

“Amad always knows when we’re scheming,” he said. “And you know she would disapprove. Bilbo’s not a dwarf and…” Fili dragged him back down.

“Do you want Uncle Bilbo or not?” he asked. “Because I do. And I want to see Thorin happy.”  Kili nodded and lay back.

“At least you can protect me from Amad,” he sighed.

-o0o-

“Master Bilbo?” 

The Hobbit looked politely at the hesitant voice, a smile crossing his face. Ori, the younger brother of Dori, was standing at the door of his study as he checked his accounts, totting up the rents that were being paid into his accounts at the Bank of Michel Delving. And from his rapidly expanding knowledge of dwarves, Bilbo could tell how young he was, his voice hesitant and polite, the bright naïveté in his eyes refreshing. Somehow, Ori had maintained his enthusiasm and openness that the others had long lost, taken from them by necessity as they endured the harsh treatment that the world seemed to deem dwarves deserved. They all developed thick shells to protect themselves against the hurts of their lives but Ori-and Fili and Kili-hadn’t developed theirs yet and Bilbo found himself warming rapidly to the younger dwarves because of it. Of course, he liked Balin because the old diplomat was incredibly friendly, interesting and reminded the Hobbit of his late grandfather, the Old Took. And Dwalin was polite and helped chop wood or accompany Bilbo to the market to ensure he was safe-especially since he realised that the Hobbit was a generous and thoughtful baker who never hesitated to have fresh fruit or hazelnut biscuits waiting for him when he came home. Dori was pleasant though wary, having found work in a haberdashery and being able to talk for hours on different teas to a delighted Bilbo. And Thorin…

Bilbo paused. Thorin had been treated more harshly than anyone and had every right to withdraw and be hard and reserved…but he had lowered his guard around the Hobbit in a way that had Bilbo delighted and flustered all at once. Thorin had been good to his word and had trained with the Hobbit every day, gently correcting his mistakes and encouraging the light-footed Hobbit to use his speed and agility. Bilbo was not as strong as a dwarf so he needed to use what advantages he had in terms of speed to fight. His grip was more assured and his handling of his wooden ‘sword’ much less clumsy, testament to the hours Bilbo had spent before the dwarves woke in practising. And every time Thorin offered a small word of praise to his friend was a personal triumph for the hobbit.

“Can I help you, Master Ori?” he asked. The young dwarf blushed.

“It’s just Ori,” he said. His hazel eyes were bright and his russet hair neat but decorated only with a few braids. “I-I was wondering if I could borrow some of your books?” Bilbo blinked and laid his quill down, gesturing to the overfilled shelves that lined his study.

“You are welcome to read any-though I would like them back,” he said honestly. “My father started the collection and I have carried on. I am afraid I’m a rather unusual Hobbit and I love maps and histories and tales of far off lands.” Ori nodded, his hand gripping a leather-bound notebook to his chest. His hands were-as ever-enclosed in knitted fingerless gloves and his slightly sagging knitted tunic rustled as he moved. Hesitantly, he approached the nearest shelf and lifted and green leather-bound volume with gold lettering on the spine.

“This one is in Elvish,” the young dwarf said. Bilbo nodded.

“I speak and read a little Elvish,” he confessed. “I suspect my accent is horrible but my mother was friends with Gandalf…” The dwarf looked up from his inspection of the first page and frowned.

“Gandalf?”

“The Grey Wizard? Surely you must have heard of him?” 

“Tharkun?” Ori asked and Bilbo recalled the name Thorin had used.

“I think your people call him that,” he admitted. “The Elves call him Mithrandir.” 

“I wonder what his real name is?” Ori said without thinking and then looked up, appearing slightly ashamed at the words. But Bilbo chuckled.

“It’s a good question and one that I have considered myself,” he admitted. “I suspect we will never know because though he claims he prefers Gandalf-to my face-who knows what he says to other races? He’s generous in his interference and very mean with any actual answers about his motivations or his true thoughts. My mother was a friend but she saw him as I do. Yet he was a good friend to her through her adventuring and he took her to Rivendell, where she met the Elves. They taught her basic Elvish and gave her some books. When she returned, she continued to meet them at the borders of the Shire and continued her studies. She used to take me along-it was a way to stop me wandering off on my own, trying to find them. And she exchanged letters with Lord Elrond for years until her death. He sent her many of these books-including the one you hold in your hands.”

Ori started and almost dropped the book.

“My brother always tells me that I should concentrate on my studies-I am hoping to become a Scribe and Master Balin has kindly agreed to be my Master-but I have always wondered about the Elves,” Ori admitted slowly, almost stroking the book. “I mean, I know the King and the Crown Prince say that Elves are our enemies, that they did not help us when Erebor was attacked but there are also stories that they have made great works, that they have done incredible deeds. And just as many speak so ill of Mahal’s children without knowledge and assume we are all the same. then why should an entire race be deemed to be evil when there is evidence to the contrary.”

“I’m not the best person to ask, since I may be biased,” Bilbo confessed, then rose and fished a slim volume from the bookshelf to his left. “This is a translation of that book that I have made into Westron. It may be easier to understand.” Ori’s eyes flicked down to inspect the rich green leather cover.

“I do not speak or understand Elvish,” he confessed. “Though I would like to learn…” Bilbo slipped the second book into his hands.

“And I would be very happy to teach you what I know,” he offered honestly. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates a good book as much as I do.” Ori glanced up with a brilliant smile.

“Will you? Oh, I cannot possibly express how happy that makes me…” he gushed as Bilbo smiled then sat down, gesturing to the other chair.

“No time like the present,” he said as Ori eagerly settled next to him.

-o0o-

Bofur, son of Bolkur, was walking back towards the home he shared with his cousin, his brother and his brother’s family when he heard a small sound behind him. A miner with an unexpectedly strong stone sense, he drifted to his left, a hand brushing the wall as he briefly extended his senses to try to ascertain who else was there.

One dwarrow, walking unevenly.

He hefted the mattock on his shoulder and continued on, not breaking his stride. He was a generally amiable dwarf, well-known in the settlement especially for his ever-present hat, fond of ale and taverns and singing rather raucously, but he cared for his family and worked hard to support them all. His cousin, Bifur, was wounded from Azanulbizar and though he worked, his beautiful and innovative toys brought in much less than if he had been fit to toil in the mines. Not that even that work paid as well as it should-somehow, the Lord on the Council seemed to blame the miners for the fact the seams were poor in precious metals as everyone with half an ounce of stone sense knew already-and paid less than the going rate for iron and copper. The fact that the current copper seam was laced with mercury just made the yield lower and Bofur and his fellow miners were penalised.

So the last thing he needed was some dwarf tailing him and trying to steal what few coins huddled in his purse. Bombur, his younger brother, was worried because his youngest-a little girl named Milia-was sickening with something and they needed to afford a trip to the healers. So he listened hard as he turned the corner into the narrower way towards his home and heard the steps stumble closer.

In a second, Bofur had turned, the mattock swinging round to pin against the dwarf’s neck, pressing him back against the uneven stone wall, swathed in shadows. Bofur leaned close.

“What do you want?” he asked, his dark eyes glittering. His voice was tense. The other dwarf shifted and his eyes flicked up.

“No trouble,” he said gruffly. The hood he wore shadowed his face and something tickled Bofur’s belly. He glanced down to see a knife pressed firmly enough against his flank. But as he glanced, he could see a darker stain in the other dwarf’s side, the slit edges of his nondescript tunic clean from a knife-thrust. Bofur backed off and pulled his mattock away.

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice concerned. The strange dwarf gave a humourless chuckle.

“I’ll live,” he said, tucking the knife away into a sleeve. Bofur looked up and his hand caressed the rock, his eyes closed for a second.

“Four dwarves approaching, running,” he said with a frown. “No one runs round here.” The strange dwarf’s head snapped up.

“Go,” he said urgently. “They’re not after you.” 

Bofur drew back-then grabbed the dwarf and hauled him along. Though he resisted and cursed softly, he didn’t actively pull away as Bofur dragged him into a niche that he had known since he was a boy, invisible to those who didn’t know it was there. Pressed close to the strange dwarf, he didn’t need to tell the other to remain quiet as the steps closed and then thudded to a halt mere yards from their hiding place.

“Where is he?” 

“He headed this way-hoping to hide among the rats and the miners…”

“Not that there’s much of a difference.” The laughs that followed were cruel.

“He can’t stay here for ever. When he emerges, we’ll have him.”

The steps moved away. Bofur rested his hand against the rock, feeling them retreat.

“You don’t sound too popular,” he murmured.

“No. I’m not.”

Bofur glanced at the passageway. 

“They were in the colours of Lord Brago,” he added.

“Were they?”

“What’s going on?” the miner asked. The other dwarf gave a slight shrug.

“Nothing you should get involved in,” he advised honestly. “Forget you ever saw me.”

Bofur suddenly grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Now that would hardly be a neighbourly thing to do,” he commented, offering the stranger his mattock. “My family don’t have much but I’m sure every ancestor we have would be yelling at me if I turned away a fellow in need. The healer’s coming anyway so you might as well come and be patched up when he checks over little Milia’s cough. And my brother makes an amazing goulash that I’m sure we can stretch to feed another mouth. It may even not contain rat…” 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” the stranger told him though his lips quirked briefly at the invitation. Bofur pulled back the hood and crammed his hat over the strange dwarf’s reddish hair.

“You can tell me on the way,” he said amiably as they emerged into the silent passageway. “It’s not far now. Bofur, son of Bolkur.” The strange dwarf slung the mattock over his shoulder and fell in step beside him.

“Nori,” he said.

Chapter Text

TWENTY FIVE

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been astonished and far less than pleased when she opened her door a couple of hours after dusk to find a hooded and cloaked dwarf standing in the little pool of light cast by the oil lamps in the porch.

“No thank you!” she spat and tried to slam the door in the creature’s face but he was rather quicker than she and grasped the wood, making it impossible to move. Even more insultingly, he held it open with minimal effort while fashioning a sort of bow that a Hobbit would be ashamed to own up to. But his words were honeyed as he looked into her shocked face.

“Madame Sackville-Baggins, I am Prason son of Grason, special envoy of Lord Farag, the ruler of Ered Luin,” he introduced himself. “My Lord sent me urgently in response to your communique regarding the escaped slave you have located.”

There was a long moment before Lobelia finally relinquished her hold on the door and allowed the dwarf to step in. He wore chainmail and a helmet and seemed to carry both an axe and a sword but his manners were decorous and his beard was braided with golden and jewelled clasps and beads as she would have expected. At least he looked halfway presentable…for a filthy dwarf. She gave a snort.

“Come in, Master Prason,” she invited him, sounding as if she was swallowing a lime. The stocky, powerful-looking dwarf chuckled.

“I would guess from your mien and your experiences with the criminal that you would not wish any to see  you in company of one of my race,” he said with good humour. “Thorin rarely brings any credit to the Khuzd race.” A sharp snort was the only reply she offered as she saw him in and ushered him into the parlour. Gesturing brusquely to a chair by the fire, she primly settled on the sofa and cast a look at Otho, who was seated on the other side of the fire, smoking his pipe and scanning a book on turnips. Unruffled, the dwarf unclasped his cloak and neatly folded it by his chair, his dark eyes flocking over the comfortable surroundings with the gleaming silver spoons displayed on the dresser, the orange and deep blue pottery and a large vase of roses on the windowsill. 

“Explain why you are here,” Lobelia said shortly, her arms folded across her chest. The dwarf chuckled.

“You were correct,” he said, his tone honeyed. “Thorin is not a normal dwarf but a dangerous insurrectionist, a murderer and a traitor.” Pursing her lips, Lobelia shuffled her feet, not unfolding at all.

“Explain,” she snapped. “From what I have heard of your people, you execute your traitors. Why is he still alive if that is the case?” Affording her a nod for her knowledge, the dwarf sat back.

“Thorin is a malcontent, envious of the Crown Prince, the rightful heir,” he revealed. “He claims he should be the heir but he has no valid claim. He claims to be a hero, a warrior. But instead he is a murderer, a dwarf who slaughters the weak and helpless to bolster his claims. He is ruthless and manipulative.”

“He is staying with my cousin, a naive and foolish young man who really should be put into guardianship for his own safety,” Lobelia commented spitefully. “Instead, our Thain indulges him in his foolish and dangerous friendship with that…dwarf.” She spat the word hatefully. 

“Your cousin is in danger,” Prason told her, his voice sympathetic. “Thorin is ruthless. He will seduce then murder the boy, steal what he can get his hands on and move on.” He sighed. “There were many who moved for his execution but his father asked for leniency and he was given into slavery.”

“You foisted your problem onto other races,” Lobelia spat, her eyes narrowed. “You let him go free where he could find some gullible fool to rescue him. Bilbo is that fool.”

“I see your concern for your kinsman is genuine…” Prason began but Otho snorted and then stiffened, looking up guiltily to meet Lobelia’s furious glare. He puffed furiously on his pipe and turned the page of his book, scanning the section on root rot. 

“Bilbo has made his choice,” the female Hobbit sneered. “He can face the consequences. My concern is for me and the other decent Hobbits of Hobbiton, put at risk when these animals are wandering around, ready to murder us in our beds!” Prason frowned.

“Animals?” he asked. 

“His wretched sons who are here,” she sneered. “They help him in the Forge and roam the market. No doubt stealing from the stalls…” Eyes narrowing, the dwarf nodded and then stroked his beard.

“My men are camped in the woods and couple of miles outside the town,” he revealed. “It is unfortunate that he has involved his nephews in his criminality but hopefully we can treat their recidivism and return them to the bosom of their loving family once more.”

“You have men here?” Lobelia asked, her tone edged with suspicion. The last thing she wanted was more dwarves in the town. Leaning forward, Prason clasped his hands together. 

“My Lord Farag took your words very much to heart,” he reassured her. “The ruler of Ered Luin cannot allow our good name to be sullied by the presence of this felon. So he authorised my men and I to track him down and take him back. My men can snatch him, clean and swiftly, and return him to the prisons of his own people.” He offered a small toothy smile that came nowhere near his eyes. “Now, Mistress Sackville Baggins-I need you to tell me everything you can about where Thorin is, who is with him and how I get into his current lodging to remove him from your Shire.”

-o0o-

Thorin wondered if he was going slightly mad. Certainly, his nephews seemed to be determined to make him look like a complete idiot in front of his host and he guessed that it was only due to Bilbo’s good nature that the Hobbit hadn’t evicted Thorin for his inexplicable behaviour. The first instance had been when Kili had panted up to Thorin, telling him that Bilbo had called for him, yelling that he was in danger in the bathroom. Without pausing to even think, the dwarf had grabbed a carving knife and pounded through the smial, bursting into the bathroom with his knife raised and eyes wild.

…to find Bilbo on his knees, calmly cleaning the copper tub. He had looked up and then done a double take at the knife in Thorin’s hand. Breathing hard, the former Prince stared at him wildly for a second, then snatched his hands behind his back. 

“Is everything alright, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his expression perplexed. He cringed inwardly as the dwarf squared his shoulders as if he was expected the axe to fall.

“I…Kili said that he had seen a rat head in here and that you called for help…” he blurted out, then silently prayed for a rockfall, a hurricane, an orc attack…really, he would take anything if it distracted from the utter mess he was making of the situation. Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“Are you saying Kili is suggesting there are vermin in my home?” he asked pointedly. Thorin swallowed. 

Many of your neighbours and certainly Lobelia would say you’re talking to that vermin, he thought with a sudden chill through his heart. Bilbo must have read the sudden distress in his expression because he laid his cloth aside and clambered to his feet.

“Thorin?” he asked with concern in his voice. “Please tell me what is wrong. Can I help? Has Lobelia or anyone said something…?” Desperately dragging up the manners and training of his youth, despite everything that had befallen him, he forced himself to give a small bow.

“My apologies, Master…Bilbo…” he said, catching himself before he ruined things any further. Bilbo was insistent that Thorin called him by his name but feeling like such an utter idiot, he had almost reverted to formal politeness. “It seems there was an error. I apologise for interrupting you.” And with that he fled, pausing in the corridor and making a mental note to ask his sister if she minded only having one son because he was fully intending to kill Kili when he got his hands on the boy.

He hadn’t, of course, but a scolding and dressing-down in very explicit Khuzdul had left his younger nephew suitably chastened. Dis had found it hilarious and had said so, laughing at her brother’s humiliation while Dwalin hadn’t helped, calling him a drama queen for bursting in on the Hobbit who could well have been in the bath rather than just cleaning it. Only Dori had been disapproving but then, the dwarf-who had secured some private tailoring work alongside his job in Monbretia Lakeside’s haberdashery in Bywater-tended to be like a very serious aunt and watched his younger brother Ori with an eagle eye. Though he was casting veiled glares at the former Prince which didn’t make Thorin feel any better. 

But somehow, his nephews managed to trick him into a number of awkward situations where he and Bilbo had found themselves in close proximity with no real reason…except, he suspected, for the amusement of his soon-to-be-dead nephews. The third time Thorin found himself on the instructions of his nephews in an obscure pantry where Bilbo was just checking his stocks of preserves, he had fled, cheeks scorching with humiliation. What the Hobbit would think of him was Mahal’s own knowledge: Thorin suspected he was suddenly appearing like a creepy stalker and he knew, better than anyone, that losing the support of their host would result in the loss of the only place that was keeping them safe and together. 

The problem was that he wasn’t averse to spending time with Bilbo. He still trained with the Hobbit every day-usually before or after work, correcting Bilbo’s form and finally letting him practice very cautiously with a real sword. It was obvious that the dwarven sword that he had forged was far too heavy and unwieldy for the Hobbit and he was working on a more Hobbit-sized option. In fact, he was sitting in the forge in a quiet moment when the boys had been sent out delivering completed orders when there was a knock on the door and Bilbo poked his head round. The Hobbit’s face had lit with a smile.

“May I come in?” he asked and Thorin had nodded, making to rise to his feet but Bilbo had waved him to remain seated.

“You are always welcome, Bilbo,” Thorin said honestly and shoved his sketches aside. An angular dwarvish sword didn’t seem right for the Hobbit and the dwarf had found himself sketching a design for a Hobbit sword with a leaf-shaped blade and nature-inspired designs on the blade and hilt. Of course, if Fili and Kili found out about it, he would be teased unmercifully…and if Dis or Dwalin found out…well he might as well march back up to Bree and ask to be taken back into slavery because it would be infinitely more pleasant. Smiling, Bilbo had set his basket down on the floor and pulled a box up to sit on. He gestured.

“I brought you some lunch, since I noticed the boys have vanished off and it’s well past lunchtime,” he said, his eyes twinkling. Thorin frowned. “Fili may have alerted me to the fact they were planning to do that,” he added, lowering his eyes for a second. “I hope you don’t mind me intruding…”

“To be honest, Bilbo-I am grateful you came,” Thorin told him honestly. “Your company is always welcome…and I have to offer you an apology for the actions of my nephews.” The Hobbit glanced up and smiled.

“I suspect there is some plan in their madness…and I guess they are trying some form of matchmaking,” he said honestly, rooting around and digging out a pork pie, a meat pie and a plate of cheeses. Thorin froze. “Honestly, if they think they’re at all cunning, they’ve got a real disappointment coming. This is the Shire! Courting, relationships and all manner of interference-good and bad-are the national sport. And I may have been involved in a few plots myself-as a tween-to help relations recognise their own feelings for one another. They really aren’t subtle.”

“They’re dwarves,” Thorin acknowledged. “Subtlety isn’t in our lexicon. Barging in, shouting and fighting…those are more our strengths…” Uncovering a bowl of tomato and goat’s cheese salad and retrieving a freshly-baked crusty loaf, Bilbo nodded.

“I can see that,” he said with a wry smile. “Some more than others.” Gently, Thorin helped him empty the basket onto the shelf. “But why would they want to try their shenanigans on us?”

Thorin stared at him and felt his stomach plummet. Of course Bilbo wouldn’t consider him anything other than a friend at best. And why should he? The Hobbit was a kind and generous being, clearly brave and fearless in standing up for what he believed in. It was clear he was well-off and well-connected with a family that in the main was caring and a few good friends. What could Thorin offer him? He had nothing-not even the name and family he was born into. He was homeless, impoverished and only the love and loyalty of his friends and kin to his name. It was not enough, nowhere near what Bilbo deserved and Thorin couldn’t expose his foolish heart to his friend when he was certain that all he risked was rejection.

“I think my nephews have listened to too much gossip back home,” he admitted as Bilbo poured them both a glass of ale. He looked up and Thorin cursed himself. He hadn’t meant to say anything and just let the question remain rhetorical. 

“What gossip?” he asked, his tone bland. Thorin winced internally.

“I was born into the Line of Durin,” he said with a sigh, accepting a plate laden with slices of pie, cheese, bread, pickles and salad. Aimlessly, he shuffled the leaves to the very edge of the plate, knowing Hobbits were very serious about eating their greens-a view that dwarves most certainly did not share. “My grandfather was very traditional and his decree was that every offspring of the line was expected to produce heirs. My sister married below her station, to a dwarf my grandfather disapproved of but he was her One-the other half of her heart that Mahal had crafted for her. He gave her two sons before he returned to the stone.” 

“I am sorry,” Bilbo said honestly and munched on a radish. 

“My brother is known for flirting and he is certain to marry…though for affection or politics is the question,” Thorin continued and idly folded a lettuce leaf in half. “He will do his duty. And of course, our father has produced three offspring. But I made it clear that to my father and grandfather that I would not marry for politics. They controlled my life, my learning, my activities, my destiny. The only things that are mine and will ever be mine are the thoughts in my head and my heart. My thoughts have to be secreted and subjugated beneath the decrees of my father but my heart…is mine. So I refused the political match my grandfather was plotting and another my father proposed. Both refusals earned me…little consideration and many harsh words. But I made it plain that no matter if I was forced to marry or not, I would never father the child they sought.”

Bilbo stared at him in surprise. This was far more candid and personal than he had ever expected Thorin to be with him. To his shock, the dwarf was smiling very slightly, his eyes unfocussed with memory.

“Even before I was trapped in a situation from which there was no escape and I had no choice in any of my actions, I would never force someone to perform acts mean to be of love and passion with one for whom they feel…nothing. It would be…unthinkable.” Bilbo stared at him and sighed. Hobbits married for love though, of course, you tended to know all your peers and options from your childhood and tween years. 

“That’s honest,” he said as Thorin dipped his head. 

“I have made you uncomfortable, Master Baggins,” he admitted. “I apologise. It is not my wont to spill my thoughts but since I came to the Shire…you have been the truest friend…”

“And was there no dwarrodam who caught your eye, who you held a secret flame for?” Bilbo asked, shocked at his boldness. Thorin was very much a private dwarf rather than a bawdy Hobbit cousin. But Thorin gave a small shake of the head.

“No dwarrowdam nor ever will be,” the dwarf murmured as Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “I have made you uncomfortable, Master…”

“It’s Bilbo,” the Hobbit said in an exasperated tone. “And Thorin-you have nothing to apologise for. I asked a question and you answered with honesty. And I am not uncomfortable. Who your heart chooses is whoever Eru or Yavanna…or Mahal, I suppose…means for you. I am just sad that you never found anyone special.” He gave a small smile. 

“Aye…and my nephews’ shenanigans hardly helps…for all their misguided assumptions…” Thorin muttered. “I apologise again that I was so easily fooled…” 

Bilbo gave a wry smile.

“I would rather you knocked before entering the bathroom,” he commented.

“One or other of the boys suggested you has asked for my presence, called out in anxiety or for help,” the former prince explained. 

“I did think the carving fork was unnecessary in the back pantry,” Bilbo commented. “I wondered if you were trying some form of weapons practice.” Thorin’s face froze for a second and then he sighed.

“I believe that my sister would claim that is the reason why I ended up where I did and you had the initiative and cunning to save me,” he explained. “It never occurred to me to use an excuse.” Covering his mouth, Bilbo began to snigger as Thorin rolled his eyes. “Now that just makes it far worse,” he added.

“Please…forgive me,” Bilbo managed, squashing the giggles with all his might. “I meant no offence. It was just so funny to see you burst into my preserve store like you were breaking a siege!” Thorin’s lips quirked and his eyes twinkled.

“And have you been in many sieges?” he checked as Bilbo blushed.

“A grand total one one…if that one we were in counted…” he managed as Thorin bit into his pie, the last lingering vestiges of dismay facing from his chest. 

“It did,” he acknowledged. “Though I could have done with a carving fork…”

This time both of them burst out laughing and any lingering awkwardness either may have felt melted away as they finished lunch. Bilbo found his mind lingering on the revelation that Thorin had refused a political arranged marriage because he wanted to wed for affection. The few moments when the dwarf had dropped his mask had been the most fascinating and breathtaking of Bilbo’s life and he found his mind lingering on what the dwarf had said. It was the most unlikely confession from the stern and controlled former prince. And he felt a shiver run down his spine as Thorin smiled and helped him pack his basket to return to Bag End. But as Bilbo pushed on the door, nothing happened. He gave an embarrassed smile and tried again, resting the basket on the flor and putting his whole weight into the effort. 

“It’s locked,” he muttered as Thorin walked forward and rattled the door. He nodded.

“Stand back,” he murmured. As Bilbo stood back, Thorin raised his foot and slammed it into the door, crashing it open with a smash of wood. Hoping that Thorin had managed to ignore his unmanly squeak at the sudden action, Bilbo stared at the lock hanging limply. 

“Wow,” he breathed. Thorin shook his head.

“My nephews’ idea of a prank,” he growled. “Again. Now I’m going to have to spend the afternoon in building and fitting a new lock.” Grabbing his basket, the Hobbit looked up. 

“I enjoyed lunch,” he admitted with a smile. “I always enjoy spending time with you. But if you don’t mind, I’ll go and tell Fili and Kili to start hiding.” Thorin cocked an eyebrow. 

“And tell them we will be having words when I catch them,” he promised, his eyes still bright as Bilbo waved and headed off across the market. Leaning back against the wall of the forge, the dwarf closed his eyes. He had almost bared his heart to the Hobbit, almost given it away when he had nothing to offer Bilbo. A rich, personable, kindly and generous Hobbit who was related to the rulers of the Shire…while he was nameless, homeless, penniless and hunted and utterly devoid of honour. He owed Bilbo a huge debt and he would see every penny paid back before he could ever consider exploring his feelings for the smaller being. 

But he wished for once that he could speak his mind and his heart freely. But that had never been his lot or his privilege, for the Valar loved to have their fun at Thorin’s expense. All he could hope for was Bilbo’s friendship and he would do everything in his power to preserve that. No matter what his interfering nephews may want.

Chapter Text

TWENTY SIX

Nori’s eyes snapped open and he was instantly awake and aware. Experience had taught him never to lower his defences and he lay still, mentally cataloguing his weapons and his surroundings. Somehow, he was lying asleep on a narrow cot in a poor stone dwelling that smelled of rather deliciously aromatic and spicy stew. He was alone in the room though he could hear the creak of at least three other people in the room adjacent to his and the crackle of a fire. The roof was clean and in good repair above his head and the blankets were thick and itchy under his rolled up sleeves. And his side hurt.

Sitting up in one smooth movement now that he was sure he was alone, he was pleased to realise he still had at least two daggers in their concealed sheaths though-more disturbingly-the others were resting very openly on a beautifully carved stool by his side with a tin cup of water. Gingerly, he prodded the wound and found expert bandaging, the linen strips clean and smelling of medicinal herbs. Someone was very skilled here-or they had spent money they looked like they couldn’t afford on his account. Only one of those options was acceptable. Swiftly, he rose to his feet, swayed slightly and then set about grabbing his weapons and the tunic that was folded under the blades.

“Ah-you’re up.” He snapped alert and then forced himself to relax. It was the miner in the hat, Bofur, who had found him, saved his life and led him to his home before his recollections stopped. He must have passed out from pain and blood loss, an embarrassing act for one of his profession. Nori son of Miori was a criminal, a thief, a dangerous dwarf known for his lack of morals, scruples and regard for law or authority. Nori would tell it differently, that he was a dwarf with two brothers including one who was naught but a baby when their mother died, no father who had ever stepped forward to claim him and light fingers and a sharper mind. He could have used his skills in embroidery that could have commanded good fees, once an apprenticeship was finished, but that would have taken too long and paid too little to keep little Ori alive so he had used his skills to put food on the table. Dori, of course, disapproved, because Dori rarely approved of anything Nori did. He wasn’t respectable and Dori worried that the regular visits from the guards and the little gifts Nori always brought for bright, innocent Ori would turn their youngest brother’s head and ruin his life as well. So Nori and Dori fought, Nori stayed away as much as he could but he always came home with food or money before vanishing and leaving his brothers in their tiny hovel to their lives. 

“Well spotted,” Nori commented snidely. Bofur’s grin didn’t waver.

“Come on through,” he invited. “Bombur’s got the goulash just about perfect. Very talented, that lad.” Frowning, Nori cautiously shrugged his tunic on, the slice still stiff with blood, then followed him.

Sitting by the fire were three people-a slightly older dwarf with wild black and white hair and an orcish axe buried in his forehead. Nori froze and stared, his amber eyes narrowing as he assessed the injured dwarf.

“How is he alive?” he asked bluntly. Bofur gave an embarrassed look.

“Too stubborn to die and too ornery for Mahal to want him littering his halls at the moment,” he commented as the injured dwarf launched into a stream of Khuzdul that Nori didn’t recognise. Not that he spoke the secret language of the dwarrow for they were too poor to afford a tutor and being raised in Ered Luin, they had never used it as first language. Westron had been spoken widely since…forever. The dwarf make a couple of explicit gestures and Nori gave a grin that was all teeth.

“And that?” he asked pointedly.

“Oh-Bifur says he’ll take an axe to the head over stealing bread from the mouths of starving workers,” the miner said without any embarrassment. Instantly all animation fell from Nori’s face. “He doesn’t like thieves. We’ve been broken into three times. Once they tried to slit our throats. Bifur doesn’t sleep much-not since the battle. After he’d explained that attacking his kin was a bad move, the surviving one got the message.”

Nori stared at  the older dwarf, eyes lingering on the axe and making the connection.

“Azanulbizar,” he said shortly. 

“Aye. Most didn’t come back so having him brought back by the Prince was a gift,” Bofur admitted, leading Nori closer to the fire and the tempting-smelling spicy stew. A very rotund dwarf with a ridiculously braided red moustache forming an entire loop-presumably ‘Bombur’-dished up the stew that was very thick and meaty despite the poor surroundings. Willingly, he perched on the table against the wall and tucked in, using the black rye bread he’d been handed as both spoon and to mop up the gravy.

“The Prince?” Nori murmured and spat on the floor. Bifur growled and offered a mouthful of curses.

“His guards carried him back from Azanulbizar and his physician treated Bifur. We still have my cousin because of his generosity,” he said, his tone close to an admonition.

“But he’s an arse,” Nori spat, chewing through the excellent stew. “Only cares for himself, courts at least three dams at once, sits back on his overfed arse and says nothing while taxes flay us alive.” Bifur growled one word.

“Thorin.”

All eyes fell on him and Bofur looked up. He shrugged.

“Prince Thorin not Prince Frerin,” he confirmed. “Frerin didn’t fight-he was spared the horrors because the Line of Durin had to survive and he was chosen as the lucky one. But my cousin fought. He saw Prince Thorin slay the Pale Orc before he took an axe to the head in the final charge. He followed his Prince into battle. He would follow him again now if he called.”

“Unlikely since he’s been exiled,” the fat dwarf by the fire said in a low voice. His three chins wobbled but his tone spoke of his desire that none of them went fighting anywhere again.

“In absentia after he gave himself up to save the young Princes and the Princess,” Bofur added as Bifur grumbled in his odd version of Khuzdul. “He was the only decent one among them. They even demoted the Captain of the Guard…”

“That wasn’t the worst thing that happened,” Nori commented, grinning to himself. The removal of Captain Dwalin had made his life a whole lot easier, since his successor had been half as smart and a quarter as determined. 

“Strange no one went to rescue him,” Bombur commented, taking his own portion to the one remaining chair, a stone seat that was clearly designed for his bulk and weight.

“Shame no one went to rescue him,” Bofur added. “He used to challenge the Lords on the Council. He argued against the taxes.”

Bifur growled a diatribe in his strange language that Nori was pretty certain wasn’t normal Khuzdul.

“He was brave and relentless,” Bofur translated. “He was never a coward. He did not lose his honour.” 

“He was still cosseted and never knew hunger or cold while we struggle to put food on the table,” Nori spat, chewing furiously.

“Or you steal it off someone else’s table,” Bombur commented.

“You don’t exactly look like you’re starving,” Nori shot back.

“I work the kitchens,” Bombur retorted. “I take scraps and leftovers.” 

“So the Royal family eat like Kings,” Nori sneered. “No surprise there.”

“Lords eat better,” Bombur cut in. “You should see their orders from the kitchens and the stores.”

Nori snorted and mopped up the last of the rich brown gravy. 

“The better question is why you were being hunted by Lord Brago’s men?” Bofur asked and the thief stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And why they stabbed you.”

“I never said they stabbed me,” he said quietly.

“You were stabbed. They were chasing you. Seems a coincidence,” Bofur commented.

“Yes. A coincidence,” Nori commented. Bifur leaned forward and spoke.

“He asks what the story is,” Bombur translated. “Brago wouldn’t waste his resources just chasing a purse-snatcher.”

“Maybe I’m not such a nice person,” Nori offered with a feral grin.

“Or maybe like the rest of us, you’re trying to get by,” Bofur offered, his tone still cheerful. “Who are you trying to feed at your table?” Nori stared at him and a dozen options ran through his brain.

“My baby brother,” he said easily, oping for the truth. These people wouldn’t know any different and would assume he was lying anyway. “Older brother too though he treats me like an embarrassment.”

“No other family?”

“Nope.” Nonchalantly, he pulled out a throwing knife and began to clean under his nails. “That was good stew, by the way.”

“Adad?” A little voice said and a young dwarfling, just a pebble, toddled out of the other room, her red hair disarrayed and cheeks bright with fever. “Can’t sleep…” Bombur immediately turned and scooted forward, crouching down surprisingly easily to look into the little dwarf’s face.

“Milia, my little jewel,” he said softly. “Is Amad not awake?” The child yawned.

“She’s ‘sleep with Timmel,” she murmured as the dwarf swept her into his arms.

“Shall we see if we can get you to sleep, my little diamond?” he asked her softly. She nodded, sucking on her thumb.

“Who’s he?” she asked drowsily.

“This is our friend…” Bombur began.

“Krakur,” Nori interrupted. “I work with Uncle Bofur sometimes.” The little dwarfling nodded, her eyes drooping. Bombur cuddled her to his chest, her head resting instinctively against his shoulder and her eyes closing. Without a backwards glance and still murmuring reassuringly to his daughter, he headed into the room where soft snores were emanating and softly pulled the door to. Bofur frowned and looked piercingly at the thief.

“Why did you lie?” he asked. 

“Dwarflings talk,” Nori said and there was a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “They don’t care where they are or who may overhear. My name is sought by some people who would prefer that its owner vanished from Arda. My baby brother babbled like a drunken miner.” Bofur gave him a flat look and then he burst out laughing.

“We sing more than babble,” he said with a grin. “You must be thinking about jewellers…” Then he looked at the thief. “Are you bringing trouble on us?” Nori gave his humourless grin.

“I was poking my nose into something…dangerous,” he said. “Does anyone else know I’m here?” Bofur sat back in his chair and pulled out his pipe, packing in the smallest pinch of weed.

“Just the healer,” he admitted as he lit up. Nori started and rose, his hand pressing against his bandaged side as he moved too swiftly. 

“Did he…?” he spat but Bofur raised an eyebrow.

“Oin son of Groin was Prince Thorin’s healer,” he said easily. “He saved Bifur’s life. He patched us up after the South Shaft Number Four collapsed. Prince Thorin made sure he would always treat us-and he never charges us the full fee. He’s loyal to the Prince. He wouldn’t betray you. When Prince Thorin was disowned and exiled, Oin was removed as Royal Healer. But he still comes to help us down here. He saw nothing.” He grinned. “Doesn’t hear much either. Deaf as a post.” Nori shook his head.

“I should move on,” he said. “They’re looking for me.”

“And I guess you don’t want your family involved?” Bofur’s dark gaze was surprisingly knowing and Nori shook his head.

“The dwarf who hired me made sure they got out of Ered Luin,” he said quietly. “Only reason I agreed.” Bofur stared into his face for a long moment and then gave a broad grin.

“I wish you all the luck in the world,” he said. “And you know, our door is always open for a fellow miner-Krakur.” He winked. Nori cast around as Bifur handed him a fresh cloak. Nori nodded and then slid out the door in the dank gloom of the quarter at night, the hood shadowing his features. Behind him, the injured dwarf closed and bolted the door then muttered a comment. Bofur nodded as his cousin headed back to his seat and the toy he was carving. “I agree,” he said. “Only a couple of people would have the means to get a dwarf’s family to safety in payment for work done. And only one of them I-or he-would trust.” He stared into the fire. “He’s working for Lord Balin.” 

Bifur looked up and murmured a word. Adjusting his hat, Bofur sat back.

“Yes, I think so too. For the Prince.”

-o0o-

Though he wouldn’t want to admit it to anyone-let alone his older brother-Ori could barely recall when he had been happier. Bilbo was a perfect host and seemed to have taken a real interest in Ori. He kept giving him books to read-histories in Westron including Elvish and Man versions of the histories which was fascinating for Ori to read. Dwarvish historical tomes were very stilted and dull, told like sagas and lacking the flowing prose of translated Elvish works or the thrilling narratives of the works of Men. Bilbo, it seemed, was rather a scholar and had spent the last few years gathering works from the Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor and histories of Numenor. And Ori was entranced.

His Sindarin lessons were coming along in leaps and bounds, for Bilbo was a patient and empathic teacher. His choice of texts to learn from was thoughtful as well-somehow, he actually had Elvish children’s books which he explained his mother had obtained from Rivendell when she visited to ensure her son was given the chance to learn the beautiful flowing language. And of course, Ori was also working hard in his apprenticeship with Lord Balin, who was a stern and thorough taskmaster but a great mentor.

Dori kept explaining to him that it really wasn’t seemly to become so friendly with a non-dwarf but honestly, Bilbo was so friendly and kind and welcoming, somehow managing to learn what was everyone’s favourite and baking them on a regular basis. There were always baked treats-cakes, pies, puddings, biscuits, breads-fresh every day and Bilbo made sure everyone was welcomed. Even Dori accepted that the Hobbit was a generous host and a civilised being with an acute appreciation of good tea but he was concerned that Ori’s reputation as being a fine upstanding dwarf could be sullied by associating with non-dwarrow.

Though he was tempted to ask what reputation? They were in exile in the Shire, away from any other dwarrow who would care. And they were three fatherless brothers, carrying only the name of their mother, not their three different sires, none of who claimed any kinship to their children. Ori knew the identity of his own was lost with his mother’s life when she died after his birth. Dori may have known for he was significantly older but if he did, he would never say. Ori knew he was a little shy, definitely sheltered and rather bookish but not lacking in courage. His older brother, Dori, was incredibly over-protective but also strong, though most would not credit the fussy and fastidious dwarf with such. His middle brother, Nori, was a peacock, his hair elaborately styled and even his eyebrows braided but it was a cover for his light fingers and shadowy lifestyle. He had no illusions about Nori’s occupation but his affection for his brother was undimmed, for he had seen Nori come sneaking home late, battered and beaten but still clutching the food or coins that would keep the family going another few days. Dori could cling to his protectiveness, like the mother Ori had never known, but Nori was the provider who did what was necessary to put food on the table.

He looked up as Bilbo placed a cup of tea down in front of him, a small plate of lemon biscuits thoughtfully placed by his elbow. He was doing part of his work, copying by rote a rather foxed copy of the story of Durin III. It was one of Balin’s favourites apparently, so his mentor would expect an absolutely pristine copy. He sighed, laid his quill down and rubbed his temples.

“You’ve been here for hours,” Bilbo noted. He had loaned Ori his study while he was working on his apprenticeship work, a gesture that Dori, Ori and Balin had all noted with gratitude. 

“And several more to go,” the young dwarf explained. “Especially when Fili and Kili stole my pens. I am so grateful for your loan of a quill.”

“You are welcome to use whatever you need to further your education,” Bilbo said immediately, a smile lifting his lips. Ori started and stared at him. “I was lucky that my parents supported me in my less Hobbitish pursuits. Learning other languages? Reading about ancient lost Kingdoms and battles? My relatives were muttering that I must have been dropped on my head as a faunt to be so abnormal but my parents-my Mother in particular-always stood up for me and supported my interests. So why should I not do all I can to support the education of another young person who is eager to learn? Knowledge should be universally available.” He smiled at Ori’s shocked expression. “Well-except secret dwarvish knowledge, of course…”

Ori relaxed. Bilbo had learned from Balin that certain features about dwarrow life were secret and not to be shared with outsiders and while he was discreet, the young dwarf guessed that he had been told some things by Prince Thorin that Balin would disapprove of. The Prince’s words when they had arrived-and the calm manner the Prince had defied Balin-had made a great impression on Ori. He would never dare disobey Balin yet Prince Thorin had stood his ground on behalf of the Hobbit against the Chief Royal Adviser and had not backed down.

That had been a revelation as well. In the poorer quarters of the city, people didn’t care much for the intricate politics of the Royal Family, merely using them as an epithet accompanied by spitting on the floor to show what the speaker thought of the pampered self-centred nobles (an action which Dori strongly disapproved of, Ori knew) but even they had heard the decree-which had been announced in every quarter. And then everyone had carried on with their lives, not bothering with the why’s and wherefores of the banishment of the dwarf who had been born to be the Crown Prince.  Life was hard and there was work to be done, taxes to be found and food to be put on the table. Who was bothered if a pampered Prince had done something to earn being banished? His friends and relatives would look after him if he went elsewhere…

Except, Ori realised, they hadn’t. Prince Thorin hadn’t been banished for a crime but for rescuing his relations from a fate that Ori couldn’t contemplate. The Prince, the Hero of Azanulbizar, had been called a coward and a disgrace and had been erased from public life, replaced by his glittering and personable brother who said nothing except platitudes and never left the Palace except for a few very stage-managed walkabouts. Despite his sheltered upbringing, Ori had heard people talking about how ‘the other’ Prince had interceded when there were unfair taxes, had helped dig out miners when there were accidents and who had visited the poor and the sick. There were even rumours that he had left the city to work in the towns of Men when things were especially hard, bringing in food and coin for his own family. There had been a story there that Ori had itched to learn and now, it seemed, he was in the middle of it. There was a definite split in the Royal Family and to Ori, it seemed that the decent and best part of the family was here in the Shire.

“Anything you need?” Bilbo checked before he turned for the door and the young dwarf offered nothing but a weak smile. He needed to know what was going on but no one was willing to tell him and Balin and his brother were notably close-lipped around Ori. Not that he was unused to being seen as an outsider but it did irk him since he was living here with them!

“You’ve been more than kind,” Ori said, determined to finish his work and do a little eavesdropping of his own. He could understand Westron and more Khuzdul than Balin knew-though he was now having lessons as part of his apprenticeship-for he had been teaching himself from a couple of old ratty tomes Nori had found ‘somewhere’ and had slipped to his young brother without Dori knowing. They never left his side and he practiced and learned in every spare moment. Nori had also located an old veteran from Erebor-where Khuzdul had been widely spoken-to teach his young brother some spoken Khuzdul and he had attended the handful of visits eagerly until Dori had found out and put a stop to him associating with such an unsavoury character. So he had taken to listening to the guards and the richer dwarves in Ered Luin and his understanding had come on well, bolstered by the lessons he had enjoyed earlier. And he was absolutely determined the find out what the real situation was so he could help. Despite what Dori thought, Ori realised that his middle brother was doing something very secret and also very dangerous for Balin…and it had to be related the the reason they were all here. 

“Dinner will be in an hour or so,” Bilbo told him as Ori nodded and dipped the quill into the inkwell once more.

Yes, whatever happened and whatever the real story was, Ori son of Miori of the family Ri would not be found wanting.

-o0o-

Dori couldn’t sleep. He had managed on the road, exhausted by the travel and stress of keeping a watchful eye on young Ori and of course, back home in Ered Luin, there had been no issue at all with resting in their little home after a hard day working but here, in this land devoid of stone and filled with fussy little creatures… He shook his head and glanced over at Ori, who was sleeping peacefully. Dori would do anything to ensure his brother was safe and at the moment, they couldn’t return home. Somehow, Nori had ensured that they had to be smuggled out of the city for their own protection-and still Ori looked up to his brother!

He couldn’t fault their host, whose home was spotless and whose beds were soft, comfortable and beautifully appointed. The Hobbit Bilbo was always polite and had a good selection of teas as well as a deep appreciation of meals and manners. And somehow, Dori found himself slipping seamlessly into his job at the haberdashers and relating beautifully to the Hobbitwives. Yet it wasn’t a dwarf settlement and there were those who looked at him like an orc, as if he would jump them and try to eat their babies and it was that reaction that had him still wary despite the welcome.

But it had been like that back in Ered Luin as well, for three orphaned brothers with no fathers names and scarcely a couple of coppers to rub together. Nori hadn’t helped and though Dori knew why he had turned to crime, he couldn’t drop his opposition. Every dream Dori had harboured died when their mother had closed her eyes for the final time and he had accepted the charge to watch his brothers with a resolute heart. He would protect them-in name as well as body-to his last breath. After all, they had so little that what reputation he had was even more precious to him and Dori would not sacrifice that for anyone. Young Ori was the shining star among them, so intelligent and absolutely deserving of the chance he had been unexpectedly given. Lord Balin offering him an apprenticeship on the road had been beyond Dori’s wildest dreams and he could not thank the older dwarf enough for his kindness. Moreso as he trusted the Royal Adviser as he didn’t many, for the Ris were considered attractive and more than one dwarf had tried befriending both his brothers with less than honourable intentions. But no one here meant them any harm-Dori had assured himself of that.

He wouldn’t sleep, though everyone else was snoring, so Dori rose silently and let himself out of the bedroom into the dark smial. Maybe a nice cup of camomile tea sitting by the embers of the fire would calm his rattled mind and allow his concerns to ease enough for him to get a few hours rest. After all, they had that shipment of cotton twill and linen coming in in the morning and Mistress Monbretia would want him at his best…

And then he turned the corner into the parlour and came face to face with a strange dwarf in full armour, holding an axe…

Chapter Text

TWENTY SEVEN

Three years of slavery taught a dwarf to sleep very lightly-not that Thorin had ever been a deep sleeper. Year of military service, of battles and patrols, of living on the road and watching over his itinerant people while his insane grandfather prevaricated over what way he could try to get them killed next had robbed Thorin of the ability to surrender completely to sleep. Often he would find his eyes snapped open and lying staring at the whitewashed ceiling of his room in Bilbo’s smial, his ears straining for whatever tiny sound had alerted him. Sometimes it was one of the others, making their way to the bathroom or even Bilbo padding almost silently in search of a midnight snack but sometimes, it was nothing. He lay awake, hearing the snores of the other dwarrow who had joined him in the Shire and realised that some sound he heard in a dream-or more likely, a nightmare-had jerked him from slumber and set his heart pounding in an anxiety of alertness that would prevent sleep for some time.

The crash that snatched him from slumber this night was definitely not a dream. Nor was the cry of pain in a strange but definitely dwarvish voice that sounded in time with a second smashing sound.

Instantly, he was up, covers flung aside and hand slapping onto the hilt of the sword he had forged himself and kept by the bed. He guessed that Bilbo would raise an eyebrow had he known of the fact but wouldn’t protest because he alone had an inkling of what Thorin had suffered during his slavery and how vulnerable he had felt. Not that he would ever own exactly what he had endured but the Hobbit’s silent support had soothed his acute embarrassment and shame at the situation. And then he was up, bare feet slapping on the rug then onto the tiles as he flung the door open, sword raised as he faced chaos.

One dwarf in armour seemed to have been smashed head-first into the wall of the smial, crashing a huge dent into the plaster and leaving the owner of the head that had made the dent in a crumpled heap against the wall. Dori was facing eight other armoured dwarves with what looked like half of Bilbo’s coffee table, waving it like a stick. 

Just how strong was Dori anyway? 

The dwarves saw the newcomer and charged him as Thorin surged forward, every instinct as a warrior roused. He was in the Shire and he was meant to be safe. Bilbo was meant to be safe and by Mahal, he would not have some assassins threaten his Hobbit. Of course, he would have preferred to be wearing chainmail and his boots rather than light sleeping breeches and tunic but assassins never tended to chose a convenient moment. Slashing with his sword, he parried the axe lunging at his under protected body and spun, the next blow slicing deep into the enemy’s neck and half-separating his head from his treacherous body. He dinked, avoiding a second coward who sliced at him from the side, the breeze of the blow that narrowly missed his flank ruffling his tunic.

With a roar, the door to Dwalin’s room exploded open and the tattooed warrior erupted into the parlour, his axes swinging lethally. Naked as the day he was born, the warrior plunged into the battle with a roar, batting a mace aside and slamming his axe into the enemy dwarf. Behind him Balin-dressed like Thorin in a sleep tunic and pants-emerged with an elegant sword clasped expertly in his hand. He was far less vigorous that Thorin, who put his whole body into the attack, but still very skilled as he parried and sliced, driving the enemy back. Dori was fending the attackers off as Dis exploded out, her sword impaling a dwarf who was trying to blindside Dwalin while the boys threw themselves on the nearest attacker. The dwarf went down with a curse, wresting with Fili while Kili bashed him over the head with a rather ugly vase. 

Thorin ducked under another blow, seeing the shapes fighting in the dim orange glow of the embers and the cold blue light from the moonlit garden, coming in through the hole in the wall where the attackers seemed to have removed the entire window, frame and all. The others were fighting well and he flicked a glance at his nephews, checking they were safe before turning back to his own enemy. A mace swung at him and glanced across his shoulder, throwing him back against the curved wall of the smial. He ducked, the weapon crunching into the plaster inches above his head and launched himself forward, taking the dwarf down and rearing up to purge the sword through the armour into the dwarf’s chest. Then he heard a sound behind him and he flinched, turning to raise his sword-and found himself looking at Bilbo, who had thrown himself on the dwarf inches behind Thorin, ready to crash his axe into his neck. The Hobbit was straddling the strange dwarf, stabbing the carving knife Thorin had made him into his exposed throat. Bilbo was breathing heavily, his eyes wild and shocked. Staggering up, Thorin glanced over to see Dwalin clout the last dwarf over the head with his axe, leaving a deep dent in his helmet and then looked around. Everyone seemed safe while the attackers didn’t seem to be moving. 

“Check them,” he commanded as he lowered his sword and crawled over to kneel by Bilbo. He frowned. “Bilbo? It’s over now.”

Breathing hard, the Hobbit looked up, the bloody knife still in one hand-though he was trying to staunch the sluggish ooze of blood from the wound he had inflicted. The dwarf’s staring eyes and stillness told the former Prince that it was a wasted effort…so he quietly took the bloody knife from the Hobbit and rested it on the floor by his sword. 

“Oh dear me,” Bilbo said, staring at the dwarf. “I can’t believe what came over me. I seem to have turned into a Sackville-Baggins…” Quietly, Thorin grasped his shoulders and forced him to turn and face him.

“Bilbo, you are a Baggins through and through,” he said honestly. “You just saved my life…again.”

“I saw him sneaking up on you and grabbed the knife from the counter and then…” Bilbo said and then pressed a hand over his mouth. “Oh dear.” Seeing the horror and shock in the Hobbit’s eyes, Thorin wrapped his arms around the smaller being and hugged him, feeling the Hobbit’s head rest on his shoulder. 

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” he murmured. “Are you unhurt?”

Slowly, he felt Bilbo untense and nod against him. The Hobbit sighed.

“Just shaken,” he admitted.

“Two alive-one ain’t gonna make it,” Dwalin reported, looming over them. Bilbo glanced up and then squeaked, faced with an eyeful of tattooed, hairy and very naked dwarf. “This one here had his wits addled by your nephews but that ain’t unrecoverable. We can have a word about who sent him…” The sagging dwarf who was groaning but not trying to pull away from Dwalin’s grip gave a sudden groan and collapsed, a knife protruding from the back of his neck. 

“DUCK!” Balin commanded as Thorin threw himself over Bilbo. But Fili was out of the window after a shadowy shape with Kili a bound behind. speeding down the hill in pursuit of whoever had deemed the dwarf was worth silencing. Dwalin lowered the body to the floor.

“Make that one alive-and he ain’t gonna see the dawn,” the warrior amended. “I hit him too hard.”

“They-they were all going to murder us in our beds, weren’t they?” Bilbo asked as Thorin helped him up. Snatching a helpless glance at Balin, Thorin slowly nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Whoever paid them wanted no one to return to Ered Luin.”

“I think I can look over the bodies with my brother…who will go and put some clothes on before Master Baggins has some sort of apoplexy,” Balin said sternly, seeing Bilbo’s eyes fixed firmly anywhere but the large axe-wielding warrior. “Public nudity seems to be a little less tolerated here than at home. And we are in his home, Dwalin.” Growling something which sounded very much like ‘prissy bloody Hobbits’, Dwalin turned and stomped away to his room while Bilbo visibly relaxed. Dori gave a yelp and ran back along the corridor towards the room he shared with his brother, only to reach there and visibly relax. He raised a finger to his lips.

“Thank Mahal-he’s still asleep,” he said, seeing the young dwarf still curled on his side, hugging a very foxed old book. He shook his head. He was relieved that Ori hadn’t seen the fight.

“I need a cup of tea,” Bilbo announced and headed to the kitchen as Thorin glanced after him in shock. Dis came and crouched down by him.

“Are you alright? I saw that mace,” she murmured.

“Bruising-the arm still moves,” Thorin told her absently. “He’s still in shock.”

“You were the target,” Dis told him. “There were always two on you, no matter what we did to thin their numbers.”

“I know,” he sighed. “We’ve been found. There will be no peace here now. The question is-how long before we have to leave.”

“Ideally, tonight-but you won’t leave your halfling,” she told him bluntly.

“And go where, Dis?” he asked her, suddenly sharp. “We have nowhere to go and few resources. The Shire is the only place that would offer is any sanctuary-or have you forgotten all those years we wandered? All those times even our women and children were turned away from the towns of Men? There is nowhere to go that they won’t find us. At least we need to find out what is going on and who is after me.”

“I can give you five names without taking a breath-and maybe adding two more who we share blood with,” the Princess told him bitterly. “You’re right and you know I hate you for it.”

“Only a fraction of how much I hate myself for it,” he said quietly. “I had prayed for peace, for somewhere I could be…but that was never my lot. If you went, I am sure they would concentrate on me. You could slip away.”

“And leave you to face this alone? What kind of sister do you take me for?”

“One who has two idiot boys who have run off into the dark after a dangerous assassin who has already killed one of his own men rather than risk him talking,” Thorin pointed out. She sighed.

“So I guess that is the polite way of telling me to go away and find my sons?” she guessed.

“No need,” Fili announced, clambering through the hole where the window had been. “He got away. He knew exactly where the shadows were and how to vanish into the night.”

“He lobbed this at Fee…but of course, his quicker younger brother caught it,” Kili added, climbing through after him. He handed over a slim throwing knife, the twin of the one that had killed the prisoner. Dwalin, who had emerged in full armour, took it and scowled. 

“Get a candle, lad,,” Balin suggested, causing the boys to scramble for the cupboard where they knew the candles were stored. “I recognise the symbol.”

“So do I,” Dwalin muttered under his breath, turning the blade over. “This was planned and scouted out. They have had help.”

“Anyone you can think would have betrayed us?” Balin murmured. “You are the only one I told.”

“You are the only one I have to tell,” Dwalin replied. “The Ris didn’t know and the boys haven’t written to anyone. I know Dis didn’t tell them when she took them from their rooms, just advised them to grab their dearest possessions and dress for travel.”

“So it is someone here,” the older brother sighed, his shoulders sagging. 

“It’s possible they have spies,” Dwalin suggested, leaning close and sweeping his eyes over the others. Kili and Fili were rehearsing their battle with their mother while Dori had vanished into the kitchen to help Bilbo and Thorin remained on his knees by the wreckage of the coffee table and an armchair, sword by his side and a pensive look on his face. “Just because they’re isolationists doesn’t mean they don’t want to know what the neighbours are saying about them.” The Adviser gave a small smile, his eyes thoughtful.

“I’m glad you do occasionally pay attention to what I say,’ he commented mildly.

“Had plenty of time to think it over, watching the Lords and their men ponce around like they were proper guards,”  Dwalin grumbled. “You get to recognise who comes and goes.” He straightened up and walked to the doorway of Thorin’s room, gesturing to the dead dwarf lying there in a huge pool of his blood. “That one used to come and go all the time, always in fancy armour and a very nice grey pony. Always bearing a sealed exemption from any tariffs or searches signed by Lord Farag.”

“And yet the stilettos were marked with Vurth’s crest,” Balin murmured. 

“Joint operation?” Dwalin asked and then he caught Balin’s expression, the wry smile and raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like I’ve put my boots on the wrong foot again!”

“You were doing quite well…until that comment,” Balin sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Farag and Vurth hate one another with a passion and would gladly frame each other for high crimes and misdemeanours. Murdering Thorin to remove him from potentially ever returning and framing a rival for such a heinous crime has all the hallmarks of Lord Farag on it.” Dwalin winced.

“I’d hate to live in your mind, brother,” he admitted. “Mine’s messy but yours must be like an ice cavern. All shining edges and confusing mirrored surfaces and no obvious way in or out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “We were all meant to die-including Dis and the boys.”

“Frerin is young enough to sire his own heirs and Dain is alive to keep Durin’s Line going if he doesn’t,” Balin said, walking slowly forward. He glanced at Thorin who nodded and rose to his feet. The Prince had been listening and concurred.

“We need to move these corpses because I am sure Bilbo will be very upset at the mess in his home,” he said to the brothers. “And then, in the morning, we will need to see the Thain. I honestly don’t know what he will say because, despite our best efforts, we have brought our trouble to the Shire.” 

-o0o-

“A meeting before First Breakfast,” Isemgrim joked, munching a slice of toast and jam as the visitors filed in. “Is it an invasion or a dragon attack or…?” He caught the looks on their faces and grimaced. He had heard the tales of Erebor, after all. “Sorry. Poor taste. And is it that serious?” Bilbo nodded, also pale. He hadn’t slept again and had spent hours scrubbing the rug to try to get the blood out.

“The Shirriffs will be having words with you as soon as they get over the shock,” he reported. “I think you need to sit down and get some tea.”

“Now you’re worrying me, Bilbo. What has happened?”

“Take a seat, Isengrim,” the Hobbit advised.

After a detailed description of what had happened, Isengrim was pale and his expression was severe.

“Nine bodies?” he echoed.

“We laid them out in the long corridor,” Bilbo explained. “They removed the whole window from the parlour. And they were planning to murder us in our beds.”

Isengrim poured himself another cup of tea, added a spot of milk and sat back. 

“So these would-be murderers came from Ered Luin?” he checked.

“They knew where we were and had scouted the area-the one who escaped had a well-planned route than enabled him to evade my nephews,” Thorin explained, his mask back in place. Bilbo glanced at him, hearing the defensiveness in his voice. He was expecting his sanctuary to be revoked and seeing Isengrim’s face, even Bilbo wasn’t completely sure his cousin would stand firm. 

“And they broke into your home to kill you all,” the Thain checked.

“I believe they wanted to kill Thorin and everyone else who had seen him had to die-including Bilbo,” Balin offered. 

“And someone in the Shire assisted them since it’s unlikely they stumbled upon your location by chance,” Isengrim guessed. “Spies or just some mean-spirited Hobbit who dislikes strangers.”

“I’d guess Lobelia but she is my cousin and she loathes dwarves,” Bilbo offered. “She wouldn’t have anything to do with them even if it spited me. At least she’s consistent.” 

“Consistent enough to send the Mayor of Michel Delving to complain about them on her behalf,” Isengrim revealed, taking a fruit biscuit. 

“What?”

“Yes, it’s true…”

It had been a surprise, for Pongo Greenfield was a consummate politician-as much as any Hobbit could be-and he was usually very wary of favouring or offending anyone in one of the larger families. But there he was, just at teatime (of course) in all his rotund and pompous glory, demanding that the Thain remove the aliens from the Shire.

Of course, such demands were beyond the purview of the Mayor of Michel Delving, since his job was political-taxes, public services, maintaining the roads and the post offices, the town and parish council sort of things-while the Thain was the appointed representative of the King of Arnor and had responsibility for security. And Thorin’s presence in the Shire definitely fell under his jurisdiction. So Isengrim had been more than a little irked that Pongo was demanding that the dwarf was driven out-along with his kin.

“Why?” was the obvious question. At that, Pongo had looked remarkably shifty for such a fat and well-dressed Hobbit.

“I have had a number of representations from members of a prominent family that have expressed their complete abhorrence at having dangerous aliens within the Shire,” he had blustered. 

“I presume that family is named Bracegirdle,” Isengrim had said dryly. Pongo gaped and almost dropped his cherry scone.

“How…?” 

“I am afraid you have been fed half a story, my dear Pongo,” Isengrim said evenly. “My nephew Bilbo Baggins met the dwarf in dire straits in Bree. He rescued him from his misery and invited him to recuperate here. The dwarf met me on arrival and asked permission to stay, fully expecting to be refused and turned out into the wilds, alone.” The other Hobbit froze and looked ashamed. “The dwarf wanted to repay the money Bilbo had spent to free him from his illegal contract with the Man in Bree. So he works the forge and helps in Hobbiton. Some of his long-separated family came searching for him as he had been taken from them for so long. My nephew willingly gave them lodgings for he has plenty of room-but his cousin’s wife, who has coveted his home and tried three times to have him evicted from his own home simply because she wants it-has been stirring trouble. Her latest was to barge into his home uninvited and threaten Bilbo. She was removed by the dwarf. So now she gets her relatives to fool you into trying to achieve what she could not.”

“The Bracegirdles have votes and the next election is next year,” Pongo reminded him.

“So do the Tooks and Bagginses…and Bilbo’s tenants. You do remember he is one of the largest landowners in the Westfarthing? Bilbo’s new friends have promised to help train the Bounders and protect the Shire in case of trouble. And I believe them.”

There had been an awkward silence then, for the Mayor was a colleague of the Thain and the Master of Buckland-the three joint leaders of the Shire-and no Mayor wanted to alienate the powerful hereditary leaders. Especially for what seemed to be an internal family feud. In fact, Isengrim had never seen Pongo scoff his cake so fast, not ask for thirds and leave as if his pants were on fire. Needless to say, the Mayor had explained to his constituents that there was nothing he could do and could he still count upon their vote?

“…though, of course, he left with flea in his ear.” Isengrim looked up, a small smile on his lips. 

“Lobelia will never give up until she has driven me insane,” Bilbo sighed. 

“And one escaped,” Thorin reminded the Thain. “To carry word fo the failure of the mission and lead the next attempt here. We may put you in danger.”

“Danger will come,” Isengrim said quietly. “Winters may be cold enough to freeze the Brandywine. Wolves and orcs may attack. The great powers may finally notice our insignificant and peaceable land. But I will not turn away those who have offered naught but good will and hard work. Evil will come and I trust you will help our people to resist.”

Thorin’s eyes flashed with pain.

“I would not ruin this peaceful place,” he said evenly. “They will bring death.”

“Stay, Master Oakenshield,” Isengrim invited him. “I should apologise that one of ours betrayed you to these villains.”

“And if they do come?” Balin asked. The Thain sipped his tea.

“I trust that the Thorin Oakenshield who was the hero of Azanulbizar and Dwalin Son of Fundin, who was a Guard Captain and who has been training our Bounders, will lead the defences,” he said. “I have faith in your word, Master Oakenshield. I do not expect to be disappointed because my nephew believes in you as well. And Bilbo is seldom wrong. And not in this, I feel.”

“They will come again,” Thorin said in defeated tone. “Those who gained from my banishment will kill to protect what they have gained. And they will never give up. Dwarrow are as stubborn as the mountains themselves. And in some, their greed knows no bounds. Not just for gold and silver but for power and influence. And for that, they will kill me. And all who would give me shelter and friendship.”

“You are no prisoner, Master Thorin-but where else would you go?” the Thain asked. “Any of your own settlements would cast you out, I understand. Men have no love for your people. We are willing to shelter you here and I will not withdraw that protection.”

“If the worst comes to the worst, we could always set Lobelia on them,” Bilbo commented. Dwalin made a noise that seemed a cross between a growl and a snort. “Look, I’m going to have to get new rugs because I doubt that blood will ever come out. My guests are replacing my window and my coffee table and armchair. Sadly, that hideous vase Aunt Peony gave me met its end on the head of an intruder. But these dwarves are my friends and I will not see them homeless and driven out because some evil people are plotting. If there is a plot, there is always a counter-move that can be made.” He looked over at Balin who stared forward with an amiable and unreadable expression on his face. 

“I will contact the Rangers and ask them to increase patrols for the moment,” Isengrim decided. “I’ll also put the Bounders and reserves on standby. I won’t have a bunch of cowards dictating who I can welcome into the Shire.” He rose and grasped his nephew’s shoulder. “Now scoot along-unless you want breakfast here and have to explain this mess to your grandmother, nine cousins, several aunts, two uncles and assorted fauntlings who will want to know what Master Dwalin’s tattoos mean.” Bilbo glanced over at his guests. “And I’ll talk to the Shirriffs. They will find this most irregular since multiple dead bodies are not a thing they ever have to deal with here. Master Balin-I may need some brief details on dwarvish burials…” Balin shook his head.

“They were assassins,” he said. “They do not deserve the stone. Bury them according to your custom, Thain Isengrim. I will pray to Mahal that their families eventually come to terms with their loss. Because we cannot inform anyone of their deaths without bringing them down on us all the sooner. They are dishonoured.” They rose and Thorin bowed but Isengrim grasped his shoulder as well.

“Stay safe, son,” he said kindly and then leaned close, lowering his voice to speak to the dwarf. “And look after my nephew. That is the only price I ask for your residence: keep Bilbo safe.”

Thorin looked into his face and nodded.

“On my life,” he said.

Chapter Text

TWENTY EIGHT.

The small sounds alerted Thorin and he lay for a moment, his eyes searching the plastered ceiling of his room before he sat up. He had been half-expecting this and the guilt stabbed at him even as he clambered wearily out of bed, the bruising in his shoulder jabbing hot spikes of pain as he moved.

As he expected, Bilbo was thrashing in his bed and Thorin paused at the door, peering through the crack he had opened while wondering what to do. The obvious would be to intrude and help…but did he have the right to enter Bilbo’s private space and try to rouse the suffering Hobbit? Or would Bilbo be angry and horrified at such a shameful betrayal of trust, at the dwarf he had trusted and had taken into his home who had invaded his bedroom and taken liberties he was not entitled to?

“Thorin!”

The pain in Bilbo’s voice made his mind up for him and he entered, walking to the side of the bed and the thrashing Hobbit. Bilbo was struggling, horror and distress in his face tearing at Thorin’s heart. So he kneeled down and leaned forward, a hand hovering gently over the restless sleeper. Then he gently grasped Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Thorin! I’m so sorry. I promised…”

“It’s alright, Bilbo. I am safe. We’re all safe.” Thorin’s voice was low but warm yet the Hobbit writhed with distress. 

“I promised you would be safe…” Bilbo gasped, his eyes snapping open. 

“I am safe,” Thorin assured him as Bilbo gave a shuddering breath. 

“Sorry…” he said softly. “I woke you…” Thorin leaned forward and offered a gentle smile.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said as the Hobbit gave a shuddering sigh.

“I saw that dwarf come up behind you again,” he said in an ashamed voice. “But I wasn’t quick enough…” He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. “There was so much blood and I saw you and knew I had let you down. I promised you would be safe…”

“I am safe, Bilbo,” Thorin told him. “You cannot control the actions of other. You cannot stop evil dwarves from doing evil. Or Hobbits. We know someone in the Shire betrayed us. And whether for money or vengeance or some other reason, they made that choice, not caring the consequences. But you…what were you doing? You leapt at a dwarven warrior armed with an axe with only a carving knife. You could have been killed.” As he had hoped, Bilbo’s face folded into a slightly more stubborn expression and he sat up.

“I couldn’t watch you die,” he said irritably. “In that moment, it didn’t matter what happened to me because you had to be safe…” Thorin smiled and leaned forward, his hand gently cupping the back of Bilbo’s neck and pulling his head forward so their foreheads rested together.

“I am safe,” Thorin assured him, feeling the Hobbit finally relax at the contact. Bilbo closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

“You nearly weren’t,” he whispered. 

“You saved me, Bilbo,” Thorin assured him. “I have lived a long and dangerous life. I have fought battles and skirmishes. I have travelled alone through hostile lands where no one would know if evil befell me. I have stepped into danger for those I care for knowing the consequences would be harsh because I could not enjoy my safety knowing the cost would be their pain. And I have worked hard and fought for those who needed my help. But I have never met a being like you. You never cease to surprise me with your peaceable looks and heart of a lion. You who can bake a cake and fuss over your mother’s doilies and then risk your life to free me from a pack of slavers with nothing but a belt knife. There is no one else I would trust so much with my safety.”

Bilbo smiled, blushing faintly at the praise.

“Well then…” he murmured as Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the closeness before reluctantly pulling back. 

“I am sorry that my people forced you into taking a life,” he said honestly. “My own people are all raised as warriors but even some of us find the first kill hard. For someone of a peaceful race, taking a life is a hard challenge.”

“I keep seeing him staring up at me, his eyes staring and the blood…so much blood…” Bilbo sighed. “It had to be done. I’m not strong enough to just toss people aside like Dori.” Thorin felt his lips twitch in a smile.

“He dented your walls and killed the first one outright,” Thorin murmured. “I think even Dwalin was impressed…” Bilbo sighed and lay back down, pulling his covers up, glancing over at the dwarf.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he apologised quietly but Thorin shook his head, his expression sympathetic.

“I think I was waiting for it,” he admitted. “I have been in many battles and stood by many young warriors in their first fight, making their first kills. There is always a reaction, a response to that first time, dependent on the character of the dwarf. And you would not be the person I know you are if you did not feel guilt and horror at that death. But remember-you saved my life. I am just sorry that doing that has scarred you.”

The Hobbit gave a sad smile. 

“My mother used to say that we are all born without blemish but life scars you just by living,” he said, his voice sleepy. “Some scars are worse than others but they are all part of you. You have to accept them or spend your entire life hating yourself.” Thorin rose to his feet.

“Your mother was a wise Hobbit,” he commented and turned to the door. Bilbo sighed.

“Thorin?” The dwarf turned back. “Could-could you stay until I’m asleep? I-I feel safer with you here…” Nodding, the former Prince pulled up the chair and settled by the bed.

“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need, I am here.”

-o0o-

It was still early though the sun had risen when Thorin emerged from the smial, his sword in his hand. He hadn’t slept once Bilbo drifted back into a peaceful and dreamless sleep because his guilt was scourging him too fiercely. It was his presence that had brought danger to the home of the Hobbit, for the former Prince’s enemies were so determined to destroy him that they were prepared to enter another land and murder not only the dwarves but one of their citizens. He knew that the Lords of Ered Luin were venal and insular but he wondered if they had any inkling of the forces that protected the Shire against evil. 

A little further along the lane, a mature oak tree was perched on the crest of a bend, overlooking the little valley below. There was a reasonable area of flat land around the tree in the shade of its branches, more than enough for some simple exercises and unsettled by the sure and certain knowledge that he had damaged Bilbo’s wellbeing, Thorin walked purposefully out and slowly began to work through the basic moves, warming his muscles and rehearsing the moves. The oak tree had been damaged by the Hobbit’s practice and there were cuts in the trunk at various levels from where he had swung his practice sword. Standing back, Thorin repeated the sequence again, images of the fight in the smial running through his brain. Dwalin waving his axes: his sister fighting like a demon; his sister-sons scrambling through the window heedlessly after a cold-hearted murderer; Dori tossing men aside like straw; Balin fending the attackers off: Bilbo…Bilbo, his hands splashed with blood, vainly trying to staunch the bleeding from the fatal wound he had dealt…

He spun and stopped the blade an inch from Dwalin’s face.

“I see yer reflexes aren’t completely shot,” the warrior commented, moving the blade aside. Thorin frowned and lowered his sword.

“I think everyone is on edge,” he replied, stepping back. The warrior eyed him up and down.

“I was going to go slowly on you but we’ve run out of time,” he said gruffly. “Shoulder?”

“Fine.”

“I saw the impact and don’t want the drek you’ve been tellin’ the others. Shoulder?”

“Bruised. The arm moves and it isn’t broken.”

“And your scars?”

Thorin glared at him.

“You’ve been a slave. You’re a stubborn bastard with a mouth on you. They’ll have tortured you, Thorin. You can lie to the others but not me. I know you too well. So scars? Are they going to be a problem?”

“They made me work no matter what they had done to me. No restriction of movement,” he said without emotion, turning away. Dwalin watched him walk to the edge of the path, the drop down the the sloping meadow enough to be a concern for the unwary-or make training an interesting proposition.

“Your form was sloppy and your situational awareness was rank,” he said. “If Bilbo hadn’t leapt forward, you would have been dead.”

“I know. And if we hadn’t been there, he would have been safe.”

Dwalin snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m not here to watch you beat yourself up or launch into one of your broody moods, your Highness,” he told his friend sarcastically. “You’ll blame yourself anyway because you are a leader trained from the cradle to accept responsibility for the fate of those under your care but you could not have predicted or prevented it. By all rights, we should have been safe, save for treachery. And Bilbo wants you here. Thain Isengrim pointed out we have nowhere to go and he’s right. So we get ourselves ready for the attack when it comes. And it will come. I need the hero of Azanulbizar, not a moping blacksmith. Can you manage that?”

Thorin turned to him and raised his sword.

“You think you can take me?” he asked, his lips tilting in a small smirk. “Recently, you’ve just been playing with my nephews-who aren’t a challenge. I note you avoid Dis because all of us do. And the Hobbits aren’t really stellar swordsmen so no challenge there. So you think you can beat me, even with my scars?”

Dwalin gave a broad grin and grabbed his axes, shifting his weight and nodding.

“There he is,” he said as he lunged forward.

-o0o-

Gloin son of Groin, lieutenant of Guards in Ered Luin, wasn’t a happy dwarf. Sure, he loved his beautiful wife, Geilda, and was insanely proud of his wee lad, Gimli-as promising a dwarf as there ever was-but even amid his rather oblivious attitude to politics, he could tell something was wrong.

In truth, nothing had been right since Prince Thorin had been captured, bravely surrendering to spare the Princess and her sons and Gloin, along with so many of the guards, was shocked when no rescue attempt was authorised. And more so when the Prince was declared a coward and dishonoured and disowned and then when Captain Dwalin was demoted for gross incompetence, even though it was clear he was badly injured and barely made it home with the Princess and the young Princes. Gloin’s brother had confirmed it to Gloin before he, too, was a victim of the conspiracy that no one admitted yet was clearly there and was removed as Head of the Healers Guild. 

If it looks like an orc and smells like and orc and squeals like an orc, it certainly isn’t an elf, Gloin though grimly. The new officers appointed from the Lords’ personal guards over qualified and experienced officers were not of the calibre required and their orders were inconsistent and left wide holes for blind eyes and illegal dealings for their friends. Not that anyone in the guards had any confidence that the Council or the Royals would investigate or do anything other than demote a whistle-blower. Or maybe make him disappear. 

Gloin fiddled with his axe and shuffled his feet. He was distant kin of the King, of course, his great grandfather being brother to the King’s grandfather but it was distant enough to confer no special privileges, titles or money. Though his father, Groin, had been a canny dwarf and had always had gold coins and jewels sewn into the linings of his coats so when Erebor fell, his family hadn’t been as hard hit as everyone. Groin was a merchant, a dwarf who was canny and careful, though hot-tempered like his son yet he had been targeted by the taxes of the Lords and while not impoverished, he had died bitter and furious that those who did nothing to help the refugees or welcome them had been more than willing to steal their hard-won money in unfair taxes and tariffs. 

The guards had been a logical move because Gloin was good with a weapon, had a commanding presence and worked hard. And because no one could tax him for being a guard or levy a tariff of his sweat and blood. He had worked to ensure he was one of the group and risen to a respected and approachable lieutenant that his men trusted far more than the ‘new’ officers. So he heard things-including the latest rumours that had him perplexed and very concerned. And the rumour was that there was an operation in the offing, a mission to track down and exterminate a dangerous subversive and his craven supporters. The officers were already looking for volunteers and Gloin signed up without hesitating. He had the strongest sense that if the guards of Ered Luin were leaving their home in pursuit of a traitor, then that person almost certainly had the best interests of Ered Luin at heart and Gloin son of Groin would be needed to bring some sense to proceedings.

He straightened his back, shuffled his feet once more and settled back into the last two hours of his guard duty.

-o0o-

When Thorin had invited him for a walk by the river, Bilbo hadn’t hesitated. It was lovely having a house full of guests but there was a part of him that really hankered for the days when it was just the two of them, sharing Bag End. So they had headed down the meadow, across the bridge and along the willow-lined banks of the little river that meandered through the heart of the Shire. Bilbo had been alarmed when he saw that Thorin had a pack slung over his shoulder and his sword strapped to his hip but the dwarf was relaxed and as they walked, Bilbo found his anxieties calming a little. 

It was a fine day and the faint trickling of the water was soothing as they walked in and out of the shadows that dappled the soft grass by the bank. Wildflowers dotted the little gaps between the trees and the warm wind was scented with honeysuckle and sweet pea from the gardens upwind of the river. 

“I never believed I would come to appreciate the beauty of this place,” Thorin said suddenly, his voice measured. Bilbo looked up. “Dwarrow aren’t really very good with green and growing things. They all look the same to us…the same, I presume, as all rocks look to you.” Bilbo glanced up and saw the dwarf looking self-conscious. It was clear he was trying hard to maintain a conversation. 

“Well, we can tell different colours and I can tell sandstone from marble but the rest…is all sort of grey,” he apologised and then paused, crouching down and picking a faintly purple five-leaved flower. “This is a woodland phlox that grows here and down by Bywater in huge carpets. My mother used to love these and bring bunches back to decorate the parlour. Over there are harebells. Across there is water forget-me-not. Those orange sprays are crocosmia and the blue spikes are salvia.” Thorin frowned. “Flowers also have meanings to our people and we learn from our mother’s knee. But every Hobbit has a garden and we are in tune with the land because Yavanna made us that way.”

“While Mahal carved us from stone,” Thorin added as they broke out into a flat open area. He hefted the pack from his shoulder and set it down, digging out a rug and what rapidly appeared to be a picnic. Bilbo stared at him in shock. “But I find that I would gladly remain here, away from the stone Mahal crafted.” He seemed on the verge of saying more but instead, busied himself with unpacking, gesturing as he unwrapped pies, bread, cheese, pots of pickles and preserves. An earthenware pot was brought out and opened to reveal a green salad and then finally he unwrapped a pear and cinnamon tart and a pot of clotted cream. Bilbo gaped as he unstrapped a bottle of ale and two mugs from the back of his pack. “Please, Bilbo.”

“But this is…amazing,” the Hobbit said and quietly sat. Thorin settled opposite him.

“I cannot take any credit…except for the idea,” he confessed. “I asked Belle Gamgee what a Hobbit would take on a picnic and was guided by her. She cooked many of the items because she knew you were very fond of them.” He had made her a new set of pots and Hamfast a sturdy new garden fork in thanks because giving money would have offended the generous-hearted Hobbits but gifts were much harder to decline. There was a small smile on his face that warmed Bilbo’s chest.

“While your cookery is…”

“Inspired by smithing,” Thorin confessed without shame. “Flames at maximum with everything shoved deep into the flames and probably on fire.” Bilbo chuckled. “She also insisted that you would require salad.”

“While you dwarves aren’t that good with green things…especially young Ori,” Bilbo noted. “Though you generally eat what you are given.” 

“I have learned that any food should be gratefully received, even if it consists of…what are those evil small cabbages?”

“Sprouts,” Bilbo said and chuckled. “To let you in on a secret, they aren’t universally popular in the Shire either. Sort of a love-them-or-hate-them sort of food…”

“I noticed Dwalin was scoffing them by the mouthful,” Thorin noted grimly. 

“I am sorry,” Bilbo said honestly. “I won’t serve them again. But I wanted to make sure that you tried everything the Shire had to offer so you could find out what you liked and what you didn’t. I don’t know what foods dwarves like apart from meat and potatoes…” Thorin glanced up, pouring out the ale and handing a mug to the Hobbit. 

“Put like that, it does sound like we aren’t trying terribly hard-though I do know some cooks in the kitchens of Ered Luin who can do wonders with just meat and potato,” he said, a nostalgic smile lifting his lips. “Back before I came here, there used to be this goulash-a type of spicy stew-that would make your mouth water and was perfect after a cold patrol or a hard session training. Sitting with my sister, my brother and nephews eating warm food in safety…what more could a dwarf want?” And then his face fell. Bilbo leapt in because he hated the loss of the joy that had briefly lit the dwarf’s face.

“I recall family gatherings when my parents were still alive, when there were gatherings at the Great Smials with the family, when all the family gathered round and you knew you were all part of a family that would stand by you through thick and thin. But the family who aren’t Tooks have essentially cut me off. They blame me for bringing you here-as if it was some cunning plan to destroy the Shire.” He looked up. “Though if I was really out to cause mayhem and chaos, I would have had you lodging with Lobelia…” Thorin burst out laughing.

“Unfeeling Hobbit!” he admonished Bilbo with mock outrage. “Haven’t I already suffered enough? Putting me with Lobelia would kill me!” Bilbo doubled up with laughter as well and for a moment, neither could speak. When he had finally got his voice under his control, he smiled and took a sip of his ale.

“I could’ve offered up my Great-Aunt Cordelia,” he told the former prince. “She can kill with a dessert fork by all accounts and if you cross her, you may as well move in with the orcs because no one will ever speak to you. Ever.” Thorin stared at him and ripped a piece of bread off the loaf.

“You have some fearsome relations, Bilbo,” he admitted as Bilbo shrugged.

“I think Dis and Balin beat them,” he shot back. Then his eyes widened. “You’re wearing it.” Thorin started and then nodded.

“I am grateful,” he said honestly, gesturing to the fine deep blue shirt he wore, the collar and cuffs decorated with silver embroidery. Motifs of swords, axes and hammers were interwoven with geometrical patterns that Bilbo had noticed Thorin tended to decorate his metalwork with. But over the heart, there were the seven stars that the Hobbit had seen over his maker’s mark on his goods. And of course, there were oak leaves interspersed in the design. “In truth, it is beautiful. The embroidery is of the highest standard, worthy of a craft master.” Bilbo blushed and tried to hide his embarrassment behind a slice of gala pie. 

“Well, you are my very dear friend and you deserve something that reflects how noble you truly are and what you are really worth,” he admitted. “I just hope I didn’t offend you. I wasn’t sure about the stars…”

“The symbol of the Line of Durin, my heritage,” Thorin told him. “When Durin woke, first of the Seven Fathers, he walked alone from Khazad-Dum and saw the stars reflected like a crown above his head  Kheled-zaram. The seven stars have been the symbol of my line since those first days.” Bilbo gave a relieved sigh: he had secretly put a lot of work into the garment and had hoped he hadn’t misinterpreted the symbology. Ori had been very apologetic about the restrictions on what he could reveal, seemingly very intimidated by Balin.

“And the oak leaves…”

“Oakenshield,” Bilbo reminded him. “They’re not too offensive to you, not being stones and whatnot?” Thorin chuckled. 

“I have to say, pictures of stones would not be half as flattering as the effort put into crafting this magnificent gift,” he told the Hobbit genuinely. 

“And I hope the pictures of weapons are okay and don’t break some dwarvish taboo?” Thorin smiled at Bilbo’s worry, though he could sympathise. Every gift he had given Bilbo had been accompanied by a sick feeling in the stomach that it would not be good enough for the generous creature who had saved him so many times. 

“It is perfect,” he assured the Hobbit. “Now can you please enjoy the food?”

“You know you never have to say that to a Hobbit?” Bilbo told him teasingly, cutting a slice of cheese. Thorin chuckled and tucked into the pie, allowing Bilbo to snatch a closer look at his friend. Despite everything-the hostility of some of the Hobbits, his exile and slavery, the assassination attempt-Thorin was looking more confident and at ease than at any time Bilbo had known him. Maybe it was the knowledge that his family was with him and safe or that he wasn’t being driven out from the Shire but Bilbo really wished part of his contentment-even a tiny, tiny part of it-was because he was staying with Bilbo. And then he felt embarrassed at the sentiment: honestly, what did he have to offer an exiled prince? No matter what Thorin said, he was still a Prince and one day, the rightful King. People were trying to kill him because of that fact and one day, he would go and reclaim his Kingdom. And Bilbo knew that day would rip the heart out of his life and leave the silly, fussy little Hobbit who had nightmares about the blood in his home alone. And that loneliness would be ten times worse than losing his parents because every child knows that one day, his parents would leave. Bilbo’s foolish heart would never contemplate Thorin leaving.

But he sounds like he doesn’t want to leave, he reminded himself.

That doesn’t mean he won’t, just that for today, he is happy here. But given the chance to return to his stone and his people and his life…why would he remain here with greenery and salad and sprouts?

And me?

But he forced a smile onto his face and took another bite of his gala pie. Here and now, he was sitting in the Shire in the warm summer afternoon with Thorin and sharing a lovely picnic. And when Thorin went home, he would at least have this memory to treasure.

-o0o-

Prason waited until the office was quiet before he entered, finding Lord Farag sitting quietly at his desk waiting for him. The ambitious dwarf assessed his agent minutely and then snorted.

“I see you failed,” he growled.

“Oakenshield was not alone,” he reported. “He is staying with one of the Shirelings-the cousin of the foolish creature who wrote to you. She helped us make the attempt-but what she did not say-or know-was that not only was Oakenshield there but the Princess, the young Princes, Balin and Dwalin…and others I did not recognise. They overwhelmed the assassins.”

“Fortunately, I anticipated there could be problems and I have been feeding Brago and Hizair enough intelligence that they have initiated a mission to dispose of the subversives and traitors sitting on our doorstep.” Farag gave a smile that came nowhere near his eyes. “They imagined it was their initiative and that they were outflanking me with their plan.” Then the Lord leaned forward. “I will be contributing my men to the effort, of course…but I have a very special mission for you.” Prason walked forward, his eyes narrowed.

“And what might that be, my Lord?” he asked.

“Insurance.”

Chapter Text

Twenty Nine.

The hammering on the door jerked Bilbo from sleep and he scrambled up, grumbling. He really really really hated people who knocked on his door, especially at irregular hours but it was his home and he was a respectable Hobbit and that meant being polite, no matter the hour. So he pulled on his dressing gown, fastening the tie round his comfortable middle, and pattered quietly to the door. Taking a deep breath, he unlocked it and wrenched it open…

…to find himself facing another group of unfamiliar dwarves in the pinkish light of the dawn. The lead one-who had been knocking on his beautiful door-with a mattock of all things!-was wearing a rather ridiculous hat, dark hair in two braids poking out the sides and a friendly smile on his face. Behind him was the fattest dwarf Bilbo had ever seen, larger than all but the most sedentary Hobbits, with ginger hair and a moustache braided in a thick loop across his ample belly. There was a small red-haired dwarfling on his shoulders. Behind him was a female dwarf with another young female dwarfling in her arms and bringing up the rear was a fierce-looking dwarf with dark hair streaked with grey, an axe-head protruding from his forehead. He blinked.

“Good morning!” the behatted dwarf said pleasantly, a smile lighting his face. “Am I in the presence of Master Baggins, a known friend of dwarves?”

A shadow moved behind Bilbo and the tall shape of Thorin emerged, a naked sword in his hand. He glared at the stranger.

“State your name,” he commanded as the dwarf started and bowed his head. 

“Your Highness,” he said, eyes startled. The dwarf with the axe in his head offered a greeting in Khuzdul and Thorin exhaled, bowing his head in acknowledgement. “Bofur son of Bolkur. My brother Bombur. I believe you know my cousin Bifur. This is Bombur’s wife Thalia and his offspring Timmel and Milia.”

“You are welcome,” Bilbo said, trying to work out where he would house them. “Come in please. I’m sure you must be tired. It’s almost breakfast time…” Bofur flashed an amiable grin.

“Aye, well we have been walking through the night because we knew how important it was to get here in time.” Thorin frowned but stepped back, sheathing his sword and watching the strangers enter the smial. Concern was starting to prickle the back of his neck as he watched the little family enter, their small packs neatly lined up by the cloak rack. Kind as ever, Bilbo directed them to the second parlour where the couches were sagging and comfortable and the fire was still glowing in the grate. After securing the door once, more, the former Prince shadowed his friend and watched him help the little family set their bedrolls down by the fire and nestle the children on the couches, snuggled up together. Bombur curled up with his wife while Bifur grasped his spear and nodded to the dwarf.

“Rest easy,” Thorin said in Khuzdul, recalling that Bifur could no longer speak Westron after his injury. “This place is safe. Master Baggins will ensure you are cared for.”

“You are much missed, my Prince,” Bifur told him without preamble. “Finding you here is a gift from Mahal.”

“But what we’ve come to tell you isn’t,” Bofur added, looking more serious. There was a look in his  “Can we speak? Away from the children?” Bilbo glanced over at Thorin and saw him nod, standing tall and reserved, his mask back in place. A part of the Hobbit found it frustrating, that the dwarf he knew as kind and gentle and warm could suddenly withdraw behind his shell and become this remote stranger but, he reminded himself, he had never been brought up to one day become a King. And from what he had read in the Histories, Kings bore a heavy burden, making decisions that could condemn hundreds or thousands to die in battle or starve from a bad trading relationship or poorly-planned harvest. All responsibility stopped with the man-or dwarf-who wore the crown-praise and thanks at times of plenty and curses when things went wrong. And he knew, because he was coming to know Thorin, that his friend felt the responsibility and guilt most keenly. It seemed as natural as breathing for the former Prince to resume his cloak of royalty, especially to one he did not know.

Blinking to call his mind back to the present, Bilbo led them into the kitchen and swiftly put the kettle on. Thorin leaned against the wall, his hand on the pommel of his sword and his eyes trained on the stranger. Bofur, for his part, sat down and seemed at ease, complimenting Bilbo on the homely kitchen with the warming dawn light spilling through the windows and the glimpses of the garden beyond. Bilbo glanced at the stranger. Bofur seemed unselfconscious, grateful for his mug of steaming tea and loading it with cream and honey. Bilbo rested a plate of honey raisin biscuits in front of him and then handed Thorin a mug of tea, made as he preferred it. Nodding a regal thanks, the former Prince managed a small smile, his watchful pose unaltered. Finally Bilbo sat down, snagged a biscuit for himself and sipped his tea. 

“Speak,” Thorin said in a low voice from the side and Bofur looked up, guiltily.

“I never expected to find you here, your Highness,” he said, his Ered Luin accent broad. “But Bifur was right: it is a blessing. And maybe one that can give hope to our people.” Thorin frowned. 

“And they need hope,” he said flatly. Bofur nodded.

“Taxes are high, the guards are harsh and the private soldiers of the Lords act as if they are above the law,” the miner revealed. “I was sent here looking for Balin son of Fundin and was told he was heading towards Bree. But the one who told me to come this way already had information that you were in the Shire and that it was more than likely that Balin would be here.”

“He was correct,” Thorin said slowly. His brow furrowed. “You wish him here…?”

“I can repeat this to him later-but you are the Crown Prince and you deserve to hear this first.” Thorin’s face closed.

“Prince no longer,” he said bitterly but the miner sipped his tea and shook his head.

“No matter what you think, your Highness, no decree can change what people feel,” he said. “And while the current Crown Prince-and, I am sad to say, the King-usually prompt people to spit in response to their names, there are more than a few who refer to you as ‘the real Prince’ and recall your actions with respect.” Bilbo started and stared at the miner.

“And you?” he asked. Bofur gave a self-conscious chuckle.

“I spit along with the rest-but I have more reason than many to be grateful to Prince Thorin,” he said. “His generosity and kindness is the reason why Bifur did not die on the battlefield of Azanulbizar. Instead, he made sure my cousin had every possible medical help, even by the Royal Healer and he lived. Battered and damaged but alive and still himself. His orders ensured we can still access healers that have saved both Bombur’s pebbles.”

“Pebbles?”

“Children-we refer to young children as pebbles, just as you term your youngsters ‘faunts’,” Thorin murmured. Bilbo smiled. 

“They look very young for such a long journey,” he said, prompting a smile from Bofur.

“Little warriors, the pair of them,” he said nostalgically. “Not a word of complaint.” Then he sighed. “But they had to come because, by vanishing, we painted a target on us. And the dwarrow Lords we have annoyed play for keeps.”

“Why did you come, Bofur son of Bolkur?” Thorin asked directly. 

“I befriended a thief by the name of Nori,” he said. Bilbo inhaled sharply.

“Dori and Ori’s brother,” he realised. Bofur grinned, his eyes relieved.

“They are here?” he asked and then exhaled. “Thank Mahal. Nori was worried they were in danger or at least exposed. At least they are with others.” Then he sobered. “Nori is working for Balin as his agent. He has been eavesdropping, infiltrating and seeking word through the underworld. He only found out that there was an assassination attempt after it had been dispatched…and he was relieved that it had failed. He was determined not to be late again. So he sent us.” He took a deep breath. “A force of dwarrow-private soldiers and the Guard-are being dispatched to end a ‘dangerous subversive’ and his ‘treacherous followers’ who are here and are planning to attack Ered Luin.” Thorin took a slow breath.

“And I am the dangerous subversive,” he growled. Bofur nodded.

“So it would seem, your Highness,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Do you have an idea of their numbers?” the former Prince asked as Bofur drained his mug. 

“Nori gave us all coded messages for Lord Balin-in the hopes that one would get through or that if they found a note on one of us, the others would be let go.” Bofur’s voice was light but there was a shadow in his eyes.

“They wouldn’t, would they?” Bilbo spoke up. 

“No,” Thorin confirmed. “But it was a wise move. Once a note was found, the guard would not search so diligently for duplicates and maybe one could get away…” He sighed. 

“Though that shouldn’t be a necessity,” Bilbo guessed. Both dwarves shook their heads.

“I recalled the Guard as fair-hard and rigid but not cruel,” Thorin murmured, unconsciously turning his head to look towards the room where Dwalin was snoring. “Dwalin would not have stood for corruption or dereliction of duty. I guess his replacement was political, not merit-based.” Bofur nodded.

“The Kingdom needs you back,” he said.

“And you would make me the subversive, the enemy, that they claim,” he retorted, his voice hardening. “I prayed for rescue once, hoping that my kin, my people would relieve me of my suffering. No one came. It is more than likely that the orders for the ambush, the impetus to capture me and keep me away from Ered Luin until I was killed originated within the Kingdom as well. I am banished, dishonoured and lost.”

“And now you are found,” Bofur pointed out. “By those who represent the people who had no say in your betrayal and who need you most. The Lords don’t care for the rest of the population, save as a source of taxes. The Royal Family-what of it remains in the Kingdom-don’t seem to care either. You are our only hope.” 

“And now they come here to snuff even that hope out,” Thorin murmured. “How long until they arrive?” 

“Highness, they are four days behind us,” Bofur said quietly. 

Bilbo shivered and an ice cold sensation ran down his spine. The mental image of hundreds of dwarves, all armoured and bearing axes, marching on Hobbiton and slaughtering his people scorched across his waking eyes. His breathing accelerated as he envisaged flames licking the sky, smoke pouring from smials, the cries of motherless faints, the screams of the dying and the clang and roar of battle. And he had done this: he had brought ruin on the Shire.

Then there were hands on his shoulders, the grip gentle but firm and he blinked as a familiar deep voice slowly brought him back to himself. He looked down to see Thorin kneeling beside him, looking worriedly into his face.

“-bo, are you alright? It’s alright-everything is safe. You’re in Bag End. You don’t need to worry…”

“Thorin?” He hated how weak his voice sounded but the images were still rolling around his mind and he felt unbalanced.

“Can you make him a cup of tea with lots of honey?” the former Prince asked and Bofur immediately rose, pouring some rather stewed tea into a mug and ladling several spoons of honey in. Thorin gently pressed the mug into Bilbo’s hands and raised it to his lips. “Drink,” he urged. Nodding, Bilbo complied, then pulled a face at at the overly sweet liquid.

“I’m okay,” he said automatically. “Good gracious-a guest having to make me a drink. My father would be rolling in his grave…”

“Bilbo-I can guess what you saw,” Thorin said in a low voice, his tone concerned. His hands flexed then grasped the Hobbit’s shoulders once more. Bilbo shook his head.

“It’s my fault,” he said wretchedly. But Thorin wasn’t allowing that and leaned forward, a hand rising to gently cup the back of Bilbo’s neck and leaning him forward until their foreheads pressed together.

“No, it is mine,” the former Prince reminded him. “I should have left before ever coming here. I should not have returned after I was kidnapped. I should be dead. And certainly I should have fled after the assassination attempt but at every turn, I was greedy to be here. I found I have come to value the peace and tranquility and beauty of the Shire above stone and metal and gems. I value the people who have welcomed me…if not all whole-heartedly, then at least honestly…more than the two-faced fork-tongued nobility on Ered Luin who plot against each other and their King and would slaughter even my nephews to get their grasping fingers on the throne. Any and all blame is mine and mine alone to claim.”

“Confounded dwarf,” Bilbo murmured. “Can’t I even have some of my own guilt? I interfered. I brought you here. I persuaded Isengrim to let you stay. I accepted responsibility for your conduct here. So the disaster coming is my fault as well.”

“Or it could just be the fault of the traitors who are coming to kill yer,” Dwalin commented from the doorway. Thorin tensed, then gave a slow exhale. But he didn’t move from his position, his hand still gently around the back of Bilbo’s neck and Bilbo’s hand gently curled around his shoulder.

“Aye, laddie-he has a point,” Balin added, his eyes grim.

“How much did you hear?” Thorin asked.

“Enough,” Balin sighed. “Looks like our secret is out.” He turned to Bofur. “I am Balin son of Fundin. You have a message for me.”

-o0o-

Suddenly life was hectic. Thorin, Dwalin and Balin went to see Isengrim first thing and arrived before First Breakfast, the thought of which made Bilbo wince. After a discussion with the Thain, Balin remained while Thorin and Dwalin went to round up the Bounders and Shiriffs and explained the situation. Messengers were sent to the Rangers and a carrier pigeon was sent to Rivendell with a request for aid. The Heads of the Major families were summoned to the Great Smials at Tuckborough along with the Mayor of Michel Delving and the Master of Buckland and the impending invasion was discussed, with many raised voices and lots of prejudice. Bilbo, as Head of the Baggins family sat quietly until he could stand no more.

“SILENCE!” he shouted and every eye turned on him. “I hear many people blaming the dwarves, blaming the person who brought Thorin Oakenshield here-that would be me, by the way-but no one blaming the Hobbit who wrote to Ered Luin and betrayed him. Betrayed us all! Thorin has a right to live quietly in the Shire as my guest, along with his family. I am happy to host my friends. But for someone here to betray him and write all the way to another Kingdom because they object to the presence of a guest…that is the kind of insular, prejudiced, vicious behaviour that we are facing from the people in Ered Luin who would attack another land to kill someone they have already given up to slavery and banished and disowned.”

A silence fell over the room and there were many harsh intakes of breath.

“Now listen here, Bilbo-that’s hardly fair…” Herugar Bolger blustered, looking over at his friend, Hugo Boffin. 

“Isn’t it?” Bilbo asked dryly. “I was under the impression being a Hobbit is about being decent, hospitable and respectable. And whatever you mean by that, can many of the Hobbit here say they have been hospitable to a guest in our midst? A guest who has done nothing but seek to work for his keep, who has put up with abuse, rudeness, cruelty when all he sought was somewhere peaceful and safe to stay?”

Bruno Bracegirdle shuffled his feet and made great show is packing his pipe very thoroughly as every eye turned on him. Word got round as it always did and somehow everyone knew that his family had been pressurising Pondo Greenfield to try to get the dwarf expelled from the Shire. The fact he was in fact a guest only made his actions more egregious, Finally he looked up, his dark eyes irritated.

“I’ve heard things about dwarves,” he commented gruffly. “Why would we want their kind among us?”

“You know,” Gorbadoc Brandybuck said, his eyes narrowing maliciously, “I’ve heard things about Bracegirdles. Nasty greedy grasping creatures, always coveting things that aren’t theirs and causing trouble. Never any peace and quiet where a Bracegirdle is.”

Isengrim chewed his lip trying not to laugh. Adalgrim was sitting at his side along with Isumbras, Isengrim’s younger brother and heir who spent much of his time managing the Took family property portfolio and none of them could meet each other’s eyes. Gorbadoc had neatly turned the tables on the Hobbit who had been loudly preaching the evils of dwarves before the meeting was convened-sins which his own family were now accused of. Unsurprisingly, Bruno had turned an alarming shade of puce and was almost frothing at the mouth. 

“Now see here, Gorbadoc, I’m not standing for that kind of vicious prejudice against perfectly decent, honest hardworking…” he began.

“Then why do you-and especially your orc-tongued granddaughter, Lobelia, say the exact same about Bilbo’s dwarf guests when they have demonstrated they are decent, hardworking, honest, amiable people?” Adalgrim asked. “I’ve met them and dined with them. So has Isengrim and even Mirabella and Gorbadoc and their family. You see how uncomfortable it is when people make unfounded assumptions about you just because of what group you were born into?”

“And that is still not the point,” Filibert Lightfoot cut in. “The point is that there are an army of dwarves marching on us to kill Bilbo’s guests.”

“Meaning there are people who are so evil and determined to end them that they would invade another land, attack innocent and peaceable people and slaughter someone who has been exiled and disowned because his very life poses a threat to their evil plans,” Isengrim cut in, his voice commanding. “You cannot reason with such evil any more than you can discuss with an orc or a wolf. You may love the peace and the friendship and warmth of our lives here but we do no exist in isolation. We trade with Bree and other lands, our borders are protected by the Rangers-Men of the North-and the Elves of Rivendell. We house them and supply them on their journeys. And as a result, the majority of our people know nothing of the turbulence outwit our borders. But just occasionally, that turbulence, that evil, spills over and threatens our way of life. And sometimes, we have to stand up and defend ourselves.”

There were murmurs in the room but every eye was on the Thain.

“They will come from the West, from the Blue Mountains,” Isumbras said firmly. “We will set watches.”

“Thorin, Dwalin, the young Princes and even the Princess are training with the Bounders and Shirriffs to ensure they are able to stand against the invaders,” Adalgrim announced. “Many of us are training as well.” He looked up. “Jago Bolger, Bruno Bracegirdle, Flambard, Sigismund, Fortinbras, Rory and Gorbulas Brandybuck, me-and I’ve even seen Bilbo practicing in the early morning with a very fine looking sword…” Bilbo blushed, for he had hoped no one had seen his rather embarrassing attempts at swordplay.

“We will recommend that the older Hobbits, the women and faunts from Hobbiton, the Hill and Bywater go to stay to the East,” Isengrim added. “I’ve already written to the families in Frogmorton and Whitfurrows and they will take refugees in until the kerfuffle settles down.” For a moment, he looked old and tired as every eye landed on him, expecting his lead. “I don’t think it will take long, no matter what we wish, and there is nothing here that the dwarves will want, once they have achieved their aims.”

“Or until they are defeated,” Adalgrim piped up. But the Thain looked sorrowful.

“Oh son-you think there is any chance we can win?” he asked softly. “I only hope we don’t lose too many.”

Bilbo blinked and all his fears and nightmares came crashing back.

Yavanna-please hear my prayer, he thought desperately. Let the Shire be spared. And Thorin and his family. He’s suffered so much and he didn’t deserve any of it. He is my friend-my very dear friend-and I would do anything to help him. So if you need a sacrifice, take me instead. Just let them all survive.

-o0o-

Thorin was trying his hardest not to think as he practiced, the moves fluid and balanced as he swirled and cut, spun and stabbed but nothing could silence the turmoil in his mind. He had spent the last three days with Dwalin, Dis and the boys, helping to train the bounders and Shirriffs and working on battle tactics. The Hobbits-especially Bilbo’s family and friends-were surprisingly fierce and determined to play their part in defending their homes. Every single one of them was infuriated that the enemies were attacking their home and their guests and they were enthusiastic if not skilled in their training.

Breathing hard, Thorin stilled and stared across the rolling hills of the Shire, glancing down the Hill towards the main bulk of Hobbiton where a steady stream of carts and refugees had been heading East towards safety with the approaching battle. The dwarven force was due to arrive in the morning and afterward…who knew what the future would hold? Or who would even be standing?

He leaned back against the oak and stabbed his sword deep into the rich earth of the Shire, then slid down to sit on his heels. It was hardly a Princely action and in his memory, he could hear his Grandfather’s voice castigating him.

Stand up straight, boy! You are a Prince of Durin’s Line, not some ragamuffin miner! Dignity, endurance, stoicism no matter what! Durin would not slouch so neither should you. Let’s see if standing guard on Ravenhill for the next twelve hours will stiffen your spine…

“Thorin?” 

He blinked and looked up-to see Dwalin walking towards him, an unfamiliar look of concern on his rugged face. He nodded a greeting then turned back to his inspection of the view. Of course, Dwalin failed to take the hint and leaned against the trunk of the tree by his friend.

“What are yer doing out here?” he asked directly. “You look like yer did when Frerin catapulted yer favourite knife over the gate of Erebor and you copped hell from Thrain for it.” Rolling his eyes, Thorin continued ignoring him. There was an awkward pause. “Okay-tell me what’s eating you up-or do I have to go get Dis?”

Thorin rubbed his forehead and knew he was defeated. If Dwalin did get his sister, he would be poked and teased mercilessly until he surrendered-there was no torturer more cruel or determined than his sister when she was decided to uncover whatever he wished to conceal.

“Bilbo,” he admitted quietly. Dwalin was silent for a moment then started chuckling.

“You finally noticed, did you?” he commented not unkindly. Thorin looked up. 

“That he has realised there is better company out there?” he asked sharply. “Aye.” Dwalin frowned.

“What in Mahal’s name are you talking about, you shale-brained idiot?” he asked gruffly. 

“Since they arrived, he has spent all his time with the Family Ur,” Thorin said quietly. “And why would he not? Bofur is personable, friendly, outgoing, handsome…” Dwalin snorted. “Everything that I am not.”

“And you’re managing to beat yourself up for no good reason,” Dwalin grumbled, cringing inwardly at the bitterness in his friend’s voice. 

“I know I have been ignoring Bilbo since the news arrived…but what can I say?” Thorin asked his friend, a hint of despair edging his tone. “I allowed myself to be lulled into the fantasy that I could have peace and quiet and a home but it was never going to last. I have brought danger and death to his home and to his land. I have stolen his peace of mind. It would have been better had he never met me.”

“Is that for you or for him?” Dwalin asked pointedly. “Because when we arrived, I saw a dwarf I scarcely recognised. You were happy, Thorin-happier than I’ve seen you since before Erebor was lost. And Bilbo is responsible for all of that. And watching him…well, he looks happy as well. Whenever he enters a room, he looks for you and only relaxes when he’s found you. You are the one he sits near when he can. His eyes sparkle when he speaks of you. And don’t think he’s going to be throwing you off any time soon.” Thorin shook his head.

“Every time I come in, he is talking with Bofur,” he grumbled. “They cease talking when I walk in and I feel as if I have interrupted something. And I cannot blame Bilbo. He is kind, generous, handsome, rich, well-connected…what could an exiled, disowned, penniless ex-slave possibly offer to one such as him?”

Your heart, Dwalin realised with a sudden pang of guilt. He had watched Thorin stand tall against adversity, against prejudice from other races, against the machinations of the Lords, against intolerable pressures from his family, against tragedy that had struck him again and again…and yet he imagined that he was not worthy of a mere Hobbit from the Shire. Admittedly, Bilbo had gone above and beyond in looking after the former Prince and welcoming his family but still, he was a Hobbit. And Thorin…was jealous of a miner who, to Dwalin’s eye, was a pleasant companion and who seemed to be good company but who did not hold any attraction to the little Halfling. 

“Talk to Bilbo,” he advised Thorin bluntly. “He’s not inconstant. You were his friend before we all arrived, you’ve been out from dawn to dusk . He’s a sociable creature. I’ve seen him talking with Dis, sharing tea with Dori, reading with Ori, even swapping tales with my brother. Bofur is a newcomer and he wants to make him welcome. His brother is a fine cook and is teaching the Hobbit how to make a proper goulash while he’s teaching Bombur how to make those honey cakes he bakes. But if you think he’s drawing away from you, yer deluded.” Thorin glared at him.

“Maybe it would be for the best,” he said grimly. “They won’t give up until I am dead, no matter how the day goes. So maybe I should return anyway-to face them down.” Dwalin gave him a look composed of sheer unbridled disbelief.

“I don’t think yer Hobbit wants you committing suicide,” he reminded Thorin but the former Prince rose to his feet. 

“But I will go anyway-because Bofur is right: something has to be done,” he said. “And if, by going, I keep Bilbo safe, then whatever the outcome, I have achieved the most important thing.”

“Achieved what?” a familiar voice asked and Thorin snapped round to see Bilbo, standing with a tankard of ale held carefully in his hands. “I brought you this because it’s a warm day and you’ve been practicing out here for ages.” He gave a smile. “I know you’ve been busy buzzing around the last few days but I was hoping you would all come to dinner together? I’ve been preparing food with Bombur all day for a feast…” There was an unspoken worry in his eyes and Thorin accepted the tankard with a grateful smile.

“I would be honoured,” he said honestly and took a sip. Bilbo edged closer.

“And please be careful,” he said softly to the dwarf. “I would be devastated if anything happened to you.” Thorin nodded.

“And I, you,” he murmured. Bilbo nodded.

“Um…quite,” he said, suddenly unable to meet the dwarf’s eyes. “Very good. Come in and wash up. I’ll be taking the roast out any time now.” Thorin reached over and grabbed his sword, then took a sip of his ale.

“Thank you,” he said and seemed on the verge of saying more but then smiled and followed the Hobbit back to the gate as Dis walked up to stand by Dwalin.

“Has my idiot brother said anything?” she asked. He folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

“Idiot was jealous of the miner,” he grumbled. “Beating himself up and believing he didn’t deserve the Hobbit. Oh-he wants to go back to Ered Luin and get himself killed before he puts the Shire and his Bilbo at risk any further.” She snorted and snatched a glance after the pair as they headed back into Bag End.

“My idiot brother,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Spends his entire life protecting his heart from being exploited by the whims of our Grandfather and Father and then hands it to a simple Halfling when he finally has lost hope of ever going home.” 

Dwalin snorted in exasperation.

“Is he truly that oblivious?” she continued, pacing back and forth. “Can he not see the look in the Halfling’s eyes?”

“Apparently not,” Dwalin growled. “You know Thorin.” She nodded.

“Then I charge you with protecting my brother’s back while I will find someone to watch over his Halfling,” she decided. “And for Mahal’s sake, please stop him doing something stupid.”

Dwalin watched her as she marched back towards the smial.

“Like that’s ever worked before,” he growled and followed her.

Chapter Text

THIRTY

The lookouts in Needlehole sighted the advancing dwarvish force at dawn the next day and swiftly passed the alarm along. Hobbits were not so fleet of foot as riders or Elves, though they were determined walkers, but they were bright and innovative and all rather careful about their appearances-so everyone carried a small pocket mirror. Basic semaphore flashed quickly from low hill to low hill until word got to Hobbiton and Tuckborough that a dwarvish force would be arriving in Hobbiton around noon and numbered about sixty or so dwarven warriors. 

Isengrim looked old as he heard the news and glanced over at his nephews as he rose to his feet.

“So it comes to this,” he murmured. “No word from the Rangers?”

“A day out,” Fortinbras reminded him.

“Lord Elrond has sent his riders but they are a couple of days out as well,” Adalgrim added. 

“Then we have to rely on our own resources-and that of our dwarven guests,” he said. “Fortinbras-will you and Adalgrim speak on my behalf? Ask why they have trespassed into our lands, why they come armed into a peaceable country-and request that they leave. At least then, we have done all that we can to defuse the situation.” The two younger Hobbits nodded. Fortinbras was Isumbras’s only son and therefore second in line to the Thainship while Adalgrim was third and trusting he would never have to bear that responsibility. But he was willing to stand forward and protect the Shire along with all of his family.

“You can rely on us,” he said. Isengrim nodded.

“Then go quietly and safely and may Yavanna protect you. Protect us all,” he said.

-o0o-

“The road is blocked?” Thorin checked.

“Obliterated,” Bofur confirmed, looking over at Dori. The strongest dwarf had been very helpful in assisting Bofur and Bifur in blocking the narrow road clambering over the Hill past Bag End so it could only be approached from the road that ran up from the Market Place. Bifur had thoughtfully taken down and concealed the direction signs so that the passing dwarrow force would miss the most direct route to their temporary home. As far as Thorin was concerned, he wanted the dwarrows blubbering straight into the centre of Hobbiton, where he had clear lines of fire on the aggressors and a battle on his terms.

“The archers are raring to go,” Kili reported, a grin lighting his face. The younger Prince was unusual in that his chosen weapon was the bow, a weapon he excelled with due to his excellent eyesight and natural aptitude. Thorin had taught him when he was a pebble, realising that the boy was not naturally inclined towards the sword, axe, mace, spear or any other normal dwarvish weapon. Kili had worked hard with the Shire archers and his little group were crucial for the plan, all dedicated and serious about their role. Hobbits, it turned out, had terrifyingly good aim and privately, Dwalin had confessed that if he had a hundred Hobbit archers, he could probably conquer Ered Luin, Khazad-Dum and Erebor and be still astonishingly well-fed in the process. 

Nodding, the former Prince looked over to the others. They and a small number of Hobbits-their stronger Bounders and Shirriffs-were to be the ground troops, the infantry facing the main body of the attackers. Thorin and Dwalin would lead them and their numbers would include Dis, Fili, Balin, Dori, Bofur, Bombur and Bifur. Privately, Thorin knew that Ori was planning to sneak out and join the action, for though he was the youngest dwarf apart from Bombur’s children, he was barely younger than the young princes and resented being excluded from the action. He had been in a foul mood when he had woken and realised that he had missed the assassination attempt and there had been loud arguments with an overprotective Dori about stunting his development as a dwarf. The fact that Dwalin had taken Ori through some basic exercises with the axe had only caused yet another row between the warrior and the tailor that Bilbo had needed to defuse and had led to some lingering tension in Bag End.

What Thorin hadn’t told Bilbo was that he had no intention of letting his friend fight in the upcoming battle. Bilbo’s swordplay had improved but he was in no way ready to face a seasoned and trained dwarvish warrior and he knew that without someone watching his back, he could be seriously hurt of killed. No, Thorin had planned another, less glorious but safer mission for his friend. Bombur’s wife, Thalia, was staying safe in Bag End with Timmel and Milia (and supposedly Ori) and Thorin wanted Bilbo to stay with them, guarding them. He had no doubts that should an attack come, Bilbo knew places in his extensive home to conceal the precious family and himself until help could arrive. A part of him would have wished that his sister-sons, at least, would hide in safety but neither would have accepted such a prohibition, even though they were under age, because they had been raised to expect battle and glory and maybe death as their right and duty. Even if it was against their own people.

Checking that all was in place, he headed to find the Hobbit.

He found him in his garden, carefully picking excess shoots off his prized tomato plants. His brow furrowed, eyes focussed, Thorin was again struck by the differences between Hobbits and Dwarves, for he recognised the look on Bilbo’s face as one he saw on the faces of every one of his family when they were concentrating on their own crafts.

“If you leave too many, you may get more tomatoes but they are smaller and less juicy,” he explained, straightening up and wiping his hands. The familiar scent of tomato plants wafted over the dwarf. He nodded gravely.

“I defer to your expertise in such matters,” he acknowledged. “And now, my friend, I ask and pray you to consider mine.” Bilbo looked up and his eyes looked serious as he caught the edge to Thorin’s tone. The dwarf looked very different to the grubby, thin ex-slave he had taken in, desperately clinging to the tattered remains of his pride and his pain at his fate. Now, he was clean and well-fed, his raven locks gleaming with the sunlight picking out the few silver streaks and his intense blue eyes shining with concern. His tall shape was swathed in the layers dwarves seemed to prefer, the dark blue shirt that Bilbo had embroidered visible under light mail that he had forged during his time in the Shire, under a heavy tunic, a wide belt around his waist with his sword at his hip, his familiar leather breeches and heavy boots completing the look. He looked impressive and Bilbo felt a flutter of pride at seeing his friend so changed.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” the Hobbit murmured. Thorin sighed.

“I have fought in many battles and wars and I have seen what happens to the inexperienced and the unskilled,” he began. “Bilbo, I do not doubt your courage or your desire to protect your home but I know the ferocity of my people in battle. I know that there is little chance that any of us will survive but I would keep you from that hazard while I have breath in my body.”

Bilbo looked up into his eyes, his face blank.

“At least you didn’t outright say I was of no use,” he said evenly. “I know I have not been in battle but I don’t want to let you fight alone…”

“I am not alone,” Thorin reassured him. “I have Dwalin-my Shield Brother-and my closest kin. The family Ur and Dori will fight. And your Bounders and Shirriffs will protect your homeland. But I ask you to perform a task for me.” Bilbo folded his arms and looked cynical.

“Thorin…” he said, his voice close to a warning.

“I am not patronising you, my friend,” the dwarf said urgently, a hand twitching to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Bombur’s wife and children are non-combatants…and it is certain, not matter what Thain Isengrim says, that they will not be welcomed into any Hobbit home as refugees. The enemy has already shown himself to be devoid of honour by launching a cowardly attack at night to slaughter is in our beds and in attacking a land with which the Kingdom of Ered Luin has no quarrel. I would not put it past them to try to capture the children as hostages. You know your home better than any and I am certain you will have places within Bag End where you could conceal a couple of pebbles and their dam to ensure that no one could find them to harm them.”

Bilbo’s face hardened for a second and then he nodded.

“I didn’t hear mention about Ori,” he said and Thorin sighed.

“Officially, Ori will be with you,” he conceded. “If only to prevent Dori putting Dwalin out of commission before the actual battle! But I suspect the lad will sneak out to assist Kili and his archers. If you can stop him, I would be grateful but I hold out little hope.” Bilbo snorted.

“You’ve more chance of getting Lobelia to forget her prejudices and sign up to join your Company!” he noted. Thorin’s lips twitched at the ridiculous mental image that provoked. 

“Aye, you are right,” he sighed and then he did grasp Bilbo’s shoulder. “My friend? Will you do this for me?” Reluctantly, Bilbo nodded.

“Only because of the children,” he said. “And because I know that Bombur can fight much better than I and he will be of more use to you. But I don’t have to like it.” He almost pouted but then saw the relief in Thorin’s eyes.

“It is all I ask,” the dwarf admitted. “I would not have harm befall you on my account. If I know you are secure in Bag End, then I may fight with a clear head and light heart.”

“Ridiculous dwarf,” Bilbo scolded him, gently slapping his arm. “Your mind should be on the battle, not on…”

“My dearest friend, my host, defender and saviour?” Thorin teased him. “I think you never understand how much I owe you-and how much your friendship means to me. Your safety has been an agonising worry to me throughout these last days.”

“Then you don’t need to worry,” Bilbo said and then surged forward, wrapping a hug around the former Prince. After a shocked second, Thorin swathed the Hobbit in his arms, hugging him tight. “Be safe, Thorin. Come back to Bag End unhurt. That is all I ask.”

Reluctantly, Thorin forced himself to pull back and bow his head to his friend.

“I can give no guarantee, Bilbo, but I will do all I can to return,” he promised. 

“Then go and be the hero we all know you to be,” the Hobbit sighed. “Stop them.”

-o0o-

Gloín son of Groín was riding halfway along the column, groaning inwardly as he saw Captain Tobruk making no disguise about the way he rode alongside the Captains of the contingents of the Lord’s private security forces, chatting as equals. He knew that Captain Dwalin would be treating them as the amateurs and treacherous dogs they were and that thought made him more determined than ever to make sure that the Guards of Ered Luin did not exceed their authority-no matter what orders were given them on behalf of the Council.

“It’s all wrong,” Benog said. He was a gruff and taciturn dwarf who had opened up on the journey to his lieutenant and the men of his section because he had become increasingly unhappy at the mission the more he thought about it. “This Shire isn’t an enemy and there has been no declaration of war. The Lords haven’t written to the Shire or tried diplomacy because we would know if any had been sent out of the Mountain. So this is an unprovoked attack.”

“You’re right,” Foram added. He was a sturdy and rather short dwarf with black hair, eyes and beard, all braided in the most utilitarian way possible. “And look at them. Little round things, all soft and comfortable. Wouldn’t look like they could say boo to an orc!”

“Not sure I’d say that,” Cudin added. Unusual with his sandy hair and pale grey eyes, his beard was tied into a single long braid that was tucked into his belt. He was a shrewd observer. “Most of them have been scurrying for their holes when they saw us but the farmers in their fields just hefted their pitchforks like they were spoiling for a fight. I wouldn’t write them off.”

“Protecting your home against evil invaders is a powerful motivation,” Gloín noted. Benog chuckled. 

“It may be,” he conceded. “Not that it…”

“But from their point of view, we are the evil invaders,” Cudin pointed out, cutting him off shortly. “A force of armed dwarves, not travelling on the East Road but on the backroads, heading directly for their capitol. We may as well be orcs for all the looks we’re garnering.”

“They’d know if we were orcs,” Foram commented gruffly.

“And what we’re doing isn’t legal either,” Gloín told them. “This is an invasion. A hostile attack on another land.”

“I know the Lords and them with rather more gold than they deserve on their armour think we don’t need to bother if they’re weaker than us,” Foram reminded him. “They’ve been saying it for weeks.”

“Meaning they’ve been plotting this for weeks,” Benog murmured. “Plotting to invade a foreign land and start a war with a race we know little about. Have you seen their ears? They look like distant kin of the Elves. And do we want to start a war with them as well?”

They rode along for a few moments, their horses trailing along the narrow land only one or two abreast.

“Still don’t know why we couldn’t have come on the proper road,” Tilak grumbled. He had flaming red hair similar to Gloín’s though he as more prone to moan than the Lieutenant.

“Because we’re trying to sneak into the Halflings’ capitol, Hobbiton, and take them by surprise,” Cudin hissed at him.  

“Bet no one is surprised,” Foram commented, which Gloín nodded in agreement with. The whole mission smacked of arrogance and stupidity of the worst sort. Captain Tobruk raised his arm.

“Ready weapons!” he ordered, as the Captains of the Lords' personal soldiers gave the same order to their own men. They were coming down into a wider space bordering on a wide lake which was surrounded by the low green hills. The ponies clopped to a halt, the officers pushing forward to see three shapes facing them-two Hobbits and a dwarf. There were gasps among the troop for the dwarf was the unmistakeable shape of the lost Crown Prince, Thorin son of Thráin. Gloín opened his mouth as if to call out and then forcibly snapped his teeth shut before he could say anything incriminating and instead, he forced himself to watch. It went against his fiery nature and his loyalty to the Prince but one thing that Gloín had been taught to be was prudent. And every sense was screaming at him to wait and see how this played out.

“I am Fortinbras Took,” one of the Hobbits announced, raising a hand.

“I am Adalgrim Took,” the other Hobbit said, his face serious. “We represent the Thain of the Shire, the hereditary leader appointed by the King of Arnor to oversee these lands in his stead. State your name and purpose.”

“Why do you come armed into our homeland?” Fortinbras asked, his tone stern. Captain Tobruk urged his pony forward and looked down on the smaller creatures with contempt on his face.

“You harbour a dangerous subversive in your land,” he sneered, a finger stabbing at Thorin “We demand that you hand him over immediately!”

“It is strange that there has been no correspondence, no diplomatic overtures, simply an armed incursion into the Shire and demanding that you can arrest a dwarf who is living peaceably here-a dwarf who, I believe, was taken into slavery due to the actions of your masters and who has been disowned and exiled,” Adalgrim growled. “This doesn’t sound like anything other than a hostile act.”

“Leave the Shire immediately,” Fortinbras told them firmly. “Your actions have more consequences than you realise. This land is protected by the Rangers and by the Elves of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. And we are under the protection of Gandalf the Grey, Tharkûn in your tongue”

“See?” Benog hissed just loud enough for Gloín to hear. “Told you they looked like those pointy-eared weed-eaters!”

“And where are they?” Tobruk sneered. His armour was very shiny, his beard laden with beads and gemstones and his military and diplomatic abilities seemed miniscule. “You do not intimidate us!”

“Then maybe you should answer why there was a previous armed incursion where assassins broke into a Hobbit’s smial and tried to kill all within, dwarf and Hobbit alike, in their sleep!” Fortinbras snapped. “Do you deny naked aggression, dishonourable conduct and illegal incursions into our land before?”

Tobruk’s eyes widened and he seemed at a loss for words but there was one dwarf who did not seem the least concerned. Adalgrim stared at him for longer than was necessary and realised he knew everything there was to know about that crime.

“You have one chance to leave,” Thorin announced. “I am Thorin Oakenshield. I surrendered to protect the Princess and young Princes from imprisonment. I was enslaved. In response to my capture, I was abandoned by my people, by Durin’s folk, and my name sullied by lies. I was rescued by one of these Hobbits who asked for naught but simple thanks. I stayed because there was nowhere else I could go. No dwarven settlement would accept me having been banished by King Thráin, no town of Men would offer anything other than cruelty and exploitation and I could hardly go live with the Elves. I have made no move at all against Ered Luin-but it seems that those who manufactured my slavery were not content to let me live, in peace or otherwise. Now you invade a peaceful land.”

“Hand yourself over and no harm will come to these Halflings!” Lord Farag’s Captain, Nolin, urged him. 

“And when I hand myself over, I will never see Ered Luin or be granted a fair hearing or trial,” Thorin told them bluntly. “An accident will befall me on the journey home. I will be murdered by my supposed guards.”

“Aye-I think he’s right,” Foram muttered as Gloín nodded. He snatched a look at the other Guards and saw all of them as conflicted as he felt. He sat up straighter.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Pass the word on. No matter what Captain Shiny says, we are not here to assassinate an exiled Prince. The blood of the Line of Durin still flows in his veins and no decree by honourless Lords can alter that legacy. That is Thorin Oakenshield, who took on a giant pale orc with only a damned branch. I’m not fighting him on the word of the Council.”

There were nods and hissed words of Khuzdul as the word was passed on. Before them, shapes emerged from two low buildings, unmistakably armed and ready for battle. The Guards recognised the Princess Dis, the young Prince Fíli, the much-respected King’s Adviser Balin son of Fundin and their own former Captain Dwalin. The murmurings grew among the guards-especially as a small but determined-looking group of Hobbits joined them and a handful of unfamiliar dwarves completed the group.

“You are requested to leave the Shire immediately, otherwise you will be considered hostile,” Fortinbras announced. Tobruk glanced at the little group and a sneer crossed his face. He drew his sword.

“Kill them!” he yelled.

Thorin drew his sword and punched a hand in the air. Immediately, a hail of arrows fell on the attackers. Tobruk went down, an arrow in his eye and one of Vurth’s men fell next to him. A handful of soldiers cried out, injured and a couple fell from their ponies. 

“Charge!” Nolin roared and urged his horse forward as Gloín reined his pony round and hefted his axe.

“HOLD!” he commanded. “GUARDS-this is an illegal order. Our Oath is to protect the Line of Durin and most of it stands before us. The Council is not the King and they cannot order us to attack and kill the Heirs of the King. STAND BY!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was a sudden change in the atmosphere. The Guards finally looked more resolute and no longer conflicted, no longer being asked to attack those they admired and respected. The Guards all sat straighter in their saddles and their ponies backed away, even as the Lord’s private security charged the defenders.

They scattered and as the ponies roared forward, Dwalin, Thorin and Dis reared up, taking down the riders. Arrows buried in the bodies of the riders as Kíli and his deadly Hobbit archers took a heavy toll. Unexpectedly, a stampeded of extremely large and aggressive pigs thundered through the market place and caused chaos amid the ponies, causing most of those remaining mounted to lose their seats. Glancing around, Thorin raised his sword and took a deep breath.

“DURIN!” he roared and charged, his sister, best friend and oldest nephew closest to him. They hit the line fiercely, hacking away. Thorin swirled and sliced, his speed and skill slicing through men who believed that fancy armour and the protection of a treacherous Lord of Ered Luin was a substitute for years of training and battles fought. He ignored the fact that these were dwarves, that in protecting himself and his friends, family and hosts, he was killing his own kind. Dwalin was hacking away at his side, taking Fíli’s back. Dori was fighting without finesse or experience but putting his strength to good use. Behind them, the Hobbits were ducking and stabbing with their Hobbit-sized swords that Thorin, Fíli, Dis and even Dwalin had forged. Several were wounded and there was blood on the ground but as Thorin tugged his sword from a dwarf bearing the colours of Lord Brago, he saw that the Borderers had worked a system out, their archers concentrating fire on a handful of dwarves and as they fell injured, the nimble swordsmen finished them off. Stabbing and slashing, they were no warriors but they were fierce in the defence of their homes. He glimpsed Ori at the back, wielding his slingshot and an axe with vigour but without great skill. Still, he managed to block a couple of strokes at his older brother and though Dori was clearly mad, he pulled his younger brother against his side and accepted his protection in the battle.

For Thorin, much became a blur. The enemy was no orc but they were as determined to effect his destruction and he allowed his instincts to take over. A duck and spin, wielding his sword with the fury and grace he had used his entire life, cutting and slashing, blocking a sneaky blow aimed at his little sister’s flank only to have Dwalin return the favour moments later. Balin was fighting with the quiet unassuming skill he always had and the Ur family were fierce and loyal in defence, covering each others’ backs. 

And all the while, the Guards stood by.

And then suddenly, there were no more enemies. The dwarrow in the uniforms of the Lords of Ered Luin were defeated, most lying still and only a couple still moving, gravely wounded by the Water, their ponies scattered and the defenders panting and looking around for more opponents. A couple of Hobbits were among those lying on the ground, one definitely dead and several bore significant wounds. Adalgrim and Fortinbras were supporting Sigismund, who was bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound while Bruno Bracegirdle seemed to have lost part of an ear and had a slash across the cheek. The other Hobbits clustered around their wounded while Thorin swiped the sweat and blood from his face and straightened up, reforming the line to face the Guards. Bloody sword raised and relieved that his immediate kin were largely unharmed, he took a pace towards them.

“Your intentions!” he demanded harshly, knowing they were not going to be taken by surprise as the amateurs and that they had been permitted the time to develop tactics to counter their own. The Lieutenant lowered his axe and the Guards dismounted.

“Assist the local forces in collecting the bodies and help with the injured!” Gloín ordered. He turned to the shocked former Prince and saluted. “We are at your command, your Highness,” he announced. “We were sent here with lies and subterfuge. Using the Guards and private armies to invade another land and assassinate you and all the rest of the Line of Durin save the King and Prince Frerin goes against all our Oaths.” Then he turned to Dwalin. “And none of the men would fight against you, Sir.” While he saw his friend scowl but straighten up in appreciation of the compliment, the former slave tried not to smile.

Slowly, Thorin felt the tension ooze from him and he glanced across the battlefield. He would never be able to visit the peaceful market in Hobbiton without seeing this carnage in his mind’s eye? Absently, he wondered what the Hobbits would do. He already knew that they were resilient and brave but such violence was far from commonplace in their sheltered and peaceful lives: no matter what happened next, he would leave an unwanted legacy in the green land. He nodded to Dwalin and Balin, who were talking with Gloin, and turned to Fortinbras and Adalgrim. The Hobbits looked up expectantly.

“You fought well,” the dwarf said. “How is your cousin?”  Adalgrim sighed, gesturing towards where one of the Guards was wrapping a bandage around the injury.

“He’ll live,” he admitted. “And the others?” Dis walked up and sighed.

“They will return to Ered Luin and report that the force was defeated-and that the Shire is under the protection of greater powers,” she said. 

“Under the protection of our dwarvish friends,” Adalgrim added. “What do we do now?”

“Collect the injured and then Dis and Balin will go with you to the Thain to draft a letter of protest to Ered Luin and to your allies,” Thorin decided. “I need to check that all is well at Bag End…” There was a pause and Gloín and Dwalin hastened up.

“There’s one missing,” Dwalin reported. “A smarmy bastard who kept to himself but wore the colours of Lord Farag. He’s not among the dead or the injured and no one recalls seeing him in the battle either.” Thorin stared at him, then took off as if all the orcs in Moria were on his tail. Dwalin ran after him and Fíli and Kíli, who had just arrived. Even as he ran, Thorin’s gaze was fixed on the Hill and the familiar hump of Bag End under its oak. And as they closed, he realised that the green door was yawning open.

They burst in, weapons at hand and panting hard.

“Bilbo? BILBO!” Thorin’s voice echoed through the Smial, the tone frantic. “BILBO?” He ran into the kitchen, the parlour, even his study. But when he reached the narrow passage to the second pantry, he found Bilbo’s little sword and a few spots of blood. Stricken, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. His voice was broken as his nephews appeared at his shoulders.

“Bilbo.”

Chapter Text

Thirty One.

“Bilbo.”

Thorin’s broken voice sounded in the quiet little passage as his nephews stared. They glanced around desperately, refusing to allow themselves to accept the truth.

“BILBO?”

“MISTER BOGGINS?”

Dwalin watched them hare off, searching the smial again, though he knew it would be futile. Warily, he listened, hearing no other sets of breathing or sounds of booted feet.

“Thalia?” he called, his gruff voice loud enough to be heard in the neighbouring rooms. “Battle’s over. Yer can come out.”

There was a pause and then the plain woven rug towards the end of the passage moved and a hidden trapdoor swung up. Thalia lunged forward, a carving knife clamped in her hand, her body landing in a crouch as she sized up the enemies…and he relaxed as she recognised the former Guard Captain and the rightful Crown Prince. Exhaling, the laid the knife down and turned to help her children out of the little hidden hole-which turned out to be an accessory root cellar.

“What happened?” Thorin asked in a toneless voice. He had risen slowly to his feet, his head still bowed and hands fisted at his side. Quietly, Thalia lifted the little form of Milia into her arms, the young dwarfling burying her face in her mother’s neck, a hand twining with the dwarrowdam’s soft reddish beard. 

“Highness, Master Baggins obeyed your orders and made us welcome during the battle. Bifur and Bofur had whittled toys and Timmel was pretending to refight the invasion of Erebor.” Her lips curved in a thin smile, though her eyes were wary. The little boy was huddled against her leg, intimidated by the scowl on the Prince’s face and Dwalin’s tense form, his arms crossed intimidatingly over his chest. “I believe you were just about to slay the dragon when Master Baggins heard sounds that suggested someone had broken in. It was clear they had not come through the front door, which was bolted shut. There were heavy steps, booted steps-a dwarf.” Thorin’s head snapped up.

“Continue,” he growled.

“Master Baggins made us sneak through the kitchen and past the pantry. He opened the root cellar and made us go down and hide. He refused to come as well because it would expose the trapdoor and the intruder could well find us, trapped like rats in a hole. And he was very worried about the safety of my pebbles.” Her voice thickened and she blinked, guilt crossing her features. “I should have insisted. But…I stayed with my children and I heard him move the mat over the opening. And then he walked back towards the pantry when the intruder met him.”

“What happened?”

“Bilbo asked who he was. The intruder gave a name. Prason. There was a scuffle, the sounds of metal on metal-I saw he had a short sword but I guess the fight was brief. I heard a weapon fall to the ground and then the sounds of steps receding and the door being opened.” She swallowed. “I didn’t have the courage to come forth until you arrived, Highness. I feared there were more of them, men who would take my pebbles as hostages. Or kill them. We all know of those who have opposed Vurth or Brago or Hizair who have vanished or found their families slain or shops fired. I couldn’t take the risk.”

Thorin was staring at her so intensely that she felt she might catch on fire and she bowed her head, nuzzling against her daughter.

“Are you mad at Amad?” The little treble  voice of the boy snapped Thorin from his daze and he looked down at Timmel, seeing the pebble staring up at the former Prince with big, frightened eyes and abruptly, he was reminded of Kíli as a child. Quietly, Thorin dropped to a crouch and faced the young dwarfling, eye to eye. 

“No, little one,” he said in a low voice, the anger still vibrating through his tone. “Your Amad is brave and wise in protecting you. I am…mad…at the one who stole Master Baggins. Who hurt Master Baggins.” Then the boy gave a grave nod.

“But you will get him back,” he said simply. “You’re Prince Thorin Oakenshield. You killed the Pale Orc. He won’t stand a chance against you.”

Thorin flinched and rose, then turned and stalked away, deeper into the smial as Dwalin frowned. Thalia looked concerned.

“Have we offended the Prince?” she asked, glancing in the direction he had vanished but the tattooed warrior shook his head.

“He is offended but not at you,” he admitted gruffly. “Thorin owes his life to Master Baggins and counts him as a close friend, as kin. He blames himself because he was not here.” 

“Let’s get something to drink,” Kíli suggested, arriving back with his brother. He smiled at the children. “I wonder if there are any cookies…” The little dwarfling looked ashamed.

“Ate them all…” he admitted in a small voice. “Master Bilbo gave ‘em to us to keep us quiet.” Not daring to look at Dwalin, who was the chief devourer of cookies in Bag End, Kíli grinned. 

“I’m sure we can find some more sweet treats,” he suggested and offered the boy his hand. Nervously, Timmel took it and allowed Kíli to swing him into his arms. “Now I’m pretty sure Bilbo made some honey and pecan muffins that Master Dwalin hasn’t eaten yet…” And he wandered off, still chattering as Thalia followed. She paused for a second, glancing at Dwalin.

“I truly am sorry,” she said and then followed the younger Prince. Dwalin sighed and then turned to follow his friend. He met Fíli on the way and the older Prince wordlessly followed, walking through the kitchen and along the passage, into the main parlour and through until they found Thorin, standing outside Bilbo’s bedroom. The former Prince was staring at the door, the smooth wood and worn handle familiar. Thorin was breathing hard, his shoulders tense and fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. Suddenly, he gave a roar of rage and slammed his fist into the wall, his head hanging afterwards and hand hanging limply by his side. 

Bilbo had been taken, kidnapped and whisked away from his safe and bountiful home as a pawn in the game that was being played in the Court of Ered Luin. As bait to draw back the former Prince so that he would finally return to his home, the home he was exiled from and forbidden to return to. And he knew the risks: that horrific dream he had suffered after arriving at Bag End was an accurate picture of what he could expect if he was captured. It was a trap, the final gambit to dispose of the inconvenient and dangerous last threat to their plans. It was obvious to Thorin’s mind from the reports of his sister, sister-sons and cousins that Frerin had no interest in working for the best interests of the people and his father, by all accounts, was deteriorating rapidly and was already barely ruling on his own. Thorin was the last obstacle that needed removing-and if the manoeuvres so far hadn’t worked, then this seemed to be the last gambit.

Not that he was afraid. No, he had long passed through fear and concern for his own existence. His life had been planned from birth, his training focussed on producing a future King of Erebor-and now Ered Luin-and that meant an acceptance of sacrifice, of surrendering his life where it was necessary for the safety of his people. He could still recall Azanulbizar-for no one who had trod upon that charnel field would ever forget the sights or sounds or smells of the battle. 

The countless hoards of Orcs, pouring from the gates of Khazad-dûm, the stink of their bodies and breath and blood tainting the hallowed lands before Durin’s greatest Kingdom. The sounds of roars and battle cries, the clash of metal on metal, the softer sounds of weapons meeting flesh, the squelch of blood-soaked earth underfoot, the soft groans and sighs of the dying. And the feel of adrenaline, surging through his body, weighing Deathless in his hand and facing the enemy.

But he had been there, killing another out of a thousand foes when he saw the monster, saw the sneer of hatred and triumph on Azog’s face as he raised Thror’s severed head above his desecrated body and sneered at the shocked army before casting the remains aside to roll down the rocky promontory like a child’s toy. His Sigin’Adad, the King, the direct descendent of Durin, a man whose mind was largely lost to madness and Dragon-Sickness but who had once been a beloved relative and was still his liege… Thrain had gone down as well, a slash opening his face and taking an eye, his body carried hence by brave defenders who had sacrificed their lives to make sure he was away. Thrain’s mind was lost as well to grief and pain, leaving only his son to lead.

And then he had found himself facing Azog, his shield lost and Deathless slammed from his nerveless hand. The blow had thrown him down the low slope, rolling down rocks and landing hard on the stone. His hand found the branch, wielding it to deflect the blows of the mace that had threatened to end him as well until he could grasp Deathless and, allowing the image of Thror’s head to fit him with certainty and fury, he had struck. The arm plying the mace was struck off at the elbow, the stink of orc blood encouraging Thorin to roll to his feet. Azog’s pallid eyes widened in shock and hatred-but before he could retreat, the dwarf Prince lunged again, Deathless slicing deep into the Pale Orc’s leg and, as Azog stumbled, the final blow severed his head from his body.

Breathing hard, Thorin stared down at the remains of the giant orc, the creature that had sworn the end of his line. Deathless was secure in his hand, the oaken branch still held as a shield as he spat on the corpse. Azog the Defiler was dead, beyond all doubt, and the Line of Durin endured. Thrain was alive though injured. Thorin yet breathed. His younger brother and sister were safe. Azog had failed-and the orcs were leaderless.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!” The roar crashed over the field like a wave and when he called, they answered. The charge with every surviving warrior pushed the filth back, slaughtering them as  they tried to scramble back to their pits, staining the ground with orc blood and clearing out much of Durin’s Kingdom with the ferocity of the battle. In the end, it was a great victory, a slaughter that made all safer and ended the war with the orcs…for the moment. But it was not a triumph, for the King and his Adviser, Fundin son of Farin, had fallen along with two thirds of all the dwarven forces. Many more were wounded and Thorin did what he could to see that all who had any hope were treated with every technique available. But there was not enough stone to bury the dead-even the King-so Thorin had to commit one last unforgivable crime and gave the order to burn the dead, instead of returning them to the stone as was the way of their people. He knew he would have to answer for the actions when he faced Mahel once his days were done but in the end, he could not leave his people rotting while they scavenged for rocks to build cairns over the bodies or allow orcs and vermin the feast on the bloated corpses.

And if he had died then, he would have died the Prince. Now, if he died, he was nothing-no Prince, no family name, no home or craft to claim as his own. But the fact he breathed terrified his enemies so much they had invaded a neighbouring land, attempted assassination and intimidation and had brought war to the peaceful Shire. And all to end Thrain’s lost and exiled older son.

“Thorin?”

He blinked and turned, seeing his best friend and elder nephew standing behind him. There was a dent in the wall and blood on his knuckles. Strange…he couldn’t even recall punching the plaster…and it barely hurt…while his heart hurt more than he could have imagined..

“They have him.” His tone was devoid of any warmth.

“We’ll get him back,” Dwalin reassured him.

“But I promised he would be safe," he said in a voice edged with self-loathing. “I promised to protect him."

“And you did,” Fíli told him urgently, his eyes filled with determination. The older brother, he had been raised by Thorin to expect to be his Heir and the Crown Prince had tailored his education to that end. And though he was as close to his younger brother as a twin and a terror of Ered Luin with his jokes and pranks, he had a sense of responsibility that occasionally reared it head. At the moment, he knew his Uncle desperately needed the reassurance. “You kept him from the battle because he would have been in far more danger. You asked him to care for Bombur’s family and he did.” 

“I know the name Prason son of Grason,” Dwalin added abruptly. “So does my brother. We’ve been trying to watch him for years.” Thorin looked up.

“Trying to?” he said with a frown.

“He was the one who knew about the assassination attempt,” Fíli realised. “He was only one there who didn’t look shocked when the accusation was voiced.”

“He was more than that,” Kíli said, joining them and then his eyes unfocussed. He had been further away, sitting in the trees with his archers but his eyesight was exceptional. “He was the one here when they tried to assassinate Uncle.” Fíli stared at him. “The one who got away.”

“You’re sure?” he checked and his younger brother nodded.

“I got a quick look as he vanished between those two bushes,” he admitted. “It was the same dwarf.”

“Who does Prason work for?” Thorin demanded, his head snapping up. Dwalin gave a grim smile.

“Lord Farag, Leader of the Council of Ered Luin,” he revealed with loathing as the former Prince stiffened. Then he nodded.

“Then it’s time to go home-and show Farag that the Line of Durin is not to be blackmailed, threatened or attacked. And that I will do what I have to if it means I save Bilbo.”

-o0o-

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open and he grimaced as the jogging of a pony jolted his head back and forth. He looked up-to see that he was seated on a pony, positioned among several packs with his hands tied firmly to the saddle-bow. His head hurt and he clawed at scrambled memories, recalling the unfamiliar armoured shape and knowing why he had broken into Bag End. Knowing that Thalia and her children were behind him. Raising his little sword and parrying a few strokes, but knowing the dwarf was toying with him…and then the abrupt, swift attack that disarmed him and had a knife digging into his neck. Hissed words…and then a blow to the head that had him slumping unconscious.

He glanced up, blinking against the harsh sunlight that flooded the land. It was a glorious summer’s day, one of the best and as he tried to work out where he was, he saw rolling hills and lack of woods that suggested the Northfarthing. Then he tugged at his wrists and tried to pull his hands free.

“You’re welcome to make the effort but it is futile,” a strange voice said, the thick accent typical of dwarves. It was different to Thorin’s, more akin to that Bofur and Bombur had and Bilbo had to blink twice to get his scattered wits to focus on the probe at hand.

“Why have you kidnapped me?” he asked pointedly. “I am just a simple Hobbit. I have little in the way of money and no gold. I certainly have no jewels and wealth that would interest you. Nor do my family, though we have larger homes than most. I fear any ransom you ask for will be…”

“My Lord is not a kidnapper,” the dwarf sneered, his eyes cold and devoid of any pity. “He is a hunter. And you are the bait.”

“What?” Bilbo asked, a jolt of anxiety turning his stomach-an incredibly unpleasant feeling for any Hobbit. The dwarf half-turned, his face twisted into a cruel smirk. 

“There is significant objective evidence that Thorin cares for you and your safety,” the dwarf snapped. “And you saved his life.”

“He was a guest…”

“I have little patience with lies,” the dwarf said coldly. 

“And a friend,” Bilbo conceded. Surprisingly, the dwarf gave a nasty laugh.

“Then his affections are unrequited. How sad,” he sneered. “You have been taken to draw Thorin back. And when he returns, he will finally be disposed of.”

“But why?” Bilbo demanded, his fingers still discreetly fumbling at the heavy knot in the ropes around his wrists. “He’s been exiled and disowned He can’t come back…”

“You know, the sheep sometimes recall that there are more of them than their are nobles-and if they rise up and demand the ‘real Crown Princess restored,” the dwarf snapped the beads in his beard clicking slightly as he gurned in annoyance. “However, if Thorin Oakenshield, the hero of Azanulbizar was killed attacking Ered Luin, then they would accept their fate.”

“Or you could just treat them properly,” Bilbo suggested, his eyes on the dwarf. The dwarf seemed very confident and certainly, he had planned his actions very carefully. He was stocky, powerful and well-armed and he was clearly a better fighter than Bilbo. There was only one chance-and the Hobbit would have to pick his moment very carefully. The dwarf tugged on the reins of Bilbo’s pony, causing it to break into a short trot that had the Hobbit squeaking in shock and jouncing along clumsily.

“I would concentrate on your own problems,” the dwarf sneered. “We’re almost beyond the Shire already and if you slow me down, I won’t hesitate to knock you out and carry you like a sack of rocks. You will come to Ered Luin and you will help us dispose of Thorin, whether you want to or not.”

-o0o-

Isengrim was expecting the dwarvish delegation who arrived at the Great Smials at Tuckborough and there was a certain sense of relief that Thorin led the group of four into the second-best parlour rather than unknown hostiles. As usual, the dwarves refused the offer of tea, though Adamanta had left a large plate of lemon cookies and orange shortbread on the table just in case. And the Thain was interested to note the presence of an unfamiliar dwarf, wearing impressive armour.

Balin and Dís watched as Thorin introduced Gloin.

“This is Gloín son of Groín, Lieutenant of the Ered Luin Guards and leader of the Guards who comprised about half of the invading force,” Thorin explained. “Gloín, this is Thain Isengrim Took, the leader of the Shire.” The flame-haired dwarf gave a decorous bow.

“Sir,” he said, his expression serious.

“I take it that Lieutenant Gloín’s presence here is significant,” the Thain said, gesturing for them all to take a seat on the couches while he settled in his own comfortable wing-backed chair, adjusting the cushion and sipping his blackberry and redcurrant tea. 

“The victory was due to Gloín’s actions in stopping the Guards taking part,” Thorin explained, his voice hard. “Your Shirriffs and Bounders as well as your relatives fought very bravely.” He allowed himself a slight smile. “Fierce Hobbits indeed. Sigismund Took received a deep wound to the shoulder and flank but I am assured he will make a full recovery. One Shirriff was similarly hurt and there was one death: a Bounder named Florien Heartyside was killed in the first attack.”

“Are my people safe?” Isengrim asked directly. 

“The private soldiers who attacked the Shire are all defeated,” Balin said, his voice warm and reassuring. He and the Thain had developed an amiable working relationship and a nascent friendship and Thorin had realised he was the best person to explain the details. “Several of the Lords of Ered Luin have their own private forces and they were dispatched along with a contingent of the official Guards.”

“However, the Captain they sent-the Captain they appointed to replace Captain Dwalin-was a tool of the Council,” Gloín explained, his voice gruff. “No one trusted him. And none of this made any sense to us. We swore our Oath to the Line of Durin and Ered Luin. Not a bunch of prissy Lords who are only interested in clawing at each other for power and raising taxes that force dwarrow to starve.” He took a breath to try to calm himself. “When Captain Tobruk fell, I was left in charge. And I deemed his orders illegal. What we were doing was illegal.”

“That decision saved our lives,” Dís explained, her voice clipped and serious. “Without them, the odds were in our favour. The attacking force was defeated.”

But Isengrim was staring at Thorin, reading the tension in the former Prince’s shoulders and the absolute control of his face. But Thorin’s clear blue eyes were filled with shame.

“Is there something you need to tell me, Thorin Oakenshield?” the Thain insisted. The ex-slave rose to his feet and walked across the space, his heavy boots thudding on the orange and red woven carpet before he dropped to his knees, drawing out his knife and offering it, handle-first, to the Thain. 

“I failed,” he said, his voice filled with self-loathing. “I gave my promise I would protect Bilbo and persuaded him to stay in Bag End with a dwarrowdam and her children, but a cowardly agent of the Lords broke in and attacked him, taking him as a hostage.” He looked up. “I promised I would protect him. I failed you and I failed him. So take my beard, Thain Isengrim. Or take my braids. Or my life. It is my fault.”

The Thain inspected him, setting his china cup down with a chink that was loud in the sudden silence. Adjusting his blue and bronze waistcoat, he rose to his feet and looked down on the dwarf-then he took the knife from unresisting hands.

“Answer me this,” Isengrim asked him after a long moment considering the weapon. “I am aware that hair and beards are important to your people. Would my shaming and dishonouring you further for something that was the result of the actions of another help retrieve my nephew in any way? Would cutting your beard or braids hasten Bilbo’s return? Would murdering you in cold blood, a guest in the Shire and a dear friend of my nephew, effect Bilbo’s return safely? And would it help him or you or your people in any way, Thorin?”

Thorin’s head snapped up and he stared at the old Hobbit in disbelief.

“It is your right,” he said quietly.

“Not in the Shire,” Isengrim told him wearily and rested the knife on the elegant walnut side-table next to his cup and saucer. “I don’t want you shamed or wounded or dead. I don’t want harmed one who has suffered much and who is dear to my nephew. One who is clearly honourable and brave and who has fought to protect my people.”

Dís rolled her eyes and Balin looked exasperated. Gloín frowned. 

“I would rather you worked off any sense of guilt by rescuing my nephew and doing what you have to in order to prevent this happening again,” Isengrim said sternly. “This is not the Shire’s problem and I do not want my people attacked, forced from their homes or killed because of your internal problems. Can you do that, Thorin Oakenshield?” Taking a long breath, Thorin nodded and slowly rose to his feet.

“Aye,” he said grimly. “That I can.” Balin looked over at him and then at Dís, hearing the same grim tone in his voice he recalled from the aftermath of Azanulbizar and gave the fateful order to burn the bodies. It was a decision that had haunted the former Prince-but he knew then and now that it was the only option. She nodded in response to the old Adviser’s silent query, reaching the same conclusion as him.

“No, laddie-we can do that,” he said determinedly. “I have my contacts and agents. We have Gloin here and his men. And we have most of the Line of Durin with us.”

“Our father is no longer in control of Ered Luin-but the question is whether Frerin is exploiting the situation or actively aiding our enemies,” Dís added. 

“Either way, he needs to be stopped,” Gloín offered. “I am sorry but among the common dwarrow of Ered Luin, no one sees him as anything but a tool of the Council. They want you back.”

Thorin gave a bitter laugh and his eyes flashed with anger. All of those wrongs that had been done to him reared up in his memory and he finally allowed the fury to wrap over him like a blanket, solidifying his resolve.

“I will return to Ered Luin…but only to rescue my friend…and end those who threatened him.”

Chapter Text

Thirty Two.

Bilbo glanced up blearily, turning his head to try to work out where he was. He was lashed to the saddle-bow and the packs and his feet were tied to the stirrups while he was blindfolded with a cloth was was so tight it bit painfully into his sensitive ears. And by the sounds of the hooves, they were now on a stone-paved path which likely meant they were close to Ered Luin.

But he hadn’t given up, despite the lack of food and casual cruelty that the dwarf, Prason son of Grason, showed to him. The dwarf had kept him tied up constantly and he gave him just enough water to keep the Hobbit alive. Tied up and unable to engage his captor in any conversation, Bilbo had set to wondering what he could do to help himself. He knew that many of his people would have given up and settled into a pall of despair and inertia but Bilbo was half-Took as well as a Baggins and Tooks never gave up. No matter how desperate the situation, he was not alone. After all, how could he give up when Thorin had kept on his defiance against all possible odds? His friend, the dwarf who had come to mean so much to Bilbo against all rhyme and reason, had surrendered to save his closest kin, seeing Dis and Fili and Kili threatened with slavery and abuse. And now knowing them as he did, Bilbo could understand why he would give up everything for those he loved. Imagining proud Dis, beaten and abused to try to break her iron will or Fili and Kili in chains, their bright and optimistic personalities crushed by relentless brutality, had Bilbo feeling a fiercely protective streak. He had accepted them into his home and his heart, coming to care for them as his own kin-and far more than several of them (Lobelia, of course).

When faced with a similar choice, Bilbo had realised how easy it was to make the decision when motivated. How could he allow a wife and her two small children to be used against Thorin and the Company? How could he allow Bombur to be distraught when he realised his wife and offspring were taken as hostages? Far better it was Bilbo, who had no spouse or children, whose parents were dead and whose family would cope with his loss…

But then there was Thorin. The brave and noble dwarf, bitter and mostly broken after three years of slavery, had slowly recovered, trusting the Hobbit and accepting being cared for by someone other than himself for no ulterior motive. The pair had become closer during Thorin’s time in Bag End and Bilbo would be lying if he didn’t enjoy every moment spent in his presence. Whenever he saw his friend, at peace and smiling, Bilbo felt a warmth spread through his chest. When Thorin had arrived, he had been wary and suspicious and terribly, terribly hurt. Bilbo would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the most empathic of creatures but he had no difficulty in reading the dwarf and he had seen the self-loathing and despair in the former Prince’s eyes. Losing his people, his home, his family and his honour-which seemed to be of paramount importance to any dwarf-had been catastrophic blows for Thorin and it was only his inherent stubbornness that had kept him alive. The peace of the Shire, the welcome by the majority of the people and being treated like anyone else had done wonders for Thorin Oakenshield.

There was a part of Bilbo-probably the Took part-that understood that Thorin’s shy and awkward attempts at spending time with his friend-including the picnic-maybe meant more than simple friendship. Bilbo would be lying if his own feeling for Thorin were simple: there was a definite attraction there because Thorin was handsome with his definite features, noble bearing and startlingly blue eyes, but more, for there was the sense of a connection between the two. And all that time before the others arrived, those quiet evenings and companionable meals and the sense of rightness in having Thorin there had stirred something in Bilbo’s heart. But there was no way that Thorin could ever reciprocate Bilbo’s secret hopes, for Thorin was a dwarf prince, descended from the founder of their race, Durin himself. Surely he would seek companionship among his own race, would only hand his heart over to a dwarrowdam of noble lineage who could understand the secret dwarvish things that Bilbo could never share in or comprehend properly. Friendship was the best that Bilbo could hope for and he would treasure that for as long as he was permitted it. Because maybe, with the attack and the machinations of those who had sent assassins and armies against the Shire, Thorin was already dead…or if he had survived, he would leave to reclaim his home and end things, once and for all.

Bilbo blinked. Thorin was alive. His heart told him that his friend was alive and so did his intellect, because surely they would only bother with taking a hostage if he was needed to try to leverage his friend…but as soon as the dwarf Prince had defeated those who had engineered his capture and slavery, he would surely return home to Ered Luin and the people he had missed so fiercely since his enslavement. And though Bilbo would be bereft and heartbroken, he would be happy for his friend’s return to everything he loved and the family he had missed so badly.

But Bilbo was in peril. He had waited, knowing he would have little chance while they were still in the Shire, for the dwarf would expect him to try to return home immediately. But he could see that he was closely watched and bound cruelly. He had worked on the knots that first day but Prason had cruelly tightened them and tied him further up when they had stopped. Bilbo had expected it, bowing his head and appearing cowed, for the dwarf underestimated the Hobbit. To Prason, Hobbits were soft, peaceable creatures that deserved no respect, had no useful qualities and were only of value as hostages. 

It was on the third day, after seeing the Prason had barely slept and they had left the Shire behind, that Bilbo made his move, slipping his ropes at twilight and flinging himself from the pony as they passed a field of brush. Before the dwarf could even yell, Bilbo had thrown himself amid the gorse and ducked down, sprinting as fast and silently as he could, unconscious of the spines scratching his skin and ripping at his clothes. He hadn’t cared because he needed to put distance between himself and Prason, knowing the ponies wouldn’t enter the brush field. And once he was far enough ahead, he could employ his Hobbit skills of stealth and silence and find some way to outdistance the dwarf in the falling gloom. In fact, the only thing that could betray him was the fact that it was late summer and the evenings and twilight were long. 

But he ducked under a bush, trying to calm his breathing, he listened out. Hobbit ears were very sensitive and he listened carefully for the sounds of the ponies, audible in the distance. But he couldn’t hear the sounds of pursuit. Quietly, he sat there, frowning and permitting his breathing to almost fall to silence. 

A crack sounded to his left and he froze, not taking the bait and breaking cover. There was a swish and an axe swiped through the bush next to him.

“I know you’re in here!” Prason roared, though the sounds of his voice indicated he was facing the opposite way. “Now if you come out now, we’ll say no more about it. I don’t want to hurt you, Halfling, but I will if I have to stop you trying to escape again.”

I don’t believe you, Bilbo thought quietly, listening harder and finally tracking the dwarf’s steps further away. Silently, he slipped out and scuttled through the brush, heading away from the road and the dwarf. Trying as hard as he could, he trod silently, wishing he could find some water or some food.His stomach was so empty is hurt and his throat was parched. He felt dizzy when he moved his head too quickly and he knew his concentration wasn’t as it should be. But he wouldn’t give in. If he let Prason take him, they would trick Thorin back to Ered Luin and he would be captured and killed.

He stumbled, almost falling, then caught himself and listened. Now he had tuned into it, he was shocked at how quietly a dwarf could move in his heavy metal-capped boots and armour. He quickly scuttled on, moving deeper and deeper in the brush, finally crawling under an almost impenetrable knot of gorse and waiting, listening.

Night deepened until it was completely dark, a few cold stars poking through high cloud. The temperature was dropping and Bilbo began to shiver. His stomach was threatening to growl loud enough to be heard back in Hobbiton and he clutched at it, hoping that he would escape, that Prason would give up and that he would get home. But mostly, he really wanted to be warmer. The night was silent and cold and Bilbo wondered if he was alone…

And then he smelled it: the familiar scent of burning wood. He frowned, wondering what was happening when he glanced up and saw behind him, there was light. Golden and orange, flickering like…flames. And there was heat, closing as the flames leapt from one bush to another, the tinder-dry gorses and brush lighting like tinder and exploding into flames. The fire was moving terrifyingly fast, closing on him and the way he had hoped to go was blocked by flames, scorching heat and billowing black smoke. There really was no choice now: he emerged from his hiding place and ran for it. He could feel the heat now, not just warm but hot on the back of his neck, the needles raking his legs as he sprinted. He thought he could see the edge of the brush patch, the darkness beyond illuminated hesitatingly as he burst through the line and stumbled on the dry grass…

And then he went down as a heavy body hit him, the cold edge of steel biting into his neck.

“I knew I’d flush you out eventually,” Prason growled. A hand brutally tightened on Bilbo’s arm. “Like a rat in a hole. But I can’t afford to lose you. My life would be forfeit if I came back with nothing this time.”

Bilbo didn’t have time to process the information because something struck his head and his consciousness fled.

And now they were approaching Ered Luin and he had been tied up and blindfolded for the last four days. Thorin had told him it was about a week from Ered Luin to the Shire so their journey was almost over. And somewhere ahead was the dwarf who had orchestrated the whole thing, who had caused Bilbo’s friend to be taken into slavery and abused so badly. And Bilbo was going to meet him.

He raised his chin as the ponies changed direction and the sense of space vanished. Sounds were more muffled and echoey and there were the sound of other people, carts and horses. The susurration of conversation and shouts of dwarves noticing Bilbo started to sound and the Hobbit mentally prepared himself.

They had arrived.

-o0o-

It was not the return to Ered Luin that Thorin had imagined. If you pressed him, he could not have told you exactly what he had imagined for his return-in chains, rescued by his family, pardoned by his father, summoned home back to the bosom his people…but none of those scenarios had included sneaking in the lowest caverns under the mountains. Not that it would ever have occurred to him, since he had never been there in his life before today.

The Company, as he had started to think of them, had saddled up and ridden hard for Ered Luin, not one refusing the challenge. There had been some debate about leaving Kili and Ori behind but Fili had refused to be separated from his brother, Dis had refused to leave her sons behind for fear of the chaos they would cause and Dori refused to allow Ori out of his sight after his unauthorised participation in the battle of Hobbiton. Thorin grimaced: though all of them acknowledged him as their leader, not one thought twice about arguing his or her point when it suited them. His sister-who had always been fearsome-had threatened to knock him senseless and sling him over the back of his pony, only allowing him to wake when they were all safely out of the Shire. There had been a shocked silence at her declaration since everyone now knew what had happened to Thorin (in varying detail) and the statement was really too close to the bone. Even Dis had finally lowered her eyes and apologised-though not for refusing to leave her sons behind.

“If you care for the Shirelings, you won’t expose them to Fili and Kili without their mother’s moderating influence,” she had snapped and finally he had agreed. In fact, it was only Thalia, Milia and Timmel who had remained behind, lodging with the Thain and his family in Tuckborough for safety. Bag End had been locked up and the key given to Hamfast for safe-keeping, with orders to keep everyone-especially the Sackville-Bagginses-out. 

They had ridden hard and direct for Ered Luin, eschewing the East-West Road that the Guards had taken. Gloin had filled them in on the current political situation and had invited them to his home when they arrived, accepting the danger because he could see that now was the time to act if they didn’t want to accept tyranny. And when the Company had parted from the guards, they had all sworn to secrecy and welcomed back their Captain and their Crown Prince with enthusiasm. Dwarrow respected strength and honesty: both dwarves displayed both in abundance and fighting alongside their own forces had impressed the Guards, while their own Lords and Prince were notably missing from such a contentious and abhorrent mission.

There was something about being underground-really underground, in stone not earth, though Thorin would never insult Bilbo by saying that about Bag End-that made the former Prince’s senses soar. The feeling of the solid bones of the Middle Earth around him, crafted by the hand of Mahal himself, made the dwarf feel grounded and safe for the first time. The years above ground, enduring starvation, humiliation and torment, seemed to fade a little as he felt the familiar feel of Ered Luin. Old, solid, seamed with copper, silver and iron and relatively few gemstones, they had never been as rich as Erebor or Khazad-dûm but they were as old and had been inhabited almost continuously since Durin had woken. And Thorin could sense the fractures, the damage caused by the War of Wrath, many thousands of years earlier, where the world had been reshaped and the lands west of Ered Luin had fallen. The mountains were no longer as complete but they were strong and they were home. 

He blinked and pulled his hood up as they left the ponies in a meadow by the steep stream that half-concealed the entrance to the lowest caves. There was little to be gained by revealing himself too soon but he knew that could not last. And when word of his return got round, the fun would begin and they would all be in mortal peril. He glanced at Balin and nodded. The old dwarf gave a nod, raised his lantern and walked deeper in.

It didn’t take Thorin long to realise what Bilbo had commented on several times: dwarves really had no clue how to be quiet. There was chattering and griping, the thud of armoured boots and a few laughs as they meandered deeper into the cave system. If they sought stealth, it would be hopeless and he missed Bilbo’s silent approach and ability to be quiet even more keenly. There were a few lanterns already placed on the walls and in the end, Balin extinguished his own, for it was not needed. Dwarvish eyesight was sufficient with the dim glow of the lamps-probably maintained by smugglers-to find their way. Surefooted and certain of his route, Balin had been this way once-on the way out-but he had an excellent sense of direction. Unlike Thorin, who would privately admit that his ability to find his way was a bit of a joke in his family and would have got turned around and lost after the first cavern. He signalled to the Company and they stopped talking, though there were still whispers.

But it was as they rounded a corner that Balin jerked back and his face paled.

“They’ve put guards at the entrance,” he hissed in irritation. “Someone knows about this place.”

“They weren’t here before?” Dis checked.

“No,” Dwalin grunted, his hands twitching. He stole a peek round the corner. There were a good ten yards between the corner and the natural archway to the tunnel that were exposed and would allow the guards to raise the alarm if the were charged. Thorin peeked around as well-then turned to his nephews.

“Fili, Kili-can you take them down?” he asked, not looking at Dis who glared at him. The young dwarves peered round the corner of rock and nodded. Kili nocked an arrow to his bow while Fili drew out one of his throwing knives.

“You can trust us, Uncle,” he said seriously and nodded to his younger brother. “On three?”

Moving silently, the young Princes stepped back, raising their weapons, then suddenly popped round the corner. The twang of the bowstring sounded almost simultaneously with two thuds and a couple of hisses of breath. And then the boys nodded and vanished forward. Following, his sword unsheathed, Thorin saw the guards lying slumped at their posts, one with an arrow in his heart and the other with a knife driven deep into his neck. The Princes were retrieving their weapons as Bifur and Bofur dragged the bodies to the side and into the shadows. Pausing, Thorin grasped the boys’ shoulders.

“Good work,” he said honestly. “I am honoured.” 

Their grins were blinding, pride written all over their faces.

“We would do anything to help you, Uncle,” Kili said as he slung his bow back over his shoulder. Smiling, the former Prince, pulled the young dwarf forward, pressing his forehead against his in an intimate gesture, then repeated the action with Fili.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

“Touching,” an unfamiliar voice sneered and Thorin looked up, his sword rising to face the unknown. A shape moved in the shadows, middling in height with hair pulled into a unique three-pointed shape. Ori gasped and surged forward.

“Nori!” he exclaimed and flung himself on his middle brother. Shocked, the middle Ri brother found himself being clutched by his younger brother and glared at Balin even as he hugged Ori.

“You promised to get them out!” he accused.

“And I did, laddie,” Balin acknowledged. “But when Prason and the army tried to invade the Shire, we had to return to stop it. And yes, I did suggest he stayed behind-but his brother would not hear of it!” Finishing his hug, Nori now glared at Dori, who treated him to a superior look.

“I couldn’t leave him among strangers,” he said immediately.

“I wouldn’t keep him here,” Nori retorted. “Situation here ain’t any better. Lords are pretty much running the show now. King hasn’t been seen for weeks and the Crown Prince is issuing edicts in the King’s name.” Balin and Dis shared concerned looks.

“You think it’s too late?” the Princess murmured. Balin nodded.

“It suggests the King is dead or dying and they are consolidating their power before it becomes official,” he mused as Thorin stared deeper into the tunnel.

“Is there no one who can be trusted?” he asked.

“Only those here, I think,” the old dwarf admitted. “Gloin and his family. And his brother, the healer.”

“Aye, he’s a fine fellow,” Bofur put in, walking forward. “Always does great work for our family.” He looked over at the thief, who was glaring at his brothers. “How are you, my friend?” Suddenly, Nori broke into a smile.

“They roped you into this nightmare as well?” he asked.

“Oh aye-though we left my sister-in-law and the pebbles somewhere safe,” Bofur grinned and the two dwarves embraced. 

“I’m sorry you’re here,” Nori admitted.

“I’m not. If home is worth fighting for, then now is the time when we have to do it,” Bofur told him. 

“They have taken a friend hostage,” Thorin put in, speaking for the first time.

“Instead of Thalia, Milia and Timmel,” Bofur helpfully added in.

“He has been brought here by a dwarf named Prason son of Grason, Can you help us?”

Nori inspected him closely and then gave the slightest bow of the head possible.

“Yes, yer Highness,” he said grimly. “I know him well. But I think you don’t. The mountain is full of guards, mostly private. The actual guards only work on the legitimate entrances. Everyone else-including those two you dispatched-are private guards. They play fast and loose with the laws and will set upon you as soon as look as you. So making its way through the habitation levels will be fun. But worse…Prason son of Grason returned an hour ago. With some strange creature with big feet and no beard.”

“Bilbo! He’s alive!” Kili exclaimed.

“Well, he may not be for much longer,” Nori told them grimly. “Prason officially works for Farag as his assassin and ‘disposer of problems’. But in reality, Prason is playing both sides because he is also employed by the Prince-and guess who is going to see your Bilbo first?”

Thorin’s face hardened and his glare would have melted steel.

“My brother,” he murmured. Nori gave a bitter laugh.

“You know, I would almost sympathise with you because I know what having a troublesome brother is like…” Dori snorted loudly. “But yours is so much worse than mine. I can follow Prason but in the end, it may not make a difference. Everything seems to point to the fact that Frerin is insane, meaning he may kill Bilbo before you can ever get to save him.”

Chapter Text

Thirty Three.

Bilbo glanced around the tiny room he had been left it. It was little more than a closet-or a pantry. There was room to lie down, a pitcher of water and some hard waybread that Prason had referred to as ‘cram’ which tasted approximately like rock but at least filled his very empty stomach for a little while. He was grimy and aching and cold and wished that he was home-but he was also surprised to realise that he understood much of what was going on, because against his expectations, many people spoke Westron.

He had expected the dwarves to use their Secret sacred language, Khuzdûl, in everyday life and the fact those here didn’t was a bit of a surprise. He knew that Thorin spoke the language effortlessly and had been responsible for teaching his nephews and that Dis and Balin spoke it easily and naturally-though they had been asked by Thorin not to so they didn’t exclude their host from the conversation. But it had never struck him, though it probably should, that the rest of the Company didn’t speak Khuzdûl at all, either between themselves or even as curse-words (which they tended to use rather liberally, much to the chagrin of his Hobbit sensibilities). And Ori had told him that he was being taught Khuzdûl by Balin as part of his scribe training-so clearly it wasn’t universally spoken among many of the ‘normal’ dwarven families in Ered Luin. But that could perhaps be to Bilbo’s advantage as he heard steps approach and the sounds of voices.

“Where is he?” The voice was gruff, commanding and sounded very business-like. There was a pause and the sound of heavy, familiar steps closed.

“Regrettably, my Lord, I was seen by the Prince’s men and he demanded to see the Halfling himself,” the voice of Prason said, an unfamiliar respectful tone. 

“Have you forgotten who you work for?” the stranger growled, bristling with anger.

“Of course not, my Lord,” Prason said smoothly, his tone calculatedly even. “I am fully aware that my allegiances are solely to you and the Council you lead. But while the Crown Prince remains as the official and legal leader of Durin’s folk in Ered Luin second to the King, then I am bound to obey his direct commands, for fear of losing my beard or my life.” There was a grunt that could have been an acknowledgement of the dwarf’s words or simply and dismissal that the unseen Lord didn’t care about his servant’s fate s long as he followed his master’s orders to the letter.

“See he is not harmed and bring him to me the moment that fool has finished stroking his ego,” the Lord hissed. Heavy footsteps retreated and there was a pause before Prason’s steps approached. Bilbo retreated to the far corner of the little closet and blinked as Prason opened the door.

“You have an appointment,” the dwarf snapped, reaching for the Hobbit. Bilbo cringed back.

“Aren’t you worried your master will realise you are two-timing him for the Prince?” he asked pointedly. “We both know what you said was a lie-meaning you’re playing them off against one another. What do you hope to gain?” The dwarf grinned through his beard, his eyes cold and expression predatory.

“Advancement and the favour of the ruler-and whether it is the Crown Prince or Farag-which will make me rich and influential,” Prason said. “I’m not allowing some Morgoth-damned Halfling derail my plans when I am so close. So you will keep your mouth shut. Otherwise…well, both my patrons are powerful and dislike other races. Do you think Hobbits make good slaves? Perhaps I will suggest it…if I find my future prosperity compromised. I could make a killing selling your people. Literally.”

Bilbo allowed himself to be jerked forward and hauled out through a door concealed in the stone panelling, glancing around the smooth passageway with the embedded crystals in their little lanterns in the walls, casting a warm amber light that showed even this secret way had been finished with some care.  From what he had read and heard from his friends, the dwarves who had sought sanctuary in his home, he would have expected nothing less, but it made him wonder how typical they were compared to Prason and his colleagues, dwarves who would attack a peaceable land that knew nothing of their internal problems or arguments. Were most dwarves as callous and warlike or were they the exception? 

Prason jerked him forward and he almost stumbled, surreptitiously trying to straighten his shirt and fasten his waistcoat. He ran a swift hand through his tousled chestnut curls, suspecting he looked a fright and not in any way a fair representation of his race. And then a curl of anger tightened in his chest. He was only here to be any sort of representative of the Shire because he had been kidnapped, taken from his home by force by this would-be assassin. And though he would be polite and perfectly pleasant, as any Hobbit should be, he would never forget that the people he was dealing with were the enemy, evil dwarves who sold Thorin into slavery and oppressed the people of Ered Luin.

He almost missed Prason pressing two places on the wall and a perfectly edged door sliding almost soundlessly open to reveal an elegantly-appointed chamber. Bilbo paused and found himself shoved in, the door closing behind him. The chamber was twice as high as a normal room, the golden-grey stone walls polished to a high shine, gold-framed lanterns attached an intervals along the walls, along with maps, a case of volumes of dwarvish books and a wide stone desk, comfortable chairs behind and before it. A fire danced in the magnificent fireplace covered with carvings of dwarves fighting and a cabinet on the side was topped with flasks of wine and ale, heavy silver goblets laden with jewels waiting for use.

“So this is the Halfling,” a voice said, not as deep as Thorin’s familiar tones but carrying a hint of the same emphasis and accent-very different to those of the rest of the Company and Prason. A shape walked forward from the far side of the chamber, the solid shape enswathed in a rich deep red tunic embroidered in gold with hints of mail underneath and a cloth of gold shirt. A heavy chain hung around his neck, the gold gleaming in the plentiful light. The dwarf was tall, almost Thorin or Dwalin’s height and stockier in shape, His face was handsome with an elegant beard braided stylishly with beads and clasps and a moustache that was also braided. His long hair was golden, several shades darker than Fili’s, ands eyes were Durin-blue, though the shape was closer to Dis’s than Thorin’s. He wore a light circlet of gold studded with sapphires. “He looks like a grocer.”

The indignant Baggins part of Bilbo reared its head and had him bristling internally at the insult. He knew his father would be mortified at the words but though he was young and inexperienced, Bilbo listened. He had heard the description of things back in Ered Luin, of the way the rich treated the poor, of the doubts about the Crown Prince and the treachery of the Lords and he had watched the caution of Balin and Dis as they had spoken of their home. And he could still recall sitting with his Grandfather, the Old Took, who had ruled the Shire for half a century with wisdom, humour and political savvy that he had passed on to all of his descendants. 

So Bilbo bowed low to Prince Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, affecting a respectful look.

“Your Highness,” he said. Frerin walked around him and inspected him with a look close to a sneer.

“He looks soft,” he commented. Bilbo hazarded another look at the Prince. Frerin’s eyes were a much paler blue than Thorin’s and lacking in the expressiveness that the former Prince’s eyes held. Frerin’s eyes were flatter, harder and seemed far colder.

“He tried to resist, Highness, for all the good it did him,” Prason reported. Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself retorting a reply.

“Highness, anyone would resist an intruder in his home, armed and hostile,” he said, his tone still neutral. Frerin snorted.

“Spirited. I suspect I understand what my brother sees in him,” he scorned. Bilbo’s head snapped up and his brown furrowed. “Oh don’t play the innocent, Halfling! My brother’s proclivities are well known in the family. Our Grandfather never realised all his fine talk of wanting to have control over his own heart was nothing more than him refusing to marry a decent dwarrowdam and do his duty to the family in producing Heirs…”

Not that you seem to have done that either-though you seem to have been granted a free pass while everyone else is falling over themselves to criticise Thorin. I wonder why?

“Thorin has been nothing but a perfect gentledwarf to me,” Bilbo said firmly as the Prince gave a small, crooked smile.

“You are fond of him as well,” he said coolly. “I understand his looks may be considered attractive to the lesser races-though to us, he is plain, if not unfortunate in visage. It’s only his station that earned him any offers.”

“Friends do not care,” Bilbo said quietly.

“You should!” Frerin snapped. “You align yourself with a dwarf who is the worst of us, a failure and a coward.”

“I doubt he is a coward…” Bilbo began but Frerin grabbed him by the arm and was suddenly in his face, his eyes flashing with hatred.

“He is if I say he is!” he roared. Bilbo stiffened, shocked by the abrupt change in the Prince’s demeanour, the rage and hatred flickering across his face, so similar and suddenly so different to Thorin’s. Bilbo found himself dragged across the room and flung into a chair, his side impacting painfully against the arm. Gritting his teeth and trying not to reveal his discomfort, he squirmed until he was seated more comfortably, regretting it was a dwarf-sized chair that was just a little too high off the floor for him. Frerin paced back and forth.

“You know-everyone is always talking about my precious, perfect, wonderful brother!” he spat, “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. The Hero of Azanulbizar. The brave dwarf who led our poor, displaced people across Middle Earth. The selfless Prince who surrendered his freedom to secure the freedom of his sister and sister-sons. ALL. A. LIE!”

Bilbo cringed back, shocked at the hatred Frerin was spitting. His face was red and eyes dark with rage at his older sibling. Never having had any brothers of sister, Bilbo couldn’t understand the reality of sibling rivalry, though he had observed it in cousins and neighbours. In his heart he would have loved a sibling to share his triumphs and woes and to ease the crushing loneliness after his parents had died: he would never have soured his love for a brother or sister with jealousy or hatred because he had known his parents’ hearts contained more than enough love to overwhelm a dozen children.

“You know my brother is a failure-a rank, abject failure?” Frerin hissed, leaning close. It took all of Bilbo’s will not to shrink back but remain still, facing the Prince with equanimity. “Oh, he was always the favoured child, the firstborn son of the Crown Prince and spoiled rotten by everyone, from the King down to the lowliest servants!” Frerin said. Bilbo remained silent, recalling Thorin’s quiet words of pressure, of expectation, of eyes looking at him with hope and belief in his potential and future. Of the weight of pressure he felt throughout his life, always needing to meet their highest standards and feeling the disappointment if he wavered even for a second. It was very much at odds with Frerin’s words. And he knew who his heart believed.

“When the dragon came, my perfect brother was just coming back from patrol and he gave the warning,” Frerin sneered. “The Kingdom was in chaos but my brother never wavered. He had them slam the doors closed and he led the guard, ready to repel the invader. There was a moment of silence after Smaug raked the ramparts with flame, searing most of our lookouts from existence and then the doors reverberated with the impacts as he threw himself against them, using his weight and his flame to finally break in. The guard charged, led by my brother, but they failed. Utterly and wretchedly, they were swept aside as nothing, crushed underfoot and tossed aside. My brother should have died then, amid his failure to protect the mountain and stop the beast but he lived to see the dragon vanish deeper into the mountain.”

I doubt any dwarf could have stopped him, Bilbo thought silently. A fully grown dragon, the greatest calamity of our time, intent on seizing the gold of Erebor and already inside the mountain.  As far as I understood, once he was inside, the battle was lost.

“Oh, he ran after it and dragged the King back, crying and cursing him for making him leave the Arkenstone which Grandfather had dropped when Smaug reached the Treasury,” Frerin sneered. “He saved the King but lost the stone that grants our line Lordship over all Seven Families.”

Hardly his fault but that of the King, Bilbo thought quietly.

“I had to save Dis but our mother and grandmother were trapped by the rockfalls when the mountain shook from the assault,” Frerin said coldly. “Thorin was already out, pushing the King and Adad away from the mountain and organising the escape…”

“It was a terrible tragedy,” the Hobbit said and for a moment, Frerin looked at him without anger…but then his face closed once more.

“My precious brother didn’t hesitate to seize control,” Frerin said with hatred. “He led us away. from our lost home while the dragon was still making his nest. The Elves turned us away from their borders, the Men pleaded their own losses and did nothing for their Dwarven allies, driving us into the Brown Lands away from our own people. A few slipped away to the Iron Hills but they rest stayed. The King was crazed and lost, our Adad was floundering in misery and grief and my brother acted like a King, dragging us through hardship and starvation and hunger as we sought for our most basic needs. We sent out to the other dwarf clans but no one would help. So we travelled as a ragged vagabond people, starved and rejected and cheated by Men. And my brother, my perfect brother, cut his beard in piety at the loss of our people and home and went out to work himself to earn coin for food. He was a Prince and he humbled himself, shaming our line!”

“He served his people,” Bilbo said quietly.

“They are meant to serve us!” Frerin yelled, his eyes narrowing. “The workers brought in coin and food for the caravan and the Royal Family were fed first, as we should.”

“And Dis?” Bilbo asked. The Prince stared at him.

“I might have known she would go to him,” he spat. “When she wed that nameless nobody she claimed was her One, she stopped being Royal Family She took her chances with the rest of the rabble-her and her wretched spawn.”

“Your nephews. Fili and Kili,” Bilbo found himself saying.

“We could have married Dis off to secure an Alliance, maybe even better Halls than these miserable holes,” the Prince sneered. “But she insisted on following her heart, not her duty. And my brother supported her, persuading Adad and the King. They approved it-eventually. But I don’t. I will have my own Heirs, born of a noble dwarrowdam rather than tainted with the blood of  some worthless miner.”

Bilbo said nothing, hearing the voice replete with loathing. How had no one seen this? How had his family not noticed the seething jealousy and hatred within the second son? A sick sensation was bubbling in his stomach now, a very uncomfortable feeling for a Hobbit.

“So Thorin fed them as well, garnering the plaudits of the common dwarves while the King planned his next plan,” Frerin sneered. “Our people were wanderers, homeless and poor. Many died from cold and starvation and disease. And the King and Adad decided to go to Azanulbizar and reclaim Moria for our people. Thorin urged caution and the King called him a coward. He was shamed-even by his own kin.”

“But I thought he still fought,” Bilbo asked. Frerin wheeled away, pacing to the fireplace and staring at the flames.

“He did,” he said with anger. “Despite speaking against the plan, he was not banished by the King. Thror demanded the Line of Durin led by example, meaning his son and his son’s oldest son fought.”

“But not you,” Bilbo realised. Frerin spun and his eyes were filled with fury.

“They wanted me to stay safe, to remain with the woman and infirm and young pebbles so there was still a King if they all died,” the Prince snapped. “They denied me my chance of Honour, my chance to show that I was braver than my brother, more skilled and more tactically astute than my brother. But instead, I was forced to stay behind.”

Bilbo watched him silently, his eyes following the Prince as he paced.

“And of course, my hero brother managed to turn the King’s terrible tactical decisions and his own incompetence into a legend!” Frerin spat, turning towards him. “Khazad-dûm was occupied by our ancient enemies-an enormous host, led by Azog the Defiler. The White Orc had sworn to wipe our line out. He killed the King, beheading him. Adad was injured and my brother faced the monster. He lost his sword and he lost his shield and he fought the enemy with a damned branch. His own incompetence left him helpless and somehow it’s become a legend! He managed to get a sword and kill the damned orc but it was a disaster. Three quarters of our army was slain, we didn’t regain Khazad-dûm and the King was killed. Adad was traumatised and injured so my brother gave the order to burn the bodies, in violation of all of Mahal’s edicts. Our poor people deserved stone and he burnt them like trash. And they called him a hero and named him ‘Oakenshield’ for his incompetence and betrayal!”

“While you stayed at home, leading your people and caring for them,” Bilbo murmured. 

“And then he came home, leading our people and glorying in their adulation,” Frerin spat. “We ended up coming here, taking these inferior holes as our Halls and having to deal with greedy and manipulative Lords who wanted to use the Crown for their own aggrandisement. And my beloved brother played to the crowd, working with the witless common dwarrow here to help in mine collapses and when plagues came through and even working in the villages of Men to get more coin when times were hard. No one cared that I supported our Adad and waged a campaign to win the hearts of the people. I am the Golden Prince!”

Bilbo stared at him and considered his options.

“So why did you arrange for him to kidnapped?” he asked. 

There was silence and then Frerin started laughing. It wasn’t a nice laugh but a cold, calculating, cruel laugh. Bilbo felt chills down his spine as the Golden Prince hunkered down to look into his eyes.

“You figured it out, hmm?” he asked coldly.

“Really, there was no one else,” Bilbo said quietly. “There was no one else who really gained out of it. The Council of Lords maintain their influence-and I would not expect you or your sister or father to be easily manipulated. Lord Farag seems to be playing off against the Council and his agent is secretly working for you. You are the only one who gains really from Thorin’s slavery.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Frerin roared. “I am a true Son of Durin. I don’t show off, I don’t associate with inferiors, I will rule with benevolence but a fist of Mithril. And I will rule those manipulative Lords, not the other way around…”

“But he is your brother,” Bilbo said quietly, his eyes inspecting the Prince’s face for any signs of regret, of humanity, of any emotion except shining ambition.

“And how sweet was it to hear of his captivity,” Frerin said coldly, rising and pacing to pour himself a cup of ale. “You know, my agents got the plan wrong? I told them to ambush the group and kill my brother and the guard. They were to capture Dis and the boys and then I would give the order and they would be released. I would be lauded for saving them and all would mourn my brave but lost brother. Except the Men got greedy and they took Thorin as a slave. I had to prevent the guard going after him-fortunately the Lords wanted him gone as well. It was easy to have him shamed, disowned and exiled, irrevocably leaving the Crown Princedom to me!”

Bilbo felt sick for Frerin was smiling now.

“And it was amusing to hear of their progress, of how hard they had to work to break his will,” he said as Bilbo recalled the scars he had seen. Not spying-no, not at all-but when he had arrived, especially as he began to trust the Hobbit, Thorin had accidentally granted a flash of his wounds as he had changed, always swiftly concealed. It was clear he was ashamed of the scars, for they were not honourably won and hearing Frerin exult over them turned his stomach. “And beaten and branded and abused and broken, he finally gave up. The Hero of Azanulbizar, the beloved Crown Prince and son, gave up, broken. I had him destroyed. They sent me reports, thinking I wanted to know of his continued existence instead of his death…but it was amusing to hear of his degradations, of the abuse and brutality they put him through. So against my will and in violation of my orders, they kept him for profit because he was a good slave…but in the end, I had to send my agents to kill him. And even then, they never returned.” 

The Prince inspected the Hobbit.

“Did you hear anything about that, perchance?” he asked mildly, his mien unsettling. The rapid switch between raging and reasonable was making Bilbo’s head spin. He nodded.

“There was a scuffle in the Shire-in Hobbiton,” he admitted. “Terrible business. The Rangers and the Elves were most angered at the incursion into the Shire which is under their power. Lord Elrond and the Chieftain of the Dunedain are sworn to protect our people-by War if necessary. They rescued Thorin. He came to the Shire to recover.”

“And you met him,” Frerin said in a singsong voice. “And you befriended him. And he befriended you.”

“I…”

“I have agents in the Shire-and informants,” Frerin told him bluntly. “They reported that you and he are inseparable. That you have housed him and defended him and clothed him. That you were close to him.” The Prince leaned close. “And he is close to you. And I know my brother. No matter what befell him, what degradations and torments he suffered, he is loyal. And if he believes he cares for you, he will brave every danger, risk every peril to rescue you-knowing that he faces death. And he will come.” Frerin walked forward and grasped his shoulder, leaning forward to the mad blue eyes staring Bilbo’s own.

“So you see, Master Baggins-all I have to do is keep you like bait in a snare, waiting for my heroic, stupid brother to blunder into Ered Luin and surrender his life for you. And he will. And when I finally execute him, there will be none to oppose the true King of the Longbeards.”

Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, Bilbo stared boldly back, recalling what Gandalf told him after they rescued Thorin.

Dragon sickness is a strange illness, where dwarves feel extreme attraction to gold and precious jewels. It has afflicted the Line of Durin for Centuries-especially King Thror. But sometimes, dwarves can suffer the madness not for gold or gems but for power and control…

“Maybe you believe that, your Highness,” he said quietly. “But I have seen Thorin do whatever needs to be done and come through every time. He has survived what would have killed a lesser dwarf.” The defiance in Bilbo’s eyes plainly accused Frerin of the deficiency. “He has saved my life more than once. He is my friend and the most honourable and brave being I know. I know he will come because I know the kind of dwarf he is. But if you believe that you can defeat Thorin Oakenshield, then you are truly insane.”

The blow snapped his head back and his cheek felt numb. Frerin was stalking away, gesturing to Prison, who had remained motionless by the door.

"You should realise who is going to win,” the Prince breathed, his eyes wild with fury. “I could be kind to you. My brother is a loser, a coward and a naive fool. He will fail you just when you need him. I won’t, Halfling. I will be a generous master and you shouldn’t fear me.” Bilbo blinked, resting a hand against his scarlet cheek. 

“You can spin whatever lies you dredge from the depths of your envy-raddled brain but the truth is that you will always be lesser than him!” Bilbo told him evenly. “Whinging about his achievements when you have none yourself just makes you pathetic rather than noble. I would respect you more if you had made an effort to try to match him-but instead you want to take him down. Yet I can tell you that you will always be second to him! And I am his friend-to the bitter end.”

“Take him away!” he snarled. “Keep him safe. He is not to escape-or I will shave and behead you myself! My beloved brother is coming for his Halfling friend and we don’t want to disappoint him! After all, Thorin has come all this way home to die for his little Halfling-and I am not about to disappoint him!”

Chapter Text

THIRTY FOUR.

The trip from the caverns to the lower residential levels was fraught with anxiety, as every dwarf the Company saw was a potential enemy or informant. Thorin and Dwalin were the most jumpy, for they were the tallest and thus stood out the most, despite enclosing cloaks and hoods. Bombur nodded and smiled at everyone, for his size could not be hidden-but no one bore any malice to the large dwarf who was generous with everything he did and the best cook in Ered Luin. Bifur and Bofur travelled together a little ahead of the group for this was their home and that of their family going back generations, chattering with axes slung over their shoulders as if they had just come from the mines. Balin and Dori walked arm in arm like an old couple while Ori, Fili, Kili, Dwalin, Dis and Thorin travelled with Nori, who seemed to know the shadiest parts of the way and how to pass almost invisibly.

They arrived at the Ur family house-but it wasn’t a happy homecoming. The door had been kicked in and the place ransacked-though the family had little enough to steal. The bed frame had been overturned and the contents of the fireplace had been scattered over the room. Bofur had been philosophical and started tidying up and Dori and Bifur had also helped. Ori grabbed a broom and started to sweep up while Thorin glanced across the single room and felt anger bubble in his chest. These were a family of hardworking dwarves yet four adults and two children lived in three small rooms that were cold, a little damp and had barely enough space. The sumptuous accommodations of the Royal Wing caused shame to curl through his chest, knowing how his brother and father complained about the ‘meagre’ lodgings when they had ample and most of their subjects had far less.

Watching his Company, Thorin saw them right the mess, tidy up and make a fire then start to make some food for everyone with the supplies Bombur and Dori had carried up from the ponies. Dwalin and Bifur stationed themselves at the door while Nori placed himself sitting on the shelf by the fire and sharpened his knives.

“A report would be helpful, laddie,” Balin commented, sitting heavily on the stool by the thief. Nori cast him an unfriendly look.

“We had a deal,” he said darkly. 

“I could no more force Dori to leave Ori behind than I could ask my brother to kill his closest friend,” Balin commented. “But anything you can tell me will help, Nori.” The thief scowled, picking his nails with a lethal-looking stiletto. 

“I only agreed on the condition…” he repeated.

“Look-the Shire was attacked by a mixture of guards and private soldiers from the Lords’ personal armies,” Ori spoke up, fixing his middle brother with a stern look. “Nowhere is safe now unless we do something. And in protecting Bombur’s family our host-and friend-was captured.”

“The Halfling,” Nori said.

“Hobbit,” Dwalin corrected him with a scowl. His hands still itched to arrest the thief but there was no point now.

“His name is Bilbo,” Balin added. “He rescued Thorin, buying from slavery because he found the idea of slavery offensive.” Nori opened his mouth to pour scorn on a being who would buy another for whatever justification. 

“He had drawn up a contract for my purchase and immediate release before he ever approached the Man holding me prisoner,” Thorin added without preamble. “He handed both to me and told me I could go where I wanted. But I had nowhere to go and the Shire was as good as anywhere. At least there, they didn’t treat me like a possession.”

“Bilbo is a kind and welcoming being who made both your brothers welcome, who lent Ori books to help his learning, helped Dori get a job and housed us all in his home for no cost. He loved being a host and befriended every single one of us. And if he seemed to be closest to Thorin…well, sometimes even the Line of Durin deserves good fortune.” Balin’s tone was reasonable.

“The attack failed?” Nori checked. 

“The warning was invaluable,” Thorin told him. “The Shire roused in its defence and the guards declined to attack without a declaration of war.”

“They sought us,” Dis commented, her eyes falling on the thief. “No one is beyond their reach. Or beyond their ambition.”

“Smarter than your brothers, I think,” Nori commented as she fixed him with a piercing look. 

“When was the King last seen?” the Princess asked. Nori looked uncomfortable.

“As soon as Lord Balin vanished, the King ceased any public appearances,” he revealed. “Crown Prince Frerin has been sitting in for him. He’s been playing for the audience, I feel. But if you know what you are looking for, it starts to become obvious that he’s playing a part. He pretends to be acquiescing to the Council of Lords but really, he’s playing them off.”

“Meaning?” Balin asked.

“Well, there are a group of them who think they are pulling the strings-mainly Vurth, Brago and Hizair,” Nori continued. “The others go along with them because they seem to increase their revenues and no one votes to reduce their own wealth. Lord Farag loathes them-he sees them as weak and venal and has his own plan-to rule through Frerin, I think. But Frerin obviously has his own ideas and plans to manipulate the Lords so the Council does his bidding, not the other way around. He has already removed his main obstacle-his brother-and now he can step into the throne and project himself as the strong, stable leader needed after years of his father’s ailing health and the manipulation of the Lords. And he would be welcomed because times are hard for us and law enforcement has more or less been outsourced to the Lords’ own men. And they seem to have a different set of laws to the ones in the books.”

“Do we have any allies?” Dis asked grimly. Nori shook his head.

“Lord Helvin is possibly the only one,” he said. “He’s very old but is at least decent. Salin only cares for the contents of his plate at mealtimes and the bottom line in his foundry while Jungir, Dordan and Graadur just vote with the majority every time. Leeches the lot of them.” Dis sat back and cast an almost-despairing look at Balin, who was looking shaken to his very bones.

“The whole place is rotten to the core,” she breathed then cast Thorin a despairing look. “Even if you take the throne, every Lord will be out to manipulate and oppose you.” Arms folded across his chest, the Prince nodded wearily.

“If it wasn’t for the fates of our people living here-and the fact that Frerin would never stop trying to kill us-I would walk away,” he sighed. “But Bilbo is here and in danger because of me. There is no choice-not for me. He risked everything to help me-how can I offer any less?” Dwalin scowled.

“We need allies,” he noted. “And Helvar is respected. Though he only has personal guards, not a private army.”

“At this point, I would take any allies,” Balin conceded. “Though one with more men would be preferable.”

“Except we cannot win this by raw numbers,” Dis commented.

“We are not here to invade Ered Luin but retrieve our friend,” Thorin reminded them. “And though the guards helped us in the Shire, there is no guarantee they will act here at home, where the Lords can see and where the King still resides.” He lifted his chin. “We will see Helvin.” Nori looked cynical.

“I don’t see an old Lord with few guards being of much value,” he said. “Not when Farag has Prason in his pay.”

“You think a well-respected Lord won’t be much help?” Balin asked.

“I think he’ll be assassinated if he becomes a threat to Farag,” the thief said simply. “The only way to stop them is get proof.”

“And take it to who?” Dwalin asked. “The acting Crown Prince is involved. The leader of the Council of Lords and several of them are all acting in their own interest. And not one wants the real Crown prince back.”

“The King,” Thorin said steadily. “The King will decide.”

“If he’s still alive,” Dis said grimly. Bombur did the rounds, handing out mismatched bowls of stew which everyone ate because they were starving. It had been a long and stressful day and things seemed even worse than they had imagined. Thorin accepted a bowl gravely and retreated to a corner, eating automatically but without tasting a morsel. He could see Bilbo in his mind, imagining the Hobbit bound and abused, threatened by his insane and sadistic brother who would do anything to lure his older brother home to be killed. He rested the bowl down, still unfinished. The anxiety for his friend had turned his stomach and he would be no use to anyone while he was distracted. All he could recall were Bilbo’s actions, his unceasing kindness to the broken former-Prince, even when Thorin was trying to push him away. The gentleness of his hands when tending Thorin’s wounds and his quiet company when the Prince was mired in self-loathing and despair. And somehow, along the way, he had accepted that he would never go home and had adjusted his mental compass to spending the rest of his life in the Shire, alone among non-Khuzd but swathed in the affection and love of a Hobbit. Mahal, it had taken him long enough to admit that to himself And he had allowed himself to believe that the disaster that was his life would allow him that freedom. How bitterly unsurprised he had been when the assassination attempt happened and when it was obvious that his enemies would never let him go. So all he could do now was rescue Bilbo and accept his fate, as long as it protected the Shire from harm. And Bilbo.

Then he frowned, glancing around the room. Dori was fussing over his brother and the Princes were dozing under Dis’s watchful eye. Dwalin and Bifur had sorted out a watch rota and Bofur was whittling. Balin was staring into the fire, his eyes pensive. The former Prince looked over at the one dwarf he knew only by reputation.

“Nori, is it?” he asked and the thief looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed as Thorin moved to perch on the shelf by him. “You have scorned our plans and while I have some knowledge of politics and the law, you know the current situation. In our position, what would you do?” The thief inspected the tall shape and grunted.

“Not as dumb as you look,” he commented. “Prince Frerin is relying on the fact he’s supposedly the Golden Prince and is loved by the people-but if it was proved that you were ambushed and taken by treachery, the people would rally to the rightful Heir.” Thorin gave a bitter smile.

“I doubt that,” he said grimly. “I’ve been filled in on the people’s view of our nobility.”

“Aye-my friend is very cynical but there is one thing he and you forget,” Bofur offered, joining in. Thorin cocked an eyebrow. “We’re traditional. Most of us aren’t natural-born anarchists. Most of us, to our bones, want to trust the Line of Durin and believe that our Kings will protect us against the venal and petty games of the Lords…”

“Petty? You call evicting half of the Fifth District and burning every home there petty?” Nori spat. 

“As opposed to invading an entire country? Yes, pretty much,” Bofur shot back with an easy grin. 

“No one likes the Lords…but not many truly like Frerin either,” Nori pointed out. “He thinks he’s fooled people but word of his comments about the miners and the artisans have ‘leaked’ out. The taverns are full of discontented dwarves who just want a decent leader to step forth.”

“That’s what the guards seemed to be saying as well,” Bofur noted. “That Lieutenant-Gloín-was clear that they resented the officers who had been appointed without experience or credibility. They wanted back the officers they could trust.”

“You think guards can make the difference?” Nori asked sarcastically.

“They can help…but we need everyone,” Bofur replied equably. “The Lords and the Royal Family are all involved. What needs doing will involve everyone.”

“We’re not talking about a coup,” Balin murmured, turning his calculating gaze on them. 

“If that’s what it takes,” Nori sniped. 

“No,” Thorin said flatly. “We have to see the King and appeal to my father with proof of Farag and Frerin’s treachery. The other Lords will crumble when they see the Head of the Council and the acting Crown Prince indicted for their actions.”

“Assuming the King isn’t too ga-ga to listen,” Nori sniped. 

“That’s where we come in,” Dis added, smiling. “Balin is trusted by everyone. His family has trust running through the veins. Thrór trusted Fundin and Balin. Thráin will do the same-no matter how much he has deteriorated."

“If you have some proof to show him,” Nori sniped. “Rumours won’t do the job.” 

“If you can get me in, I can look,” Ori piped up. Every eye turned on the young dwarf. 

“No,” Dori said firmly. 

“I’m not sure…” Balin murmured. But Ori frowned.

“Master Balin-you have been teaching me and I can read Khuzdûl swiftly and accurately,” he explained. “I can scan through the papers swiftly and I am quicker on my feet than you.”

“Absolutely not,” Dori said firmly.

“Nori will take me in and watch out while I am in,” the youngest Ri brother said, his eyes determined. “We need that information if we are to persuade the King to intercede."

“Someone needs to investigate Frerin’s office as well,” Dis murmured. 

“We can do that,” Fili said, sitting up. Kili was still dozing but the older Prince’s eyes were shockingly clear. Thorin guessed that he had feigned sleep because his younger brother was still snoozing and the pair usually slept together. Fili was fiercely protective of his younger brother-as Thorin had been of his own brother. Yet he could never conceive of Kili turning on Fili, for it was plain the boys adored each other and for a second, he wondered what he could have done to make his own flesh and blood hate him so. Then he stole a look at his sister, wondering what she would say. The Princess stared at him for a long moment.

“If you decide to do this, I cannot stop you,” she said eventually. “But this is very dangerous. It isn’t Uncle Frerin any more. The man you are up against is a ruthless enemy, a man who sent assassins against us, who dispatched an army to attach the Shire to destroy us all. If you are caught, he will kill you-and he is likely to torture you first to find out where we are. This is no game, Dazbith. If you do this, you may have to fight to survive against your ‘fun’ Uncle. And he will have no mercy-he has already signalled he thinks you are expendable.”

The blond Prince gave a slow exhale and then glanced at his brother. When he looked back, there was calm determination in his Durin-blue gaze.

“I will speak to him,” he said. “But I think I know his answer. We have both seen battle, Amad-against our own people. Maybe that is a distinction no Prince of the Line of Durin wishes-that his first kills are his own people. But when I think what Mahal would wish, he would not want our people oppressed or the Line of Durin broken by a traitor.”

“Then we have a plan,” Balin commented.

“Get some rest,” Thorin said in a low voice. “We can only stay here tonight and after that we will need to move. If we are located, we are lost.”

After that, the Company settled down, the fire banked but as Thorin curled in a corner-he had refused the bed, citing Balin’s age as worthy of one bed and Dis and the boys deserving of the other-he found sleep eluded him. He felt as unsettled as he had during his slavery, every sense on edge. It was too quiet, the situation too perilous to trust himself to unconsciousness. It was like the night before the Battle of Azanulbizar, the oppressive knowledge that the morning would bring inevitable conflict and death. Except now, instead of facing Orcs, he was pitted against his own people. 

 And somewhere in the Halls, caught in the middle of all this conflict solely due his own generosity, was Bilbo.

“Hear me, Mahal,” Thorin mouthed silently. “I face this Battle without fear for myself but only for those I love. I will accept whatever you decree is my fate of you smile upon our cause. And please, allow those I hold in my heart to be safe. Dis, Fili, Kili…and Bilbo. He is the One you granted me and I am grateful for that gift. And if my life is the price for saving them, I am willing to pay to stop my enemies. Just save the ones I love and my people from tyranny.”

-o0o-

Dwalin had given himself first and third watch because every sense he had was screaming a warning. It felt deeply wrong to be a fugitive in his own home, eyeing every other dwarf as if he was an informant or a traitor. He peered up the dimly-lit street, the shadows seeming to magnify before his eyes. It was very early and yet he could hear stirring, for the early shift miners were waking and making something to eat before heading down the mines. But there were more people milling around than he would expect and he blinked twice before he realised that they were all drifting in the direction of the house. 

“Du Bekar!” he snarled and Thorin sat bolt upright, glancing around.

“Enemies!” he yelled and the entire Company woke, snatching at weapons and scrambling up. Thorin was at the door with Dwalin and Bifur. 

“I recognise the orc-filth who serve Hizair and Brago,” Dwalin growled. “We’ve butted heads so many times I couldn’t forget them if they were disguised as Mahal himself. It seems word has got out of our return…” Thorin glanced round. 

“Balin, Dis, Dwalin and I will head for Lord Helvin,” the former Prince said. “Nori and Ori…be careful. Your lives are more important than any intelligence. Fili, Kili…don’t trust anyone in the Royal Wing.”

“I think I can catch up with some old friends,” Bofur said cheerfully, nodding to his brother and cousin. “I think it will be time for the breakfast run…and maybe see how the mood is…”

“There’s a back door,” Nori said, gesturing to the back room. There was a panel in the wall that Bofur didn’t recognise and he realised that the thief had been staying in the deserted home on and off and had made himself a secret exit. He winked at his friend as they sneaked through, though it took two of them to push Bombur through the hole that was just a little snug for his rotund shape. Thorin stood guard at the corner of the house, watching the private soldiers close cautiously on the door. His hadn’t dropped to the hilt of the sword he had forged, missing the long-familiar weight of Deathless on his hip. He had handed the sword to Dis when he had surrendered and briefly, he wondered where the weapon was: the sudden notion that it sat on Frerin’s hip ignited a sudden flash of rage in his chest. Then he checked: everyone was clear. So he backed into the shadows and pulled the hood over his head before vanishing into the gloom.

-o0o-

The Company had split up to seek food and allies. Dis was visiting some of the artisans she had always dealt with as well as merchants and suppliers who seemed to have some semblance of ethics while Balin had taken Ori to the Guild of Scribes and was finalising his paperwork so that the young dwarf would be recognised in his craft, no matter what befell his mentor and sponsor. Nori went with them because once that was done, he and Ori were going to systematically hit the Lords’ office to seek for evidence of their treachery and he needed to make sure his younger brother was safe. Dori, of course, was bemoaning the exposure of his precious, innocent little Ori to his scurrilous, sticky-fingered criminal brother-which had almost started a fight between the two until Bombur had broken it up and swept Dori off to meet some mutual friends who worked in the market. Bifur headed off with them and Bofur winked and headed out to find a tavern and some drinking partners.

Once most of the Company had scattered, Dwalin grabbed Thorin’s arm and hauled him away, back from the shadows and down the long passages towards the foundry district.

“You have got too much on yer mind and yer face says your head isn’t in the game,” the warrior said, walking on. Thorin would have protested but the words were inconveniently too close to the truth. "Yer Hobbit got that right at least.”

“You were listening?” Thorin asked gruffly, casting a sideways glance at the warrior. Dwalin sighed.

“I was-not sure you were though,” he commented. “Thorin, you know I love you like a brother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. But if you want to get yer Hobbit back, you need to stop thinking of Frerin as your brother. He isn’t-not any more. And don’t sell me any scrap about you knowing that: I can see in your face that you still struggle. Your heart still thinks of the young brother you shepherded from Erebor during the Wandering. And he thinks of you as the brother who gave himself up to slavery. His view of you stopped at that moment. But you’ve changed.”

They walked down a narrow walkway, deeper into the mountain where the heat was building and the scents of fire and sweat and hot iron dominated the hot dry atmosphere. Thorin paused and inhaled.

“I did my training down here,” he murmured. Dwalin nodded and strode ahead, rounding a corner to a small forge that was scorching with heat. The former Prince stopped and stared for within was a familiar dwarf, massive and leathery with years of the heat, his beard braided short and functionally and his hair tied back. Naked from the waist up, he wore a leather apron to protect his skin from the sparks of the hot iron and his calloused hands were tight around his tools. But he looked up from the red-hot sword blank he was working on and almost did a double-take.

“You got a nerve,” he growled and stabbed the blank back into the flames. “Showing your face around here.” Thorin bowed.

“Master Magni,” he said gravely to his old craft master. “Why do you have such a poor opinion of your pupil?” The dwarf snorted and towelled his arms down with a rather bobbly piece of cloth and swigged lukewarm water from a flask by the fire.

“You ran off and left us here,” he growled. Thorin straightened up.

“Is that what they said?” he demanded, anger entering his voice. Dwalin sighed and rolled his eyes. He loved Thorin-he really did, for the two had been through everything together. Almost everything, he amended silently, since Thorin had faced slavery, torment and humiliation alone, but the former Prince did this every time. He would nod and accept what lies had been told about him but it was only when he heard them with his own ears from one outside his inner circle that the lies became real. And that was the point where his temper flared and he would actually begin to fight for himself. And that was where Dwalin needed him, where the warrior needed his shield-brother to be: angry and primed to fight for his life and his honour.

“You walked away and left,” Magni said. The former Prince took a menacing step forward.

“Had I walked away, I would have left my sister and my sister-sons to slavery,” he said angrily. “We were ambushed by someone who knew where we would be on the way home. Only handful knew and they were either related by blood or on the Council. When Dwalin was injured and we were outnumbered, I struck a deal. I made sure they were away and then I allowed them to take me.”

“That is a different story to what was told, boy,” Magni growled, advancing so he was eye to eye with the former Prince. “I was told my former pupil abandoned his family and stole away.”

“And you believe that?” Thorin snarled. Magni stared at him, then shook his head.

“I measure the character of those who speak against those they speak of,” he said calmly. “I know you, Thorin son of Thráin. And I know you would fight to the death for those you love. The only walking away you would do would be to finish the battle or make some Mahal-damned self-sacrifice to save them. Which is what you’ve done again.”

Thorin blinked.

“You knew well enough to stay away and all your friends and allies came to join you,” the ForgeMaster said. He glanced at the blank and pulled it out, resting it on the side before it got too hot. “They drew you back-meaning they have something your value over your life.”

“My friend and saviour,” Thorin murmured. “The creature who rescued me from slavery and despair. The creature who gave me back hope and a home. The creature who stood up for me when no one else would. My Sanâzyung.”

“Ah. That would do it,” Magni said, grabbing his hammer and beginning to work on the sword again. He hammered away for a few moments. “You still remember how to make a sword?”

Thorin gave a bitter smile. 

“I’ve spent three years making swords and knives for men who sneer at my skills but don’t possess a tenth of my abilities and skills with iron,” he said quietly. “I chose to work the forge in the Shire because I could make the money to repay my Sanâzyung.”

“He asked for it?”

“I swore to myself,” Thorin growled. “It was the only way to feel I was free once more. But now I am stuck between that promise and the need to save him. Even though that may well cost my life.”

Magni raised a bushy, singed eyebrow.

“So you gave yourself away to save those you loved-and now you want to do the same again!” he scoffed. “Did they hit your head one time too many while you where in chains, boy?”

“Probably,” Dwalin grumbled as the ForgeMaster scowled at him.

“You are what this settlement needs, boy,” he said, turning his attention back to Thorin. “But you have to make the decision to be what you were born to be, the Prince of Erebor, not some suicidal  former slave who just wants to get his Halfling back.” Thorin blinked. “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy! How many dwarves were in the Shire when you were arrived? If you say more than none, you’re lying!” Breathing hard, the former slave bowed his head.

“I am not ashamed,” he said levelly.

“Nor should you be,” Magni told him, his gruff voice finally relenting. “Mahal’s gifts should not be take lightly. But you must forget what you think you know. Your family may be your enemy and your peers your attackers. You should decide what you have to give and be certain that you are willing to pay the price. Because the price of winning…may be winning. And all that entails.”

Dwalin peered at the ForgeMaster. He had been both their teacher in the Forge and also in the use of weapons that they used. Unusually, he was a Firebeard who had moved to Erebor in his youth and had worked there before the dragon but he was perhaps the best mentor and teacher that Dwalin had ever met. He was also one of the few who could make Thorin to see reason. And in Dwalin’s opinion, the Prince still needed a firm kick up the behind to rouse him fully from the torpor that still seemed to have gripped him from his captivity.

“Master Magni?” the tone was more like the Thorin Dwalin recalled. “I have no need of riddles. I need allies.” The ForgeMaster gave him a wry smile.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” he commented. “Think on my words, your Highness. And tell me what you need. I may be old but in a forge, I am still without equal. And I am respected throughout the settlement. I can spread the truth.” He stuck the sword blank back into the fire. “Now, Prince-show me this sword you made yourself. If you are going to face your brother and your father, at least you should have a suitable weapon to defend yourself with…”

Chapter Text

THIRTY FIVE:

“The house had been inhabited but they got away,” the dwarf reported. He was one of Hizair’s men, a rather stupid specimen which seemed to be typical for any of the other Lords. Farag glanced over at Prason, who was standing quietly in the alcove by the door.

“You mean you let them get away,” Lord Farag translated.

“We followed our orders,” the dwarf said flatly, as if it absolved him of all blame.

“How many were there?” the Lord asked in an exasperated voice.

“The beds had been slept in,” the dwarf said. “Um…three?”

“So you let them in, you let them get away and you have no idea of their numbers as well,” Farag summarised. “Does that about cover it?” The dwarf nodded.

“Yes, my Lord,” he said slowly. “Um…sorry.” Farag glanced at Prason then sighed.

“Give my compliments to Lord Hizair for a mission that went exactly as I anticipated,” Farag said sarcastically, then dismissed the dwarf with a weary gesture. Finally, once the door had closed Prason walked forward. “Where is the Halfling?” the Lord asked sharply.

“The Prince has him,” Prason said coolly. “He insisted that the creature stayed with him-as bait for  Thorin.”

“Who has returned,” Farag said. The assassin nodded.

“Two guards died in the smuggler tunnels,” he reported. “The smugglers just bribe them. The Prince and his escorts would never consider that.” 

“You are certainly right,” Farag mused, sitting back in his chair. “He’ll have brought Balin. That old spider is cunning as a dragon. They will seek allies before confronting Frerin…” Prason snorted.

“Who is there?” he scoffed. “Most of the Council are either in your pocket or clumsily plotting against you.” Tapping his thick fingers on the table, Farag chuckled.

“There are a couple-old Lords who respect the line of inheritance,” he guessed. “Watch them. See if we can locate the fugitives. It will make dealing with them so much easier if we can trap them like rats in a hole. Presenting them bound and speechless for execution is much less messy than having them proclaiming their innocence and trying to appeal to the King.” He paused. “With the true Crown Prince in our hands, we can negotiate with Frerin and reach an accord. He is insane, not stupid, after all.” He looked up to meet Prason’s eyes and the assassin nodded.

“He will not respect any contract,” he reminded the Lord. Farag flattened his lips.

“We only need his signature on a contract and he can be deposed whenever we choose,” he said coldly. “An insane Prince-or King-isn’t a threat. What we need to avoid is a sane and moral King. That would be a disaster. Fortunately, when we consign Thorin to an unmarked grave, there will be no further obstacles.” He looked up. “Watch the Lords we haven’t turned. Find them.”

-o0o-

The Halls were modest and the decor understated but there was a definite sense of style that made Thorin feel at ease, plucking at his earliest memories of the lost Halls of Erebor.  There were a few ancient artefacts displayed in alcoves that made the former Prince wonder where they had been harvested from but mainly, there was a feeling of confident, warm luxury. Balin was already strolling ahead, his familiarity with the venue making him wonder how many times the Adviser had visited here. There were only a handful of retainers in rich but slightly shabby armour and they led the little party wordlessly through to the main room, where several comfortable chairs clustered around a large fireplace. A fine rug of deep lapis blue and gold covered most of the floor and a worn but elegant table was pushed to one side. A map of Erebor and a painting of the Lonely Mountain hung over the golden marble mantlepiece.

Balin walked forward and bowed low to a wizened shape seated in the chair closest to the fire, the formerly sturdy form shrunken and bowed. The hair was completely white and thinning, the aged face with beaky nose, the skin liberally lined with wrinkles and dominated by a pair of rheumy brown eyes, smiling.

“Lord Helvin,” Balin said smoothly. “Thank you for granting this audience.” The old Lord looked at the four shapes facing him.

“The former King’s Adviser, the former Captain of the Guard, the Princess and the missing and supposedly dishonoured Crown Prince,” Helvin said, his querulous voice rational and careful. “Prince Thorin, you were thought lost.” The former Prince bowed.

“I was lost,” he admitted. “The ambush was planned. They were after Dis and her sons. I surrendered to save them. I would do it again tomorrow.”

“Foolish pup,” Helvin scolded him, his eyes narrowed. “Pride in your own piety is no match for politics. Your removal allowed that brother of yours to pretend he’s the Heir. But he’s unsuited.”

“I suspect you have said the same about me,” Thorin commented. But the old Lord stared at him and shook his head.

“You, young Prince, never gave cause to be disappointed,” he said wearily. “I recall the other dragon, the one that slew King Dain and drove us from Erebor before, albeit briefly. I recall how furious and angry King Thror was, how proud he was of his Kingdom when we regained it and how he was secure in his home after that. He rebuilt our home to succumb to madness. It was obvious when you knew where to look. His son was weak…is weak. And Frerin has gone as well. You two are the future of the Line.”

“You know what is happening?” Dis asked.

“My dear girl, I have seen four centuries, far longer than any dwarf should live,” the old Lord said. “I have witnessed every possible variation of treachery and Ered Luin seems to be a hotbed of venal petty power-grabbing gnats.” He gave a thin smile. “Of course I can see what is going on. The question is-can you?”

“What do you mean?” Dis asked, her brows furrowed.

“You imagine Vurth, Hizair…Brago…have the imagination or the stones to act so boldly?” he asked dryly. “Those fools are only suited for petty manoeuvring, for who grabs the most generous slice of the very small Ered Luin pie. Not one of them seeks to rule or even secure the Head of the Council. For them to act, they have to have been manipulated. And the others-Salin, Jungir, Dordan, even that half-witted pile of shale, Einar-just followed the path of least resistance unless their personal interests are manifestly compromised.”

“My Lord-I am not here to usurp the throne…” Thorin began.

“Pity,” the old Lord said. Dwalin cast his friend a look.

“But dwarves of Ered Luin have attacked the Shire, which is protected by Rivendell and the Dunedin, as well as Tharkûn and the reckless disregard for the safety of us all cannot be ignored,” Thorin said. “They have taken a hostage, a relative of their ruler and close friend of the Wizard.”

“And you,” Helvin guessed shrewdly. 

“Unless they are stopped, they will continue to hound me and the remainder of my family,” the former Prince continued. “I cannot stop. They tried to kill us all.”

“But are you willing to pay the price, young Prince?” the old dwarf asked. Thorin frowned. 

“Sir?” he asked.

“What are you prepared to pay for your victory?” Helvin asked pointedly. Thorin glanced at his sister, then the thoughtful face of Balin and Dwalin’s scowling visage. But Bilbo’s face flashed across his memory as well, smiling as he had been on that picnic.

“Everything,” he said without hesitation. “I will pay any price to ensure my people are safe.” Helvin inspected him for a long moment.

“Then you have my loyalty, Prince Thorin,” the old dwarf said. “I have few men compared to some of the upstarts but my men are loyal. And I will speak with some of the followers. They will argue, of course, but I believe that I can talk them round once I explain how difficult it is to deal with a madman.” He smiled. 

“That is true, my Lord,” Balin added, bowing again. He had dealt with Helvin for centuries and knew the dwarf well. He was a canny operator but his word was good. The old dwarf gestured to the chairs and motioned for his retainer to bring mugs of ale.

“Now, perhaps you may tell me of your adventures, young Prince Thorin…” he said.

-o0o-

Crawling through the air vents in the Royal Apartments was usually much more fun but Kili knew quite well that in previous escapades, no one had been trying to kill them. A scolding and being grounded was usually the worst they could expect in terms of penalties, rather than a knife in the gut, which was a real possibility if they were caught. And the apartments were eerily quiet, without the regular tramp of guards, bustle of secretaries and to and fro of advisers. It was so eerie, in fact, that the younger Prince froze as he strained his ears to listen just to convince himself that they were in the right place.

He was pulled from his reverie when Fili jabbed him in the knee with a knife (sheathed thank Mahal). Suppressing a yelp, he turned his gaze on the elder Prince and glared at him.

“What was that for?” he hissed.

“Stopping,” Fili replied just as irritably. “I’m getting cramp. The longer we hang around, the more likely someone is to come in.”

“But where is everyone?” Kili hissed back. Fili shrugged.

“Open Court, hopefully,” he said as they reached the grille they were aiming for. They had investigated the vents very thoroughly through their childhoods in order to gain the reputation as the finest pranksters in Ered Luin and reaching the various offices had been an essential piece of knowledge. Kili wrestled with the vent then finally slid out, with Fili beside him. Listening at the door, the pair rifled through the desk and the shelves but it was obvious there was nothing of use there.

“Maybe we’ve misjudged him,” Kili commented. But his brother’s face was more grim.

“If I was planning treason and had removed my brother, I wouldn’t leave papers in my office for anyone to stumble across,” he said.

“I don’t like the way this is going,” Kili quipped far more lightly than he felt. Fili grinned at him.

“Well, now you mention it, I have formulated several plans to rid myself of a useless brother…and I wouldn’t leave my plans where anyone could just find them,” he said as Kili elbowed him in the side.

“You’d burn them?” Kili suggested. But Fili shook his head, absently rubbing his ribs and kicking Kili’s knee..

“I may need the precise details to frame the person I had ordered to act on my behalf,” he said. “I have deniability because I never performed the act but I have my scapegoat. And I wouldn’t want him finding my insurance either.” Face falling, the younger Prince groaned.

“You want us to go to his personal apartment…maybe even his bedroom?” he asked in a disgusted voice. “Haven’t I been traumatised enough? And you know Frerin’s apartment is the furthest away and the vents get really narrow up there…” Immediately, the older Prince grasped his brother’s shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “But we have to do this. Uncle Thorin has been sold into slavery and badly hurt, no matter what he said. Bilbo has been kidnapped, the Shire attacked and someone tried to kill us all in our sleep. He isn’t going to stop unless we stop them. And no one knows the vents as well as us.”

“No one except Nori and Ori could get through them anyway-and they don’t know the way…”Kili conceded. “And everyone else has done something important towards this. We can’t be the only ones not to do our part. And anyway, Amad gave us her blessing.”

“She said she couldn’t stop us,” Fili corrected him.

“It’s the same-because she could stop us if she put her mind to it,” the younger Prince reminded him and dived back into the ducts, pausing until he heard Fili replace the grate and then they began the long and awkward crawl to Frerin’s apartments.

After what seemed like at least three ages of the world, they reached the grate that emerged behind the chest in Frerin’s reception room. The golden lamps were lit and a fire was banked in the grate, showing he had gone some time earlier. Aching and muttering curses, Kili crawled out and rubbed his head, which he had hit innumerable times on the lowering roof of the vents. Fili was equally cramped but refused to show he was suffering. Instead, he motioned his brother to stand by the door and keep watch while he rifled through the bookshelves. And as he shook out a book supposedly on the Line of Durin, he found what he was looking for-a ledger slipped in with details of dealings with Prason, son of Grason, of Thorin’s captivity and of the cruelties he had suffered. And of how he had influenced many of the Lords against his brother.

Fili stared at the words, written in his Uncle’s own hand, a hand he knew so well, and felt his stomach turn. He recalled Kili’s birth, recalled how proud and happy he had felt being presented with the squalling red infant, his surprisingly dark eyes locking on the face of his bigger brother and quietening. Fili had felt a wave of protective love rush through him and had sworn then to always be there for him. And Kili had always shown he felt the same, backing up his brother and doing everything in tandem. When separate, they always looked for the other and worried about each other. But here, Frerin had detailed what had happened to his older brother in sadistic detail, ensuring he documented names, places, dates and times of every act along the way. He had been involved very step along the way and the malice directed at Thorin, his own brother-was sickening.

“Someone’s coming!” Kili hissed, darting back from the doorway. Fili shoved the book back into the bookcase and looked over at the chest-but to their horror, the wall adjacent to them moved and the young dwarves dived under the couch, freezing and scarcely daring to breath. Two shapes moved into the room through a hidden passage even the young Princes hadn’t known about. Kili frowned as Frerin walked into the room, resting a hand on the mantlepiece as a squat shape they both recognised from the moonlit Shire and vaguely from the battle.

“So they are still looking for my beloved brother.” Frerin’s words were spat with distaste as he turned and inspected the dwarf.

“He appears to have vanished,” was the calm reply.

“A feat rather beyond the limited skills of my beloved brother,” the Crown Prince sneered. “Perhaps a reflection of the men who are looking for him. He will be seeking allies.” The barb produced the desire effect and Prason scowled.

“He is with Lord Helvin,” he revealed reluctantly.

“There-that wasn’t so hard, was it?” the Prince taunted him. “Remember who will be King! Lord Farag imagines he is a master manipulator but I have the rest of his Council dancing to my tune-and even his most faithful assassin looks to me.” Prason gave a very reluctant bow. 

“My Lord Farag believes that loyalty is a one way street,” he said gruffly. “The promised riches have yet to materialise.” Frerin gave a shark’s smile.

“I am generous to those who help me,” he said magnanimously. “And we are very close. I just need to see my brother’s corpse and I will be satisfied. But first, I need him starved of allies so that he has to make a direct approach to our father.” He paused. “Lord Helvin is rather old, after all. And he could be a problem, for the other, weak-minded Lords will listen to him. For some reason, they respect his experience and his advice and may rally to my brother.”

Prason stood silently as the Crown Prince paced backwards and forwards.

“Why are dwarves so stupid and stubborn?” he snarled. “I am offering them a stable King and a long future of prosperity. Why would they listen to that old dwarf who should already be dead! Just because he's already lived for far too long!  He has sat in his comfortable rooms for too many years. Dispose of him-and his rather ineffective son, Garlin-and I will gift you his apartments and his position on the Council.” Prason bowed low.

“It is done, Majesty,” he murmured and then turned to the hidden door, pressing a couple of unseen spots on the wall and sliding away as the panel opened silently. Kili was struck by how softly the dwarf trod, so unlike the majority of their race-and how casually he had agreed to murder an old and honoured dwarf and his Heir. Such callousness sent a chill down his spine…and as he shuddered, something caught his eye. Something small and shiny so he checked hat Frerin was looking away and then snatched it, holding it close and peering at a brass button, marked with an acorn. 

“Master Baggins,” Frerin said and snapped his fingers. An unseen retainer left through one of the other doors and returned, half-dragging a bound and gagged Bilbo. The Hobbit looked dishevelled and tired but his eyes were bright. He was tossed unceremoniously in the chair and Kili could feel his brother move slightly to catch a glimpse of the Hobbit. It was taking every ounce of self-control the Prince possessed to stay where he was and not rush out to grab Bilbo and try to rescue him. He grabbed Fili’s shoulder as he felt his brother start to move and squeezed tight as Frerin untied the gag and watched the Hobbit wince.

“Your Highness,” the Hobbit said in a hoarse voice. He sounded parched.

“You’re right-my brother is not as stupid as he looks,” the Crown Prince said in a bored voice. “He came and he’s evaded our guards…so far. He’s even seeking for support to try to outmanoeuvre me. As if he could ever find enough to outmatch the guards and the private armies of my allies…”

“He will-because they will rally to their rightful Prince-and to a dwarf who is concerned for them, not himself!” Both young Princes winced at the tone and Frerin’s vicious backhand that knocked the Hobbit sideways in his chair. 

“Well, his new ally is having a meeting with your friend Prason right now,” Frerin told him. “When he is done, poor Thorin will be without allies once more.”

“What is wrong with you?” Bilbo asked him bluntly. “You send your own brother into slavery and murder an old dwarf…” The Crown Prince stared at him.”You speak rather loudly, Prince Frerin. I heard it all. Does Prason know you mean to double cross him?” There was a pause.

“He will take removing but I have enough evidence against him so that when I decide to issue the order, there will be no shortage of volunteers,” the dwarf sneered. Unseen, Fili instinctively clutched the ledger against his chest.

“And how long will it be before no one trusts your word?” Bilbo asked. “You lied to Prason. You lie to your family. When you betray Prason, he will protest and everyone will know how much your word is worth!”

“I will make sure he never speaks of it-and you never warn anyone either,” Frerin said. He gave a smirk. “I’ll announce that we will bring the enemy of Ered Luin-you-before the King in tomorrow’s Court. You will be condemned and executed. I weary of this game and if my brother is the dwarf you say he is, he will come to rescue you. Otherwise…” He snapped his fingers. “The Shire will be short one Halfling…” Then he burst out laughing. “You get it? Short one Halfling?” Bilbo gave him an unimpressed look. 

“I am not afraid because I know you will lose,” he said. Frerin leapt forward, his face suffused with rage and his knife pressed against Bilbo’s neck.

“You should be because your precious Thorin is the one who will grovel at my feet before I kill him,” he spat. Bilbo stared into his eyes and didn’t move.

“But that doesn’t make you better than him, does it?” Bilbo said steadily. “You had him taken into slavery, tortured and humiliated and abused terribly and he’s still a finer dwarf than you could ever be. He’s risen above it and is here to challenge you. And even if you do kill him, through cowardice and trickery, you will still be lesser than him. And you will know that through the remainder of your life.” Frerin wheeled away.

“I’m going to keep you,” he snarled. “A nice little pet so that whenever I play with you, I can remember that you were my brother’s and now you are mine.” Bilbo gave a small smile.

“Or maybe because all you can do is steal what is you brother’s,” he said. “You have never done anything yourself, except envied him.” Frerin roared and lunged at the prisoner but refrained from laying a finger on him: instead, he waved and the retainer stepped forward and hauled the Hobbit back.

“Feed him, give him water then lock him up again,” the Crown Prince sneered. “He has an appointment with the King tomorrow.” Then he smirked. “And I have one now.” He swept from the room, and it was a full minute after the door slammed before the young Princes moved.

“We cannot tell Uncle what we just saw…or that we had a chance to rescue Bilbo,” Kili said hurriedly.

“We never had a chance,” Fili said in a dark voice. “There were three more dwarves in here when he brought Bilbo in. You couldn’t see them from your angle-but I could. We would be cut down before we even got out of here.” 

“Then we have to get out of here and warn Lord Helvin,” Kili said, scrambling up. His brother shook his head.

“It is already too late,” he murmured. “We head for the rendezvous and warn them there. Besides, we have the proof Thorin asked us to get.” Kili opened his hand and revealed the little button.

“And we have proof Bilbo is alive-for now,” he said. “We know the plan. That’s got to help.” They crawled into the air vent and Fili pulled the grille back into place.

“Only Mahal knows,” he said.

-o0o-

Bofur had been in a number of taverns in his time but this felt different. There was an air of watchfulness and downright oppression as he sat among the miners, usually jolly and fond of ale. Now there was a sheer intensity to their drinking that spoke of a deep desire to forget their lot. Chancing his arm, he sat beside a couple of grimy miners and stood them each a pint.

“You look like a dragon invaded your lodgings,” he commented as he watched them swig half the flagon in one go. The shorter one looked up, his face deeply ingrained with rock dust.

“Number Three shaft caved in last night,” he said grimly. “Forty deaths. And you know what the Crown Prince said?” Bofur shook his head. The second dwarf-who was scrawnier with a bulbous nose and a rather matted beard-leaned forward.

“He said it was our own fault,” he hissed. “No sympathies. No help digging like Prince Thorin would have done. He said we were greedy and cut corners. So we deserved what had happened.”

“Aye-when it’s his friends the Lords who doubled our rents so we either put in double shifts or we starve…” the first dwarf continued, his eyes flashing with anger. “And they keep anyone with Stone Sense away from us so we can’t even get some warning!” A pang of guilt hit Bofur, for his own Stone Sense was excellent and he usually acted unofficially to protect his crew…not that he let anyone official know. He knew that would just get him reassigned to some sinecure where he would be a commodity to be rented out by one of the Lords for accommodation excavations and the people who needed his help wouldn’t get a sniff. 

“The joke is, he reckons we love him,” the second dwarf said, draining his flagon. Absently, Bofur gave him a couple of coins so they could all have another. Suddenly, he felt very thirsty. “And worse, when he was just the second son, he was okay. Friendly enough and good at opening shops and all. But it was always Prince Thorin who cared for us-he came to see the injured, dug for the trapped, paid for the healers from the Royal coffers…he was the Prince we wanted. The King we wanted.”

Bofur nodded thanks for his mug and then looked over at the miners. Maybe avalanches started with a few pebbles moving and maybe a few words here and there could achieve a similar end…

“He’s returned,” he commented and then took a sip. The dwarves stared at him. 

“Who?”

“The Prince Thorin,” Bofur said casually. Both leaned closer because he knew miners-he was one, after all. And they were hard, independent and knew what they liked. Bofur had respected the Prince before he ever met him properly and knew that Thorin would be farther best option for the miners in the colony…with Dis the only alternative. 

“How? Isn’t he disowned?” the first dwarf hissed, though he didn’t sound hostile.

“Dirty tricks by his brother-after all, who benefited from his removal?” Bofur prodded. The dwarves nodded, sipping their ale.

“Shame the guards will back him up,” the second miner bemoaned. 

“You outnumber them,” Bofur commented. “Of course, if you don’t feel it’s time to register your opposition to the high rents and poor wages, I understand…” The two shared a look.

“Register…how?” the second one asked.

“Nothing serious…just a little strike,” Bofur suggested with a grin. “Ered Luin is nothing without the miners, is it? Not the artisans of Erebor and we don’t have enough gemstones to have a big jewellery sector. You are literally the ones who create the wealth…so why should you tighten your belts while the Lords grow fat and lazy?”

“I mean, if we’re not attacking anything or causing a riot,” the first miner said with a slow grin. “All we do is not go in. And see what the shift-supervisors say…” The second nodded then looked at Bofur.

“Bofur son of Bolkur, right?” he guessed. 

“I used to work up the Ninth Shaft,” Bofur confirmed. “Had to leave because the guards decided they didn’t like the look of my face.” He grinned. “Who couldn’t love this ugly mug?” The others roared with laughter.

“Ainur son of Einur and this is Odil son of Nodil,” the first grinned. “Now let’s catch you up on the gossip over one last ale and then we can go and have a word with our mates.”

“Don’t worry,” said Odil. “By morning, you’ll be lucky if a handful of dwarves turn up for shift. Let’s see what the Lords do about that!”

Chapter Text

THIRTY SIX:

It was a rather nice district further round the settlement so Thorin and Dwalin clung to the shadows at the side of the passageway and hung back until they were absolutely sure that the house wasn’t under observation. It was a good wide plot and cut back into the mountain, the windows at the front nice and wide. Checking once more, the former Prince walked across the little passageway and hammered on the door with his fist. 

The door opened immediately and the pair were unceremoniously hauled into the main room, the door slammed closed behind them. Thorin pushed his hood back and glanced around a neat room, cosy with a fire dancing in the grate and comfortable chairs by the fire, a scrubbed family-sized pine table covered with a heavy green cloth and places already laid for a family dinner. His host, Gloin, bowed his head.

“Welcome to my home, your Highness,” he said gruffly. Thorin bowed as well.

“Not your Highness,” he said honestly. “A few months ago, I was in chains and slept on the dirt. I was abandoned by my people. And while I am here, my first thought was not for the people who abandoned me but for the friend who saved me.” His tone was honest and his eyes clear. “But do not think I am not grateful for your hospitality. And for your assistance.” Gloin nodded.

“You are family,” Gloin said gruffly. “And you are the Prince, whether you admit it or not. You are the best hope for our people.” Thorin bowed his head quietly and sighed.

“Are the others here?” he asked quietly. Before they left the Shire, Gloin had offered his home as lodgings for the Company when they returned to rescue Bilbo. Initially, Thorin and Dwalin had been reluctant to risk Gloin and his family but their options had narrowed and in the end, there had been no choice. Dwalin had worked with Gloin for many years in the Guards and trusted the Lieutenant implicitly. His actions in the Battle of Hobbiton had been no surprise at all to the Captain and his loyalty and pragmatism was what Dwalin valued in his men. And they were also clearly valued by his men in their Commanders, for not one dwarf had spilled a word of what had actually happened in the Shire, all sticking to the party line that their Commanders had ordered them to stand by and they had, until their Captain was killed by a stray arrow when Gloin had taken over and ‘continued the standing orders’. And with no one to argue with the story, the Lords had accepted the report.

“Nori and Ori are in the back with Lord Balin and the Princess Dis,” the Lieutenant said, casting a wary glance towards the heavy oak door to one of the back rooms. It was clear he was less than comfortable having the thief as a guest in his home, for Gloin knew Nori by reputation, as did all the guards. A dwarrowdam bustled in from the kitchen deeper in the house, her soft titian whiskers curling slightly and hair elaborately braided and twisted into an elegant knot on top of her head. Copper and malachite beads were tastefully spread through the braids and her deep caramel eyes softened as she glanced over at Gloin. Then she bobbed a slight bow to the guests as she carried a large pot of something rather delicious-smelling to the table.

“Pash, at your service, your Highness, Captain,” she said, her voice soft and gentle. “Our table is yours. Please break bread with us.” Thorin glanced over as there was a hammering at the door. Pash put the pot on the table and walked past her husband, unbolting the door and opening it. 

“Fili…”

“…and Kili…”

“…at your service!”

The dwarrowdam smiled and stepped back.

“Come in, boys,” she smiled and the young princes bustled in, grinning. Against all odds, Thorin felt his heart lift at the carefree sight. No matter how hard life had been, he only needed to think back to his nephews to feel more at ease. The boys were so far untouched by hatred, failure and regret and their golden optimism and trust in their mother and uncle reminded Thorin that not all life was grim. It gave him strength to fight on and ensure that they didn’t fall to the same disasters that had consumed him. Then he was hit by two solid bodies as the Princes hugged him.

“Uncle!” Kili said happily. “You’re here and safe!”

“You doubted I would be?” Thorin asked, returning the hug and savouring feeling his sister-sons in his arms. His voice was amused.

“We-ell…you aren’t exactly the luckiest and then there is your sense of direction…” Fili added.

“I have Dwalin with me,” Thorin pointed out. Kili glanced up at the warrior and grinned.

“Didn’t want to say but…” he began as Thorin chuckled.

“You are safe?” he checked as the boys pulled back. They nodded.

“We saw Uncle Frerin,” Fili sighed and glanced at his brother. Kili dug in his pocket and pulled out the button, handing the small brass object to his Uncle.

“He has Bilbo,” he said, gesturing and seeing Thorin’s face darken as he recognised one of the buttons of Bilbo’s waistcoat. He closed his hand over the precious momento.

“Bilbo,” he breathed.

“He’s alive,” Fili said urgently. “They are going to take him to Open Court tomorrow.”

“As bait,” Kili added, his eyes concerned. “It’s a trap.”

“Obviously,” Dwalin growled.

“But one, I fear, we must walk into,” Balin said from the door. “Nori has just given me the news that Lord Helvin is dead.” The Princes winced.

“That was the other news we were going to give you but it took us forever to get out of the tunnels,” Kili admitted.

“Frerin sent Prason son of Grason to murder Helvin and his son,” Fili said more seriously. “The price was to be Helvin’s possessions, since Prason was to wipe out his heir. And a place on Council-though he had no intention to honour that long term. Just until he grasped power and then he would dispose of any loose ends.”

“I really want to kill that Prason,” Kili muttered.

“You and me both, brother,” Fili replied and looked into his sibling’s eyes. “When we have him in our sights, be it knife or bow or sword, do not hesitate. Kill him.” 

Kili’s silent nod and the sudden blazing anger in his dark eyes was more disturbing to Thorin than anything he had endured. But he could only nod because he shared their anger. Gloin let in the Ur family and Dori as the former Prince looked around.

“So we are without allies,” he forced himself to say. Bofur grinned.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. The others looked at him.

“What have you done?” Fili asked curiously, trying to analyse Bofur’s face. The miner wore his cheery demeanour like a mask and was very expert at using it to mask what was beneath. The Prince, though, could detect just a little pride in his dark eyes.

“I may have gone to the tavern and I may have had a chat to a few fellow miners and I may have sympathised with their lot,” he said with his Ered Luin lilt. “And I may have said to stick it to those greedy, selfish, lazy nobles-no offence intended…”

“None taken,” Fili replied automatically. “We’re not nobles, we’re Royal. According to Sigin’Adad, we wouldn’t be seen dead with a noble!”

“If Farag gets his hands on you, dead is what you will be,” Dis commented dryly. “So…?”

“So…there may be a general strike of all the miners tomorrow,” Bofur said with a grin. “Just to remind the Lords and the guards that they aren’t the most numerous and they aren’t the strongest in Ered Luin...and they only rule because we permit it…” 

“I’ve been talking to the artisans-those I know-and I think the shops and stalls will be shut as well,” Dori put in. “Begging your pardon, your Highness, but rents have doubled and taxes tripled. Even if you work every hour Mahal sends, you can’t feed yourself and put a roof over your head!”

“That goes for workers in the food sector,” Bombur added, speaking up. He was usually quiet but had forged a strong friendship with Bilbo over his love of food and cooking. “Hours have lengthened and pay reduced. With the taxes and rents, half of us cannot afford food any more.” He glanced over to the others. “So the food kitchens will be open for workers but no money will change hands. Food is going to be free tomorrow-courtesy of the Council of Lords.”

“You are not forgotten, Nadad,” Dis said firmly. 

“The miners would rather have a Prince that cares than one who only cares about himself,” Bofur said. “If you need to fight, then they will stand behind you.”

“I hope that it doesn’t come to that,” Thorin murmured, looking across the room.

“If you need to fight, you have my axe!” a new voice said and a figure emerged from the kitchen, bearing a large platter with neatly cut slices of dark rye bread. A shape reaching just above Gloin’s shoulder entered, already broad and sturdy, his flaming beard very magnificent for such a young dwarf and his hair tied back under a solid steel helmet. He was dressed functionally in leathers and looked ready for battle.

“Don’t be so rude, Gimli,” Pash scolded him firmly. “These are guests who you have not been introduced to and who sadly don’t need a youngster’s help.” She looked up and her face fell. “You don’t do you?” Balin gave a grim smile as he took a place at the table.

“Any member of the Line of Durin-even one rather removed from the direct Line of Succession, is in peril, for Frerin is paranoid about any challenge,” the Adviser said thoughtfully. “He removed Dwalin and eventually me, he eased your brother from his place as Royal Healer, Gloin, and he will turn his eye on you next.” 

“And my son,” Gloin muttered. Kili winked at his brother.

“So this is ‘wee Gimli’,” he said, staring down into the defiant gaze of the younger dwarf. “Hmm. He looks promising-for a youngster. Though we may need to bring a babysitter along…” Predictably, the younger dwarf bristled with offended pride and advanced almost to come nose to nose with Kili-but for the fact Kili was a good half-head taller.

“I can take you any day, Princeling or not!” he growled as his mother rolled her eyes and Thorin and Dis shared a look and tried not to laugh. They could recall when Fili was younger and was always wanting to show his prowess, to prove he was old enough and good enough to be included in grown-up matters. Except Fili had grown out of it and he didn’t seem to have the fiery temper that the young dwarf was showing.

“You can try,” Kili teased him. 

“But it’s generally best not to attack your own allies,” Fili pointed out, looming behind Gimli. “Or those with protective older brothers.” Gimli spun to glare at him.

“I can take you both…” he growled. 

“Gimli!” Gloin snapped. “Be respectful to your betters!”

“Adad! I absolutely…” 

“Apologise. Now!” the Lieutenant snapped. “This serious! Our lives are in danger. We have the rightful Crown Prince here as well as the remainder of the Royal Family that isn’t insane…” He looked up at Thorin. “No offence.” The former Prince gave a thin smile, recalling his grandfather’s unconquerable Dragon Sickness and his vicious determination to regain Khazad-dûm despite the impossible odds.

“None taken,” he said gruffly. Then there was a knock on the door.

Everyone looked shocked and Dwalin hefted his axes in his hands as Gloin walked slowly to the door. Thorin drew his sword and rested against the wall beside the door, out of sight of whoever was at the door. Glancing at him, Gloin unbolted the door.

A familiar shape was waiting outside, a grey-haired and dressed in comfortable robes and leather breeches with a pack thrown over his shoulder and an axe at his side. His moustache was braided and capped with iron tips and he held an ear trumpet to his ear.

“Evening, brother.” he said. Gloin stared at him, then grabbed him and hauled him in, slamming the door behind him. Dwalin slid the bolt into place. The healer looked around. “Is this a bad time?” Gloin grasped his shoulders and banged his forehead into his brother’s.

“Oin,” he sighed. “What are you doing here?” The healer gave a small grin.

“Rumour has it that you returned with the forces sent to invade the Halflings’ Shire without a loss but your Captain and in defeat,” he said. “Word has it that your commission will end tomorrow for treason and that you should perhaps relocate somewhere else tonight. But I see the treason accusation may actually be right.” 

“Are the guards coming here?” Gloin asked in concern but his brother shook his head.

“They all refused,” the healer told his brother. “Not one would come against their senior officer. One of the Lords will come and deliver the orders tomorrow.”

“They will not!” Gloin growled. “I’ll not take that lying down.” He looked over at Thorin who was sheathing his sword again. “I will plead my case to the King in the morning. And I will not give up my commission!” 

“Well,” Pash said, looking across the room-her rambunctious son, her fiery husband and the guests who were related by blood and friendship. Whatever happened, their lives would change and her husband would not surrender without a fight-but could any dwarf win a fight with the King? Then she looked at the real Crown Prince, the Princess and her sons, the young Princes, the Captain of the Guards and the King’s trusted Adviser and wondered who was actually running the Kingdom. She pulled herself together. “The stew is going to get cold and I think, if there is enough for everyone. If this is to be our last time in this home, then let us make it memorable.”

“At last, someone with half an ounce of sense,” Dis commented and bowed her head slightly to the other women. “Please-we are grateful for your hospitality.” Thorin allowed himself to be moved to the head of the table and looked around as the rest of the Company took their seats. A pang of pain hit his heart as he realised the only face missing from those he cared for most was Bilbo. And that made something curl tighter in his chest and finally overcome what residual qualms he may have. If his brother wanted to confront Thorin, then the former Crown Prince would oblige him-but he would no longer be the caring and protective older brother Frerin imagined. And if there was a choice between saving Bilbo and saving Frerin…well, Thorin had a sister and two sister-sons. 

Whatever happened, Bilbo would be freed. Whatever it cost Thorin.

-o0o-

Lying in his prison, Bilbo had managed to get his gag off and undone his ropes-they weren’t especially good and Hobbits were quite nimble. It meant he could at least stretch his limbs and get more comfortable. Every time he encountered Frerin, it made him feel more and more unsettled. There were some superficial similarities between the mad Prince and Thorin, who Bilbo trusted implicitly but having met him once, the Hobbit knew that the younger brother was utterly untrustworthy. No matter what he claimed, Frerin would kill him once he had Thorin.

He scooted to the corner and pulled his knees up to his chest. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that it would end like this. He was just a Hobbit, never been anywhere and never done anything. He had simply done what any decent being would do and had freed Thorin from his appalling slavery. And that had set in motion the train of events that had ended here: in a stone room under a range of mountains a couple of hundred miles from home. It was the furthest he had ever been from home and he would die here-and no one would care. Lobelia would take Bag End, Hamfast would get on with life because he was pragmatic and solid and his Took relatives would roll their eyes and assume he had headed out on an adventure with his dwarvish friends. 

But then he closed his eyes and imagined himself back in the Shire, home amid the rolling hills and little villages, surrounded by flowers and trees and all the green growing things that the Green Lady, Yavanna, had put there for her children. And he knew now that he would be utterly miserable without Thorin and his dwarves there with him. No matter how beautiful a garden was or how stunning a vista, it paled into nothing without someone to share it with. And Thorin had become his friend…maybe something more. He had filled the gap in Bilbo’s life that he had not realised was there since the loss of his parents and maybe he was being pathetic and seeing what wasn’t there. He had no name for what it was-he had never considered anything more than friendship but there were all those little moments that trickled back as he had lain in this prison and given him hope. And to be honest, it was only those memories and his trust in the dwarf that had kept Bilbo going in such a dark place. He knew that Thorin would come. But in his heart, he had always known that Thorin would eventually leave him. He was a dwarf after all and his home was here, not in Hobbiton. 

And no matter what Bilbo had done for him in the past, now all he had become was bait to lure him to a place where they wanted to kill him. He wrapped his arms around his body as his stomach grumbled at the lack of meals.

“Mum, you would have loved that I’m here on an adventure,” he sighed. “And maybe I didn’t go as far as you but I met Elves and Gandalf and dwarves and the Rangers. I’ve made a few new friends and annoyed Lobelia. And I think it isn’t going to end well. But strangely, I have no regrets. Because even if not meeting Thorin means that none of this would have happened and I would live a long an unexciting life in the Shire, I prefer a life where we meet and I end up here. Because I have the terrible feeling that I am going to die tomorrow.”

-o0o-

Thorin was up with the dawn, servicing his weapons and rebraiding his hair. He tried not to believe in signs and portents but there was an uneasy feeling in his gut that was eerily similar to the one had woken with on that morning a century and a half earlier, when Smaug had swept in and stolen Erebor from the dwarves. And while he was not overly religious-no one who had been through Azanulbizar and seen what Thorin had could really be-he knew with all his heart the history of his race. So he prayed silently before he rose and started to make breakfast.

The settlement was eerily quiet, with hardly anyone out of their homes. Normally, the passages would be bustling with dwarves heading to the mines or foundries or their workshops and the fact that most weren’t spoke of the efficiency of his friends in persuading their fellows to stay home. It meant that the ways would be clear to the Throne Room, save any of the Lord’s private soldiers who may encounter them. 

A pall had settled over the party and as everyone reassembled in the main living room, it was clear the enormity of the moment hit them. The young princes were checking their weapons under the watchful eye of Dwalin, who had been asked by Thorin to ensure their safety. It was a foolish request that they both knew was impossible, but it made Thorin feel better for the asking and Dwalin knew he could ease his friend’s mind by agreeing. Dis was grim, cleaning her swords and braiding her hair back so it would be off her face in battle. The Ur family were philosophical, though Bombur helped Pash prepared breakfast and Dori was fussing over Ori. But he was dismayed to learn that his youngest brother would be going with Nori to get into Farag’s office. There had been no chance at all the previous day and everyone was certain that the manipulative Lord would present for the confrontation with Thorin: it was their only chance. Nori had promised everyone who asked that he would protect his younger brother and no one doubted that he would.

They left themselves plenty of time with Gloin marching boldly along with his brother Oin at one side and his son, Gimli, at the other. Hearing the news the previous night had decided it for him: if he was to be demoted for treason, he may as well stand by his kin and allow his son to do the same. Balin winked at his brother.

“You know your role?” he asked. Dwalin grimaced.

“I’ve given more pep talks in the last two days than I have in the last ten years,” he grumbled. “But I’ll watch the Royal Family if you can do all those things you said last night.” Balin sighed.

“Brother, what we can do depends on how far gone the King is and whether we can get through to him,” he said. “Helvin is dead but maybe he managed to speak to a couple of the waverers…”

“It’s a thin hope,” Dwalin muttered, glancing over to the party. Thorin was marching ahead, his gait proud and straight, looking finally like the Crown Prince he truly was. Dis was at his side and the boys flanked them, looking more focussed than anyone had seen them. Balin was a couple of yards behind them.

“Sometimes, a thin hope is all you have,” he said. “Well that and a solid dose of Durin stubbornness.” Dwalin managed a wry smile as he fell into step beside him. His axes were sharp enough to cleave a dwarf in half and he found his palms itching: it usually meant there were enemies nearby. But they saw no one.

Court should already be in session when they reached the door of the Throne Room, seeing a trio of guards standing there. All looked young and they levelled their pikes at the party, all looking terrified. Dwalin stood forward.

“It’s okay, lads,” he said calmly. “You know me and you know Lieutenant Gloin here. And you know we would never do anything against the King. But something has gone terribly wrong. Crown Prince Thorin has been kidnapped and removed from the line of succession by people who needed him out of the way. I was removed from my post for trying to protect him and Lieutenant Gloin is under threat. Lord Balin was manoeuvred out and the Princess has to flee as she was being prepared for a forced marriage. I doubt the King knows the truth and it is our duty to bring this to him, to allow things to be made right and see the dwarves who have done this brought to justice.” He stared into the young guards’ faces. “Will you help me, lads?”

All three shared looks then shouldered their pikes. They nodded.

“Go ahead, sir,” the middle one said. He looked a shade older with a small beard and very young-looking grey eyes. “Court is in session.” Then for good measure, he saluted.

Ceremoniously, the dwarves opened the double doors and after taking a breath and sending one final prayer to Mahal, Thorin led the Company in.

Chapter Text

THIRTY SEVEN

There were two shapes waiting for them as they reached the Throne Room, standing on the edge of the dais, light gleaming off the blade of a knife. The Company entered anyway, weapons raised and eyes locked on the figure in rich robes, the torches gilding the golden circlet on the dwarf’s brow as the doors slammed shut behind them.

“That’s close enough!” the Prince snapped and they froze, tensed and ready to attack but not moving. Thorin’s eyes flicked from the Crown Prince to the shorter, softer being at his side. Bilbo looked strained, his wrists tied behind his back, his waistcoat missing and shirt torn, a bruise and blood smearing his cheek. But as his eyes saw the former slave, there was a flood of relief and his lips mouthed his name, causing a tiny faction of the tension to ooze from Thorin’s shoulders.

“Let him go!” Thorin commanded, locking his eyes with those of his brother. Frerin gave a cold laugh.

“You don’t give orders around here,” he sneered. “You should be killed on sight, an exiled nobody.” He gestured and the side doors opened to admit the Lords and their men, the liveries clashing as they entered, axes and swords levelled at the Company. Behind them, the tramp of heavy boots revealed that the Guard had arrived, pikes covering their movements.

“May be getting a bit tricky, laddie,” Balin murmured but Dwalin just growled in his throat and tightened his grasp on his axes. He already knew that the Guard was not the problem, for he had been their Captain and knew that the dwarrow who served to guard the Royal family and the colony were decent and loyal. After his demotion, the Council Lords had moved in their own appointees, externals who hadn’t served in the ranks and held no respect or honour from the guards. They obeyed orders but there was no loyalty to them. And when faced with a crisis, where normal lines of command were scrambled, the Guard would align with those they knew would do what was right, not what was politically expedient-as they had in the Shire.

“I am here-so you don’t need to keep Bilbo prisoner,” Thorin repeated, his voice edged with hatred. Frerin tightened his grip on Bilbo’s hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat, the knife biting into Bilbo’s bruised skin.

“You think?” he asked cruelly. 

“Release him,” Thorin repeated, fighting for control. Every fibre of his being was screaming for him to lunge forward and rescue his friend but he knew his brother and that Frerin would not hesitate to kill the Hobbit. “This is a mistake. He is cousin to their leader, the Thain and a friend of Tharkûn and Lord Elrond of Rivendell. You make us enemies by this action.”

Frerin laughed, the sound shattering and the knife moved, a thin line of red marking Bilbo’s throat. The soft gasp of the Hobbit was loud in the sudden quiet.

“You think I care?”

“I think you should care because your job is to ensure the safety and prosperity of our people,” Thorin told him as Frerin sneered, the look making his face ugly. Identical eyes to his older brother were clouded with hatred.

“You and Adad always spouted the same simple-minded nonsense,” he scoffed. “Service. Duty. Sacrifice! Those are for our subjects, not for the King! I am of the line of Durin himself, the ruler of Ered Luin and these inferior wretches should be grateful that we are here, to rule them instead of the venal and self-centred Lords they had before we arrived.”

“We had nowhere else to go,” Thorin said, his grip tightening on his sword.

“Sigin’Adad had the right idea,” Frerin spat. “He was the unquestioned ruler, the King Under The Mountain. He brooked no opposition. He dealt harshly with any dissent or opposition-as you learned, my dear brother.”

“You never showed any interest in ruling when we were younger,” Thorin reminded him curtly. “You preferred self-indulgence and idleness.” Frerin laughed.

“I saw that Adad ran you ragged-why would I want to do that?” he asked scornfully. “I am a Prince of Durin’s blood. I should enjoy what my people can provide. And being pleasant, smiling, kissing a few dwarrowdams…well, that hardly taxed me but it made me loved. You were always so keen to run around, interfering with the running of the Kingdom, acting like a steward…and Adad was always so willing to listen to a word in his ear, especially from one who reinforced what he thought. I was his favoured son, Thorin. He indulged me and listened to me. And I suggested you were sent on every mission. Maybe the fact you were seen to be interfering would alert him to the fact that you were eyeing the Throne.”

“When you were instead,” Thorin replied bitterly, glancing at the stone shape of the Throne and feeling his breath freeze. For in the shadows, the Throne was still occupied, the unmistakeable shape of a crown resting on the still head. “Frerin…Adad…” 

The Crown Prince retreated a step, the prisoner pulled back to reveal the grisly sight. King Thrain was motionless on the Throne, his head resting back against the padded stone. His face was grey, his eyes sunken and lips were black. Frerin gave that uneven laugh again.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said cruelly. “All these witnesses here will testify that we watched you murder the King!”

“Except that King Thrain has been dead for probably four days, by the looks of things,” Oín announced, his mace lowered as he took a pace forward. Gloín grabbed his arm and held him still, though it was obvious that he was desperate to get to the King’s side, to do what he could to honour his King and investigate. “The appearances are of Evenroot poisoning,” he announced heavily. Frerin gave a chuckle. 

“You see-this is why we removed Oín son of Groín as Royal Healer,” he chuckled. “Deaf as a mine prop but sharper than a pick.”

“You killed him,” Thorin said in shock. “We knew there was a threat but we thought…I thought…it was one of them!” He stole a hateful glance at the Lords. Frerin jerked Bilbo’s head back again, causing the Hobbit to hiss in pain.

“What makes you think that I am acting alone-or they are?” he asked Thorin in exasperation. “You really do lack any and all imagination! I watched you run around, garnering plaudits and the love of the people. Good Prince Thorin. Generous Prince Thorin. Kind Prince Thorin. You are a disgrace to our line! You treated them like family when we who were your family were ignored!”

“And your family?” Dis said quietly, her voice cold as ice. “Is your loyalty a one way street? When there was hunger and sickness, you were happy to let my sons and I starve. Only Thorin came to our aid.”

“Your sons are the responsibility of their father,” Frerin sneered. “He should provide for his spawn.”

“My husband is dead,” Dis reminded him. “His life was spent uselessly in our Grandfather’s insane attack on Moria that cost him and many hundreds of our people their lives. My sons and I are of the line of Durin. You were happy to let them starve?”

“I knew Thorin would go out and sacrifice himself to find money, food and medicine for you," he sneered. “The Lords ensured that Adad was provided for. As his favourite son, he would never let me go hungry. The rest of you…” The dismissal in his eyes spoke volumes. “It was easy to whisper in Adad’s ear as his beloved Golden Prince, to gently remind him that I was there with him while Thorin was out usurping his role, the love of the people. And it was just as easy to express my honest concerns to the Lords, to push them in the direction I wanted. . They were all jockeying for position in the Council and were just as eager to recruit the goodwill of the other Prince. Sometimes, being the spare is an advantage. I haven’t done anything to be a threat to them, no public appearances or statements or grand gestures…just the Golden Prince, the life of the party and everyone’s friend. I think every one of them sees me as their key to ruling through me. They all think that I will just be the same fun-loving Prince…but I am the Crown Prince…and now the King.”

“You are not the King,” Thorin told him bluntly. “You are a disgrace in the eyes of Mahal!”

“And who is to say?” Frerin sneered. “I hold all the cards…so maybe we should start to acknowledge reality.” He jerked his head to the left. “Drop your weapons! Or I’ll have the guard cut you down where you stand.”

Thorin glanced into Bilbo’s eyes, wide with fear and worry, the corners of his eyes tight with pain at the cruel tug on his hair and the crick as his neck was hauled back. The Lords’ men were all looking far too eager to advance while the Company were outnumbered. He was aware of Fili and Kili, standing among them with the determination to defend their Uncle and their line and his sister, tense and furious at his side. Taking a slow breath, he dropped his sword with a loud clang, the sound jarring. Slowly, the Company matched his actions, the thuds and clanks of weapons hitting the floor accompanied by mutters and more than a few curses.

“Now…you are all traitors, bursting into the Throne room and threatening the King,” Frerin announced but Thorin balled his fists.

“I am the firstborn son and I have every right to try to prevent your treachery from enslaving our people!” he snarled.

“And you failed!” Frerin roared, his face twisted in fury. “You aren’t taking what I have won from me! The power is mine. The Throne is mine. The Crown is mine! And I do not share.” He looked around. “Why do you think I removed every member of our line, every cousin who could possibly have a claim against me? I don’t want Oín and Gloín here every day. I don’t wish Dwalin commanding the Guards, turning them to his own cause. And Balin…he was far and away the hardest, for he was clever and diplomatic. He never said the wrong thing, never made a move which could be misinterpreted. There was only one lever I could see he had-my sister’s safety and that of her boys. He would never willingly abandon the Court, no matter how unpleasant he found it, for he owed his cousin Thrain his loyalty. But it was easy to start the rumours, to promise a marriage to Royalty as a prize for my allies…Hizair or Vurth are unmarried and ambitious and would definitely give thought to taking Dis and joining the Royal Family.”

“Arranged marriages ended three centuries ago in Erebor,” Thorin growled, his voice filled with disgust. “Our sister lost her One: using her as a pawn for your advancement is despicable.”

“Sigin’Adad was considering how to dispose of her, the first female of our line for eight generations,” Frerin scoffed. “You think he approved of that low-born she chose?”

“He was my One!” Dis spat, surging forward and barely restrained by Dwalin and Balin. “There was no choice. He was made for me by Mahal, the other half of my soul! But you wouldn’t know because you have no soul!”

“Feisty as ever, dear sister,” Frerin sneered. “But futile. My word is law here. And it worked: once you left, as I was waiting for, Balin finally capitulated.” The old diplomat looked ashamed, his expression downcast.

“I’m sorry, laddie,” he murmured to Thorin. “I never saw that coming.”

“None of us did,” the former slave murmured. Frerin shook his head.

“And imagining I would want her sons as my Heirs?” he scoffed. “I wanted them here because they would be isolated and inaccessible to anyone seeking to raise them as a threat to me. As an alternative.” And then he gave a twisted smile. “But I will have no problem in making my own Heir. I don’t need my sister’s brats to succeed me…and Thorin…well you were never interested in that duty.” He jerked Bilbo cruelly. “Though I can see what you like in this little Malkun. He’s soft and smells nice and I think he would cry quite beautifully…”

“Master Baggins is my friend, my saviour and my host,” Thorin snapped, forcing himself not to look at Bilbo and hating himself for lying. “Nothing more.”

“Then he’s going to be disappointed because he seems to have a wildly unfounded faith that you will come to rescue him,” Frerin sneered. “Because you have failed abjectly. And just in case everyone imagines you aren’t a disgrace to the line of Durin, that you aren’t a coward and a slave…STRIP!”

Thorin stared at him, his face expressionless.

“Strip-shirt, tunic and armour. I want you to show these people just who they are fighting for…or should I say, what…” Frerin commanded. “Do I need to ask my men to kill the nearest traitor to persuade you to comply?”

There was a long moment when the only sounds were the loud, audible huffs of air as Thorin breathed, fighting his rage with every ounce of his strength. And then he reached for his sword belt and unbuckled it, the leather and metal hitting the ground with a thud. His belt followed and then he shrugged off his dark blue tunic. Underneath, he unbuckled the leather and mail armour he had crafted in the Shire between and after commissions, and finally the fine Durin Blue shirt with silver stitching that Bilbo had given him after the midnight attack. Looking quietly at the Hobbit, he slipped the fine material over his head and dropped it by his side.

“And the bracers,” Frerin snapped. Breathing hard, his brother complied, unbuckling the leather and baring his arms. “Now KNEEL!”

Stealing one last glance at Bilbo, Thorin complied. 

“Now raise your arms,” Frerin growled and again, the older brother obeyed, the burns and brands visible, along with the words in Westron that confirmed his status. The Crown Prince was almost preening with glee.

“So now you all see!” he announced, gesturing with the knife. “My beloved brother, everyone’s hero-is a slave. Dishonoured, expelled from our line for his cowardice in surrendering when a true son of Durin should have fought to the death instead of being taken. And had he done this, none of what followed would have been necessary!”

“You would have abandoned Dis and the boys to slavery,” Thorin growled.

“We would have got them back,” he hissed. “I employed your captors after all! My men-led by me-would have found them and retrieved them, cementing my position as the hero of Ered Luin and rightful successor to our beloved and much mourned Prince Thorin. But you didn’t die. You didn’t do the heroic thing…”

“Yes, he did,” Bilbo said quietly, his voice strained but firm. "It was far more heroic to surrender everything he possessed, everything he knew, to spare those he loved from a terrible fate. A fate you had planned for them.”

“SHUT UP!” Frerin spat and backhanded the Hobbit, his ring cutting cruelly into Bilbo’s cheek. But Bilbo swung his feet round and slammed a blow into Frerin’s knee, almost causing the Prince to stumble to his knees. He cried out and put his entire weight into a brutal punch that tossed the Hobbit through the air. Bilbo hit the ground with a slight groan and rolled to Thorin’s side, then lay still.

“Bilbo!” Thorin gasped, feeling his heart shudder at the sight of the limp shape, the faintest rise and fall of his chest the only sign he still lived.

“He’s a fitting friend for you, dear brother,” Frerin sneered. “Stubborn and stupid and prone to grand but futile gestures. So you refused to die and accepted shame. Of course, I couldn’t allow anyone to go to rescue you since disposing of you was the whole point. So I vetoed it, persuading our father you had betrayed our blood and deserved only exile and disinheritance. You ruined my gesture so why should I do anything but leave you to the fate you chose? And believe me, my friends who took you sent such amusing reports of your defiance.” He gestured. “I heard they needed almost to whip you to death to make you stop struggling. Such pretty scars…the marks of a slave, of property, not a Prince.” His pale blue eyes searched the faces of the Company, of the guards and the Lords and their men. A mixture of pity, disgust and shock was mingled on their faces. “This is not a Prince, not your saviour but a wretched escaped slave. He is exiled from Ered Luin and yet he returns. And there can only be one penalty!”

“No,” Thorin said. He rose, scarred and half-naked but unbowed and unbroken. “No. Because you are not the King and only the King can rule on one of Durin’s Line.” Frerin stiffened, his face contorting in rage before he turned to the corpse still sprawled in the throne. He reached out and wrenched the crown from Thrain’s head, tossing his own circlet aside before pulling the crown on his own head.

“I am now,” he spat.

“No,” Thorin said clearly. “You see, in all those lessons you skipped and sneered at in favour of indulging your own pleasures, there was some information you should know now. I, Thorin, son of Thain son of Thror, firstborn son of Thain, son of Thror son of Dain, King Under The Mountain and of Ered Luin accuse Frerin, son of Thain son of Thror, of assassination of his father, King Thrain, Second of that name with the aim of usurping the throne. I am born of the line Durin and claim my rights of Challenge and Combat. And no matter what you may claim and what machinations you have completed to dishonour and exile me, you cannot supersede this right of birth. You have to meet the challenge or forfeit your honour and be condemned as a coward. In doing so, you would then abdicate all rights to the throne and any claims to the Line of Durin you may cling to.” 

“This is madness!” Frerin shouted. “I don’t have to do anything. I am the King!”

“You have not been accepted by the Council and there are many witnesses here who have seen the challenge issued,” Balin announced. “You meet the Challenge or you are disqualified from the Throne.”

“From the days of Lord Durin to now,” Lord Farag murmured, his eyes glittering with malice. He knew now that Frerin had been manipulating the Council to thwart his own ambitions and couldn’t see any gain in supporting him. If he won, he would be weakened, his treachery exposed. And if Thorin won…well, Farag was patient. He had his own resources and when things settled down, maybe he would effect another change of monarch to his own preference…

“Guards-kill him!” Frerin spat but there was no movement. In fact, pikes swung round to cover the men in the liveries of the various Lord who were shuffling their feet and just itching to get involved. 

“The oath of the Guards ain’t to one King or one Prince,” Dwalin said gruffly, his voice carrying through the room.”We swear to protect the Kingdom, the people and the Throne. And it looks like we have a dead King, traitors, usurpation and more mess and confusion than any dwarf should have to deal with.” He looked over at the Guards-his men-and saw almost all faces filled with relief that their Captain was finally back. Many gave subtle nods of agreement, tacitly accepting his leadership once more. “No one is being killed. You’ve been issued the Challenge. You fight or you leave in exile and disgrace.”

The Lords retreated to a huddle to one side, the Guards to the other and the Company remained at Thorin’s back. Frerin glared at them and then nodded.

“I shall meet the Challenge,” he announced. 

Chapter Text

THIRTY EIGHT.

“I shall meet the Challenge,” Frerin announced, his eyes focussed on the shape of his brother.

“Balin and Dwalin are my seconds,” Thorin said, gesturing for Oin to check Bilbo. His heart was aching at not being able to take the unconscious shape in his arms and protect him as the Hobbit had him so many times. But this was for Ered Luin and the exiled people of Erebor and he could not be distracted now-no matter the cost to his heart. He grabbed his shirt and his sword, throwing the garment over his body and stepping forward. Balin glanced at Oin, who was gently examining Bilbo and talking in low tones to his patient while Dwalin was making subtle Iglishmek gestures to a couple of the guards. The old Adviser walked to the side and pulled the long silver and Mithril chain that hung by a huge lever. The clanging of a sonorous bell filled the room and echoed throughout the settlement. Frerin started and stabbed a finger at him.

“What are you DOING?” he roared.

“Where Challenge is made, it must be seen to be done,” the Adviser announced and used his full weight to haul the lever down. Instantly, the walls of the room save that supporting the Throne began to sink into the floor, exposing the Throne room to a much larger space, the receiving halls that surrounded it rapidly filling with dwarrow from all over the settlement summoned by the bell. Many miners were armed with picks and all looked more than invested in the outcome of the duel.  Bofur gave them a wink and a thumbs up. Oin gently lifted Bilbo and moved him to lie by Balin as the Company moved to his side, gathering their weapons on the way. With stone at their back and weapons in their hands, they were ready to act. Farag made to address the people but he felt a hand tight on his arm and the unmistakeable prick of a knife in his side.

“I’d shut up and watch…unless you think you can live without a liver,” a voice breathed in his ear. “And from talking to Oin, that don’t seem much of an option. You’ll get your say when it’s good and time. Understood?”

Farag nodded slightly. Somehow, he found himself pulled back against on of the columns, his assailant neatly concealed from his men and from any casual view or attack.

“King Thrain is dead!” Balin announced, his voice carrying across the assembling crowd. Immediately murmurs started, shock and surprise mixing with a few expressions of relief. “His younger son, Crown Prince Frerin, stands accused of his poisoning and of concealing the death in order to consolidate his own power. He stands accused of an attack, three years ago that was intended to kill his older brother, Crown Prince Thorin, and send his sister, Princess Dis and her sons, Princes Fili and Kili, into slavery. Instead, Prince Thorin stepped forward and saved his kin from slavery at the cost of his own honour by surrendering. Prince Frerin blocked all attempts to rescue his brother and instead had him declared exile and disowned of his family, in order to assume his place as Crown Prince. After his treachery was uncovered-in collusion with the Lords on the Council-Prince Thorin has issued Challenge in the name of the Line of Durin. Not even his wrongful banishment and disowning can overcome his rights by blood in this matter. So Prince Frerin will have to meet the challenge. To the death!”

Absolute silence fell over the Hall as the dwarrows watched. Dwalin leaned close. 

“You sure you can take him?” he muttered. Thorin took a shuddering breath.

“This is my baby brother, who I taught,” he breathed. “I can’t…I don’t…” Gently, the warrior gripped his shoulder.

“I know,” he breathed. “But he ain’t the brother you remembered.”

“He’s quite mad,” a bleary voice said and Thorin looked down to see Bilbo slowly sitting up, a hand pressed to his head. “He thinks he’s sane but he told me all about the Gold Sickness that runs in your family. He tried…” He winced. “He tried to turn me against you. But from what I understand, the Gold Sickness is like…an insane greed that overrides everything else. That’s what he’s got. Except he doesn’t covet gold or gems but the Throne and power itself.”

“Oin?”

“That would make sense,” the healer admitted. “No one has really ever made a close study of Dragon Sickness…mainly because it was too dangerous to go near a gold-mad King…”

“I meant Bilbo,” Thorin breathed. The healer smiled.

“He’ll have the mother of all headaches but he’ll live,” Oín reassured him. “Now you just have to.”

“Thorin?” the Hobbit asked, wincing as he moved. The former Prince knelt by him, resting a gentle hand on his cheek, the touch featherlight over his injuries.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant you to be caught in this.” Managing a brave smile, the Hobbit closed his hand around Thorin’s.

“I don’t think I knew what I was getting into when I freed you-but I knew I had to,” he said quietly. “It had to be the will of the Green Lady…and maybe her husband as well…” Quietly, Thorin gave the slightest bow, then rose and faced his brother. 

“Ready to die…brother?” Frerin sneered but Thorin merely faced him, drawing all his anger and despair and hatred in to himself and focussing solely on the enemy facing him. An Enemy. Not the golden-haired, beloved brother he had grown up with and missed during his time in exile. Not the person who had been closest to him in the world. Not the dwarfling who had sneaked him treats even when he stood in disgrace at his latest punishment from Sigin’Adad. Not the brother who had sworn to stand at his side no matter what, to support his brother while Thorin did the heavy duty of ruling. All he faced was a dwarf lost to madness, a creature that had murdered the King, tried to kill Thorin and had kidnapped Bilbo. A creature who had sent his forces in war against the Shire. A creature that had to die.

He raised his sword. Instantly, Frerin rushed him, his style still impetuous and aggressive. Ever since he first lifted the blade, Frerin had wanted to best his older brother, to be first in something and he had often teased Thorin for his boring exercises and boring training and boring dedication. Frerin worked at his swordsmanship but never with the single-minded determination that Thorin had shown. But Thorin had spent three years unable to even wield a sword, chained and restricted and starved and even the months of good food and recovery in the Shire could not fully compensate. But the initial parry was sturdy and Thorin shifted his weight and countered, his sword swinging round hard the snap Frerin’s blade back, causing his eyes to widen for a fraction of an instant before the same hate-filled expression replaced the shock.

To Bilbo, the fight was vicious and brutal, heavy blow followed by heavy blows. Both brothers slashed at chest and necks, bodies and limbs, managing to parry most of the time though both had superficial scratches and cuts where they had gotten close. But to Bilbo’s eye-which was definitely inexpert-Thorin still seemed to be holding back because Frerin was his brother. The revelations of the depths of his madness and evil had been too recent for the older brother to overcome all of his qualms-while Frerin seemed to have no such restrictions. He was clearly trying to kill Thorin and because he wasn’t using every single ounce of his skill, Thorin was giving ground, backing away and parrying more than he attacked. He almost stumbled as he reached the edge of the dais and as his balance wavered, Frerin’s sword got too close, the tip slicing across his cheek and severing the braid in his hair.

“You have no right to wear any braids, slave,” Frerin hissed, seeing his brother leap back and land steadily on the lower level. “And when you die, I’ll burn your body and scatter your ashes. You’ll never make Mahal’s Halls. You’ll be erased from history and forgotten.”

“Then I won’t die,” Thorin ground out, ducking and slashing viciously at his brother’s legs. Frerin stumbled and Thorin pressed his advantage, his blows landing mercilessly on Frerin’s scrambled defence. “I won’t lose. I cannot leave out people in your hands.”

“You were willing to do that three years ago,” Frerin taunted him. “So what’s different now?”

“Now, there is no option because the King is dead and the throne…is mine,” Thorin told him shortly, breathing hard, Absently, he swiped at the blood that was slowly oozing down his face. 

“You think your Malkun will still fancy you cut up like a ham?” Frerin sneered. “Maybe he prefers his dwarves with a name and a throne?” Thorin lunged at him, his attack swatted aside and a backswing slicing across his shoulder. He growled in fury and spun away, his sword swirled over his head and blocking the chop at his neck.

“Maybe you should concentrate on fighting me rather than trying to trying to persuade yourself that everyone loves you,” Thorin growled. “You’ve gotten fat and lazy, brother. You expect adulation when respect is earned by hard work and sacrifice. Adad favoured you but the rest of us saw through you.”

“I’ll use those word in my Coronation Speech!” Frerin sneered, his hand snaking round and hauling a knife from a sheath at the small of his back. “Maybe I can use them at your Malkun’s funeral as well!” And he flung the blade towards Bilbo.

There was a horrific moment while the blade accelerated towards the shocked shape of the Hobbit, as Thorin’s head snapped round before time resumed and the clang of an axe-head swatting the blade aside echoed through the chamber.

“Amateur,” Dwalin scorned, Grasper raised to ward off any other attempts.

“Not really,” Frerin hissed, slamming his sword into Thorin’s shoulder. The older Prince’s bellow filled the room and his hand snapped up, closing around his brother’s and holding the sword motionless, no matter how hard Frerin tried to drive the blade deeper into his body. “You’re done, brother.”

Thorin stared into his face, feeling his breath on his skin. He searched without hope for one last trace of sanity, for one last hope that his beloved younger brother was in the monster facing him…but all he met was milky madness and the eerie spark he had seen in Thror’s eyes when he was at his worst. And in his heart, he knew that the Dragon had won, that Frerin was so far gone that there was no hope for retrieval. That his baby brother was dead.

It finalised his decision and the sword clattered from his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, seeing Frerin’s face curl in triumph. And then he pulled the younger Prince closer, feeling the iron slide through his flesh and the pain washed through him. Keeping his face absolutely expressionless, his other arm moved, the knife driving up through the light armour Frerin wore to court and deep into the treacherous depths of his black heart. 

There was a gasp and Frerin stared at him, his mouth opening in a silent accusation, before he stumbled back. He turned to face the Council, the knife still buried to the hilt in his chest before he took two more steps and crumpled forward, landing face-first across the edge of the dais. The crown spun free with a clunk, rolled a few feet and then settled with a final thud.

Oín was already moving as Dwalin nodded and the Guards surrounded the Lords and their men. The Company moved to surround Thorin as the Prince straightened up, lifting his chin even as Oin  pulled the sword free and tried to pad the wound. Blood covered half of his left cheek, soaking his beard but his eyes were clear and his voice steady.

“I, Thorin, son of Thain, son of Thror have won the Challenge and have proven my accusations against Frerin son of Thrain son of Thror,” he announced. “King Thrain is dead. I am the firstborn son, raised as Crown Prince of the Line of Durin. I claim the throne…unless any with a more valid claim stands forth.”

Balin gave a small bow.

“I Balin, son of Fundin son of Farin of the Line of Durin support Thorin son of Thain son of Thror as  rightful and true King of Ered Luin,” he announced clearly. Dwalin twirled his axes in his hands.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin son of Farin, supports Thorin son of Thain son of Thror as the rightful King,” he announced, his growl and fierce scowl daring any to raise an objection. The sturdy shape of Gloin stomped forward, his axe held in his hands. 

“I Gloín, son of Groín son of Farin of the Line of Durin support Thorin son of Thain son of Thror as the rightful and true King of Ered Luin,” he announced gruffly, glaring at the Lords. Farag felt a deeper prickle in his side.

“Just stay calm,” the voice murmured in his ear. “Your moment will come.”

“Oín, son of Groín son of Farin, supports Thorin as the rightful King,” Oin announced as he wound a bandage tightly around the wound, his urgency already telling that the padding was a stopgap solution at best. Bilbo could already see red beginning to bloom through the multiple layers of padding. The smaller shape of Gimli, Gloin’s son, emerged behind him, his fiery red beard curled and fine despite his young age.

“Gimli, son of Gloín son of Groín, supports Thorin son of Thain son of Thror as the rightful King of Ered Luin,” he announced proudly.

“Dis, daughter of Thrain son of Thror supports my older brother Thorin in assuming his rightful place as the King of Durin’s folk in Ered Luin!” she announced. Fili stood forward.

“Fili, son of Dis daughter of Thrain, supports Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, as the rightful King of Ered Luin,” he announced. Finally, Kili stood at his side.

“Kili, son of Dis daughter of Thrain, supports Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror as the rightful and true King of Ered Luin. Long live the King!” The younger Prince’s voice rang through the room and slowly, cheering broke out amid the watching dwarrow. 

“The entire Line of Durin supports Thorin as King,” Balin announced and turned his pointed gaze to the Council. “Will you do your duty, my Lords, or will you oppose the entire Line of Durin?”

“Not all,” Vurth announced, his voice bitter. “I do not see Lord Dain adding his support.”

“Dain is Lord of the Iron Hills, half a world away and he is not in the line of succession while those here live,” Balin said with forced patience. “He cannot rule two Kingdoms separated by half of Arda. Perhaps if we were discussing the Throne of Erebor, there may be a discussion to be had but for Ered Luin…no.” 

“Does that mean you oppose the King?” Dwalin growled and there was a visible movement of pikes towards the Lord from the Guards present. Vurth shrank back and shook his head. “Any o’ you?”

Farag watched the other Lords crumble and fall into line, their dreams dashed when their candidate breathed his last. Hizair, Brago, Vurth-even fat old Lord Salin who complained about everything. The knife prickled at his side and he nodded his assent.

“The Council recognises Thorin son of Thrain as the King,” he announced shortly, not acknowledging the dwarven custom of two generations of ancestors. “However…”

The jab was unnecessarily sharp and he almost flinched. Balin walked forward and lifted the abandoned crown, carefully averting his eyes to avoid looking at the body of the Crown Prince as he turned to the injured Thorin. 

“Kneel, laddie,” he murmured and Thorin took a deep breath then clumsily dropped to his knees. Oín stepped back, backing away as the Company all took station. “Thorin, son of Thrain son of Thror, son of the Line of Durin-I crown you King of Ered Luin and heir to the throne of Erebor. Do you swear to protect and preserve your people, ensuring their safety and prosperity and giving your life in their protection.”

“As Mahal wills,” Thorin said. Balin gave a small smile as he raised the Crown and placed it carefully on Thorin’s head. 

“Then rise, King Thorin Oakenshield,” Balin said and bowed low. The entire Company and all the dwarves beyond bowed low, then burst out cheering. Oin helped Thorin to his feet and he straightened up, his face pallid under the blood. He raised his hand and slowly silence fell. Bilbo was shooting anxious looks at him but he was focussing all his attention on the Council.

“Balin, my old friend-would you do me the honour of serving me as Chief Adviser?” he asked clearly and the old dwarf gave a low bow.

“It would be my honour,” he said. Thorin attempted a thin smile.

“Dwalin-I guess I am not imposing by asking you to resume Captaincy of the Guards?” he asked as his friend grunted.

“Already there but willingly,” the warrior growled. 

“I name my sister Dis, daughter of Thrain, as my Regent and her sons Fili, son of Dis as my first Heir and Kili son of Dis as my second Heir,” Thorin announced, his fist tightening against the pain from his wound. All three bowed then moved to stand at his side. Nodding and ghosting a smile of gratitude, he turned his cerulean gaze to the assembled people of Ered Luin. There were representatives of all areas-guards, miners, artisans, cooks, smelters, tailors and traders. He just hoped that they would understand his actions.

“My people-today is a day of sadness, not joy,” he announced, his voice gruff with pain. “Today, we learned that our King was murdered, poisoned by the Crown Prince Frerin-his beloved son-several days ago and left to mummify here instead of being returned to the stone as is his right. Prince Frerin attempted to seize the throne, aided and abetted by the Council who saw an opportunity to rule through the Prince, imagining that he would be as afflicted as my father by the weakness in our line. But while my father’s mind was slowly disintegrating, Frerin’s was bright with madness and the desire to grind any opposition under his heel. He murdered his father and was fully intent on removing any who opposed him-be they brother, cousin or other. But now is a time for a new start, to ensure that all here have the chance for a comfortable, prosperous life. And I cannot do that with a Council filled with traitors!”

There was immediate uproar. Bilbo glanced at Thorin, his voice as strong as ever though his skin was ashen around the eyes. The wadding over his shoulder was stained bright red now and he could see the anxiety in Oín’s eyes. He could sense the import of the moment and knew he was watching history but a small part of him was mourning those quiet evenings in his smial, sitting with Thorin and reading or smoking when he was just a dwarf who had lost his home and family. And now, he was a King while Bilbo was definitely an outsider with a smial that was going to feel horribly large and empty when he returned there alone, while all his dwarves remained in their homes here in Ered Luin. And he was happy for them-he truly was-but he didn’t even want to contemplate what his life would be like without them.

“It’s true!” A voice cut through the yells-a feat in itself considering most of the Council and many of the audience were all weighing in at the tops of their voice. Balin nodded and Gloín pulled the cord, sounding the Bell once more. The sonorous sound echoed through the chamber and slowly, silence returned. A hooded shape emerged and Bilbo started as he recognised the voice and the knitted fingerless gloves clutching a ledger stuffed with papers. “I am Ori, son of Luori, apprentice scribe to Master Balin. We have searched through the office of Prince Frerin and the Lords you see here and all have papers corroborating their treason in plotting the removal of the King and promising their support to Prince Frerin when he announced the death of King Thrain.”

Thorin shuffled his feet, taking a deep breath. His left arm was curled with his fist against the now-soaked padding.

“Do you have any words to say in your defence?” he growled. During the uproar, the guards had surrounded the Lords, shoving back their personal soldiers and disarming them. Gloín and Dwalin were standing behind them, weapons naked and threat implicit. Despite the fact there were a significant number of personal soldiers in the room, the Company had them covered as well. Vurth, Hizair and Brago fell to their knees before their King.

“We only wanted what was best for the Kingdom!” Hizair protested. “And Lord Frerin was the best option.”

“For you-not for the people of the Kingdom,” Thorin growled, lifting his chin slightly. “Even before I was…removed…I heard too many stories of miners, artisans, shopkeepers, normal dwarves being squeezed for taxes and cast aside to ensure that you all increased your wealth. People starved or were driven from their meagre lodgings because you took too great a tax on their earnings. That had only worsened in my absence. And gaining leverage over the King would enable that process.”

“You cannot do this!” Vurth protested. Thorin pulled his shoulders back and Bilbo wasn’t the only one to hear the hiss of pain.

“I am the King,” Thorin growled. His piercing blue gaze swung to Brago. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Have mercy?” Brago whimpered, his proud shape curled. 

“As you had mercy on the King? On Lady Dis and the young Princes? And…”

Me, Bilbo silently added.

“And you, Lord Farag? Do you have a defence?” Thorin challenged. The Lord gave a sneering smile.

“I was not part of the plot that brought you to ruin,” he announced coolly. 

“Though you led the moves to have me exiled and disowned,” Thorin accused him harshly. 

“You have no proof to arrest me,” Farag announced.

“If only that was true,” Ori announced. “But your office contained proof that you dispatched Prason, your personal assassin to kill Thorin while he was in exile in the land of the Halflings. Fortunately his men were incompetent…or maybe, the Company was rather better prepared than you had believed. And of course, Prason later kidnapped Bilbo Baggins and brought him here, handing him over to Prince Frerin.”

“Lords Vurth, Hizair and Brago are found guilty of Treason for their moves against the King and the then Crown Prince and their part in the death of King Thrain,” Thorin announced. “They are to be shaved then beheaded and their bodies burnt. The ashes are to be scattered. Their families are exiled from Ered Luin and Erebor until the world is remade.” Then he turned to Farag.

“Any pronouncement is invalid and politically motivated,” Farag announced scornfully.

“Too cowardly even to own your crimes,” Thorin growled. “For planning to kill me, you are sentenced to death. You too will be shaved, beheaded and your family will be exiled from Ered Luin and Erebor. All those exiled will be put out at sunset with only what they can carry.”

Bilbo shuddered, hearing the cold fury in Thorin’s voice. He could see that his friend was struggling, in pain and still losing blood from the horrible wound he had received in the combat. There were gasps of shock at the sentences and as Bilbo glanced away, he saw a flash of movement in the shadows behind Ori.

“WATCH OUT!” he yelled as the same dwarf who had captured him reared up behind the young scribe. He could hear Dori yell as well, the sensation of motion all around him. But the zing and thud of a bow being fired was simultaneous with another thud. Kili looked down the arrow he had reloaded, the first arrow already buried in Prason’s heart as he staggered back. A knife with the Durin crest was protruding from the assassin’s eye, another ready in Fili’s hand to unleash. But Prason was already on the floor, already dead as the young Princes continued their readiness to meet any more threats. 

Farag felt an impact in his side and gasped as he felt something withdrawn and stabbed in, again and again. A hand shoved him forward as the unknown dwarf threw him onto his knees. A booted foot slammed into his back and he ended on his face. He could feel the blood trickling from the wounds in his side.

“I warned you,” Nori growled, the bloody knife in his hand, then he looked up at Thorin and bowed his head. “Nori son of Luori, Ori’s other brother,” he announced formally. “If you want to shave and behead him, I’d be quick about it, your Majesty. He ain’t gonna last long.” Thorin nodded and Dwalin stepped forward as Bifur and Dori took his place guarding the other condemned Lords, drawing his knife and hauling up the Lord’s head. His elegant beard fell away, scraped down to the skin. His helm was cast aside and hair hacked short before he pulled back and lifted his axe. There was a pause and a swish. Bilbo closed his eyes but still heard the thud of a head hitting the ground. Fili moved to his side.

“It’s okay, Bilbo,” the Prince murmured as Dwalin moved on to the other three Lords. It wasn’t traditional to carry out sentence in the throne room but Thorin was clearly operating on very limited time before he would succumb to his wounds. “This isn’t usual…”

“I should hope not,” the Hobbit said, his eyes still carefully shut. “This isn’t how we do things in the Shire. Even when people do terribly bad things, the worst we can do is lock them up in the cells or exile them. We would never…never…” Fili’s hand tightened on his arm and gave a little squeeze.

“I can believe that,” he admitted. “Your home is warm and comfortable and safe. I cannot believe your people go round stabbing and poisoning and clawing for power.” Bilbo sighed.

“Apart from Lobelia, the fiercest our politics get is who is elected President of the Westfarthing Jam-Making Committee,” he admitted. Then he sighed. “They wouldn’t stop, would they?”

“Stone is unyielding and so are we,” the elder Prince reminded him. “Dwarves are stubborn. They hold grudges and they would never forgive Thorin for whatever penalty he gave them. And treason, moves against the Royal Family and the King is the worst crime possible in our people. If he didn’t deal with it severely, then none of us would be safe.”

There was a pause. “I understand,” the Hobbit said quietly. Fili squeezed his arm again. 

“It’s done,” he said and slowly, Bilbo opened his eyes.

“Court dismissed!” Balin announced as Dwalin sheathed his knife and motioned to his guards to escort the Lords’ private armies away, Gloin helping him. Dori was already moving over towards Ori and wrapping him in a powerful hug. The crowd began to disperse as Bilbo walked forward. Uncertain what to do, he sketched a bow. Thorin looked pained.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He was swaying. Oin grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit on the floor as his hand flailed and caught Bilbo’s. “My friend, my dearest Bilbo…you have seen me at my lowest, at my most worthless. You refused to ever let me give up. You never need bow to me. I should be bowing to you for all you have done for me…”

“Thorin, you saved my life,” Bilbo reminded him, crouching by his side.  Thorin gave a slight huff, the faintest attempt at a laugh.

“Then I only have about three more times to save it to come close to evening that column in our reckoning,” he murmured. His hand tightened around Bilbo’s. “Dis?”

“Here, you idiot,” she said, crouching by his other side. Thorin gave a sigh.

“I think you need to practice your Regency duties,” he said. “Bilbo…I am sorry. For everything…” Bilbo squeezed his hand ferociously.

“Never be,” he said fiercely, staring into the blue eyes. “Meeting you and everything since has been the best time of my life. It’s far more than any Baggins deserves.” But Thorin gave a small smile.

“It’s the merest fraction of what you deserve, my friend, my Amrâlimê…” His eyelids fluttered and he gave one heavy exhale before he collapsed back onto the floor and the hand fell limply from Bilbo’s grasp.

Chapter Text

THIRTY NINE:

Bilbo decided that he hated waiting. Ever since the moment that Thorin’s eyes had closed, he had been shuffled aside and treated like a rather inconvenient piece of luggage. Everyone had suddenly been seriously busy with grasping hold of the flapping threads of the Kingdom and consolidating the power that had finally been wrested from the grasping hands of the Lords. Dwalin had vanished with Gloin and the Guard and they had spent a busy few days clearing out the Lords’ private armies and ensuring that there was only one official military force in the mountains. Dis and Balin had focussed on ruling, with Fili often included to further his training as First Heir and soon-to-be Crown Prince. Ori was usually included and the middle brother-Nori-who seemed to be in Balin’s service. 

Thorin had been carried away by Oin and his healers, assuming care of the new King and accompanied by Dori and Bifur to ensure that his words were acted on and no political appointments made any effort to counter his commands and put the King’s life in danger-by omission or by commission. It shocked Bilbo that anyone would consider harming a helpless injured person but he was learning that dwarves were more different to Hobbits than even he had imagined and for a moment, he could hear Lobelia’ voice in his mind, warning that they were dangerous and vicious creatures. Then he shook himself: if anything, his time with the dwarves had highlighted the similarities rather than the obvious differences. They were a folk who loved their families and friends, would risk anything for those they loved and revelled in friendship, food, drink and fun. Sure, they were loud, ill-mannered and lacked discretion but they were warm, caring and good company. And Thorin’s words to the Thain rolled around in his head, reminding him of all the reasons why dwarves were so different in their attitudes to life than Hobbits.

No race but our own credits dwarves with any worth. Driven from our home, spurned like rabid wolves, ostracised by our own people, blamed for Azanulbizar despite our crippling losses, treated like animals as our women and children starve and freeze and are taken by disease and wild animals. ‘Everyone knows’ that dwarves are dirty and vicious and thieves and beggars. But no one but our own kind see the woman nursing hungry babes, see a couple slowly dance under the moon as they celebrate an anniversary, see friends laugh about a fire, sharing jokes and songs…or watch family mourn another infant life cut short due to lack of food or warmth or simple medicine. Dwarrow are seen as little more than animals, despite the fact we create the most beautiful things and finest weapons on Arda, despite the fact we love but once and are devoted to our spouses and families for all our long lives, despite the fact we do not prosper except in our rightful homes. My people are slowly dying, year by year our numbers dwindling. Fewer dwarflings are born and not all survive, female offspring are rarer still and many of my people never find our Ones, yet we still fall to murder or disease or war. Mahal treats his creations hard and we can only pray that in the future to come, when the world is remade, that our lot will be kinder than it is now. And that other races will finally believe that we have the right to exist as much as they do.

He glanced at the door to Thorin’s sick room and swallowed. Harsh treatment had bred harshness in the dwarvish race and they fought hard and permanently to keep what they had. Yet he knew, from his time with the dwarves who had been staying in his home that they would give much for their family…but they would not scheme and manipulate and murder just for a few more coins or a better job. It seemed he was as guilty as everyone in generalising instead of seeing what was there: a race with good and bad people in, just like any other.

Oin had beckoned him along as they had hurried Thorin to the infirmary and, unbalanced, he had agreed. It was strange to be taken from the dwarves he knew and trusted but Oin had already demonstrated that he was a true healer, dedicated to his craft and his patients, even at the risk of his own safety and life. Balin had given a small nod as Bilbo had sought him out and at that, the battered Hobbit had followed. 

They had concentrated on Thorin of course, because he was their King and he was on the brink of death. But Bilbo had been shocked to have been escorted into the room with the wounded King and had been firmly sat on a stool at his side, his hand wrapped around Thorin’s limp one.

“Stay here, laddie,” Oin had ordered him and then had set to his work. And Bilbo had really really wished he hadn’t been there to witness that. The coppery smell of the blood-soaked bandages, the quiet panic of the healers, Oin’s barked commands in Khuzdul, Thorin’s cold skin…all were firmly branded on his memory. Bilbo found his fingers gently running over the vicious scars from the slave brands and the hot iron manacles they had hammered around his wrists, the scars marking Thorin’s bravery and sacrifice for all to see…except many in his own race saw it as a shame, not a mark of self-sacrifice. Yet nausea had risen in his throat when the healers had brought up a brazier with irons already glowing amid the coals and his head had snapped up, eyes filled with betrayal.

“What…?”

“There is no other way, Bilbo,” Oin had said, his eyes infinitely sad. “There is still bleeding deep in the wound and if it cannot be stopped, he will not survive. I cannot reach to sew the vessel shut. There is only one option: cautery.”

“Or he will bleed to death,” Bilbo murmured and he closed his eyes, his hand tightening around Thorin’s hand. Then he nodded. There was a pause and four healers clustered around the unconscious King, hands pressing him down into the bed and keeping him still, before Oin rose, a leather glove on his hand as he delicately raised the glowing metal and nodded…then pressed the tip into the wound.

Thorin’s eyes snapped open, wild and disorientated, and he arched his body, fighting against the well-meaning hands preventing him from harming himself. The cry of pain torn from his throat had Bilbo’s heart breaking and he leaned forward, his hand tightening on the King’s and rested his other on Thorin’s clammy forehead.

“They have to stop the bleeding,” he said urgently, finding Thorin’s eyes meet his. Wild fear calmed a fraction and the King clutched fiercely at his hand. 

“Bilbo…Amrâlimê…” he rasped.

“I’m here,” Bilbo assured him, ignoring his own wounds. “Oin is stopping the bleeding. He’ll have you patched up as good as new…”

“Bilbo? I…” The word dissolved into another grunt of pain and the dwarf writhed in anguish. “Bilbo?”

“I’m here.” Though he was feeling sick, wishing he wasn’t so close that he could hear the sizzling of flesh, couldn’t smell the scent of charred meat and still see the blood well from the wound. Oin pulled the hot iron away and lifted a fresh one. “Look at me, Thorin.” Wild blue eyes scanned the ceiling before snapping back to Bilbo’s bruised face. “I am here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stay…” Thorin groaned, his eyes pleading. Honestly, Bilbo wasn’t sure how much Thorin actually meant, disorientated by blood loss and pain but in that moment, he would say anything to ease his friend’s suffering.

“I will-but you must as well,” he said urgently. Thorin managed the slightest of nods, his teeth gritting against a fresh onslaught of pain.

“Ghivashel…” he breathed and then his eyes fluttered closed and the tension left his body. Bilbo checked, still seeing his chest rise and fall and knew that he was mercifully unconscious as the treatment continued. Quietly, the Hobbit focussed on his friend’s face, seeing the blood smeared over his cheek and the deep cut in his skin. Tenderly, he carded his fingers through the soft hair, hoping that the new King would find the sensation comforting.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. Finally, Oin stood back.

“It is done,” he sighed. “We’ll need to wash the wound and stitch him up before we apply poultices to prevent infection…” He paused and saw Bilbo’s face. “You should get something to drink and eat-I’ll move you next door now and I’ll tend you myself once I’ve finished here.”