Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was a very respectable Hobbit.
He lived in Bag End, a cosy, warm hobbit-hole, full of comfort and plenty of food.
He liked fishing and having long walks in the woods, searching for flowers to enrich his house and mushrooms to enrich his meal.
Just like everyone in his - large, noisy - family, he sported nice, colourful kingfisher wings and just as the next Hobbit, it’d been ages since he last used them to actually fly, thank you very much.
Hobbits, as it was, were plain quiet folk and had no use for flying. It is a nasty, disturbing thing, his father always remarked, which makes you late for dinner. And Bilbo, as time passed, had come to agree with him.
Endowed with large, hairy feet, Hobbits led their peaceful existence walking here and there, enjoying the wind amongst trees canopy rather than under their wings.
***
It was a warm, sunny afternoon.
A gentle wind, from time to time ruffling the top of the trees with slightly too much force, carried word of distant heavy clouds and a storm maybe to come, but the sky was still clear, summer almost at its end, but still balmy.
The stream running across the country gurgled softly over rocks and through rushes, before spreading itself into a little lake right in the middle of a small wood not too far East from Hobbiton.
Sitting on the wooden pier, eyes fixed on the fishing line, Bilbo was already foretasting his dinner, dinner that had just bitten and was leading the bait in a crazy dance on the surface of the pond.
A refreshing walk home and a sizzling pan later, his day would be perfect.
***
The storm was upon him way before he even noticed that.
When had the gentle wind that had accompanied him turned into those whipping gusts, Thorin could not really say.
All what he knew was that, somehow, he had managed to drift from the fastest route along his way to the Blue Mountains, finding himself flying over an incredible expanse of gentle slopes and green meadows, heavily dotted with golden fields and little gardens.
As soon as he had acknowledged his error, he had tried to steer back on the right way, but suddenly everything around him was howling wind and deafening thunder and heavy rain.
He got tossed around, desperately flapping his powerful wings to try and fight back the merciless force of the tempest.
He fought, fought, fought, but eventually a particularly strong blow hit him and he lost control.
***
Looking at the fish's skin becoming golden and crispy in its bath of butter, Bilbo listened absent-mindedly to thunders rumbling in the distance. Some rain had fallen over Hobbiton too, but they had been spared the harshest part of the squall.
Thinking vaguely of how a bit more water would have been handy and how, instead, he needed to water his tomatoes come morning, he took the hot pan away from the fireplace and set to enjoy his so-invitingly smelling meal; but as he was spreading a pinch of salt over the crunchy crust, a loud cracking noise startled him: it sounded like something had just crashed right into his roof.
A bit worried, largely upset for being interrupted during dinner, Bilbo tightened the belt of his dressing gown and went for the door.
At first, he thought that a stray gush of wind had knocked hard enough to cause a branch of the tree growing atop his house to fall down. And, in fact, a branch - more than one, to be precise - had actually been torn off the tree; what Bilbo was not expecting was the culprit not being the wind, but a fairly large someone who now lay at the feet of the wounded tree in a haphazard pile of limbs and feather.
Bilbo's worry rocketed. His gut instinct told him to run and check on the figure, but something at the back of his mind - sense of self-preservation, probably - informed him that what if the thing is going to eat you?
That’s probably a bit exaggerated, he countered. It looked like nothing but a helpless, sad thing.
Better safe than sorry, the tiny voice in his head concluded, so Bilbo went for caution.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, gingerly stepping forward, and immediately cursed himself mentally because, seriously, that was such a stupid question: the poor one had just crashed into a tree, for Eru’s sake!
However, stupid or not, it was a question which went unanswered. Not good.
"I'm sorry," he took another step, "do you need help?"
No answer. No movements.
Ignoring any other warning his mind could supply, he hurried and knelt beside the dark lump.
In the dim light of the torches around, he could make a silhouette out, the silhouette of someone who had to be a bit sturdier and higher than Bilbo himself. Their face was hidden in a tangle of long, dark hair, but from the proportions and the glinting of metal beads braided in that unruly mane, Bilbo guessed it was a Dwarf.
Not that the Hobbit had ever actually met one, but some of them lived in not-so-distant Ered Luin, and tales and descriptions had easily reached the Shire and Bilbo's ears (he was not curious, mind you. He was just attentive). That one in particular had got great feathered wings - eagle ones, maybe? - one of which was bent at an odd angle.
Decidedly not good.
He carefully put a hand on the figure's shoulder and shook them gently. That earned him only a feeble groan. He tried again, whispering softly, but nothing more happened.
The Dwarf was clearly unconscious.
It was actually time to try and figure out something; but what do you even do when presented with a senseless Dwarf (or Hobbit, for that matter, or Man... but, yeah, race is not the problem, Bilbo Baggins!)? Bilbo had never had to deal with knocked out people or similar emergencies. Above all, he had never had to deal with someone that passed out after falling on a tree.
Did he (she? Thinking of it, he had not managed to see the other's face or front, so he had not been able to define that yet) need a warm place to rest and regain consciousness? Or did Bilbo need to splash cold water on them, hoping the shock would do the trick?
Probably a warm place and then a bit of cold water would compose the perfect combination, but since Bilbo could not build a house around the creature, to have warmth he actually needed to bring them indoor.
And that notion, as simple as it appeared, gave way to far too many other doubts.
First of all: how was he supposed to move the fallen one without cause more damage? Better, how was he supposed to move them, period? They looked clearly heavier than what Bilbo thought he could lift without hurting himself. Maybe should he go and ask for help? He gave the idea two second's worth consideration, before deciding that a) it was too late to disturb other people and b) they would surely be dining.
At that, thinking of the fish sadly cooling in his kitchen, Bilbo was abruptly reminded, with a pang of severe annoyance, how his father had been right: flying was a nasty, disturbing thing, which made you late for dinner, even when you were not the one flying.
As gently as he was able, Bilbo tried to roll the being onto their side, aiming at putting them into a more comfortable position than the tangle of limbs that had been their landing one, caring not to strain the hurt wing too much.
Just to leave no stone unturned, Bilbo made an attempt at picking up the creature on his back, draping one of their arms over his shoulder, but soon it was clear that that would not be working.
As it seemed, Bilbo had to rethink his former conviction about building a house around the fallen one. Ok, right, a house would actually be too much, but a comfortable nest, that could do.
Bilbo hurried home and a moment later he was crouching near the tree again, carrying an armful of soft blankets and comfy pillow. With deft hands, he pushed the latter under the creature’s face, piling the coverlets neatly over his body.
Once the Dwarf took on a comfortable enough look, Bilbo made a quick second trip inside, returning with an oil lamp and his dinner. Sitting on the spare blanket he spread out on the grass, he set out to finally enjoy his meal, vaguely hoping for the smell of the fish to work some miracle and wake the creature up.
But consciousness, as it seemed, did not intend on gracing them any time soon.
So, after finishing his meal (and actually checking on the creature’s breath because what if he just dies under your eyes, you fool?), Bilbo brought back his plate and returned armed with a nice book, his pipe and a teapot full of steaming hot liquid.
He settled on the ground again, taking a moment to look at the other’s face.
He looked like a male, Bilbo stated. An attractive one, his mind supplied. Pale skin covered in a bushy beard and framed by long dark locks, a straight nose and thin lips, features carved hard by the strong shadows cast by the lamp Bilbo had hung to one of the branches.
***
When Thorin regained consciousness, it was to a wee figure reading by the feeble light of a lamp hanging from a tree, a cup of hot, steaming something near their knees and lazy smoke puffs swirling in the air.
Nothing of that made any sense, so Thorin just lay there for a while, eyes fighting to stay open and failing epically, mentally analysing his situation.
He'd been flying.
Now he was lying.
Something had happened in between. But what?
The last thing he remembered was him getting lost in his way to the Blue Mountains and... storm, his mind supplied somehow. Right, the storm was the last thing Thorin could remember.
He tried to check his body out and immediately regretted doing so.
Every inch of his being started to cry out in pain at the same time, making him wish for a split second he never really woke up; pain that, he registered, reached up to unspeakable peaks in his right wing, arm and side.
Bit by bit, he became aware of something soft under his cheek and something warm covering him; but even the mere attempt at understanding what that could mean made him uncomfortably aware of his aching everything, so he just gave up. He kept lying and staring between half-open eyes (he had soon discovered that keeping them shut steered his conscience to focus on his pain and that was dramatically wrong). And from his position, the only thing he could concentrate upon was the reading figure beside him.
What caught his attention first were the patches of curly hairs covering the creature’s ridiculously large feet. A Hobbit, his memory conceded, an amazing feat actually, considering the weight clouding his head.
Children of the kindly West he knew they were called amongst his people, but Thorin had never had the chance to meet any of them, only heard stories from those who came to Erebor from the Blue Mountains.
Soon, however, his brain revolted against all that thinking, so he just resumed the staring.
The word that flooded his mind was soft. Everything on the little one seemed to strive to fulfil that description: soft curls, soft cheeks, and soft belly, everything made even softer by the dim light around them.
He caught a glimpse of feathers on his back, but could not place, right away, what kind of wings those were. Suddenly, there was something tugging at the back of his mind, the shadow of a memory concerning Hobbits and their wings, but he could not, for the life of him, remember what it was about.
It was right while his mind was blissfully wandering in pursuit of some particularly elusive thought – not concentrating on, just straying as far away as possible from the ocean of scorching pain his physical body was currently drowning into - when the eyes of the tiny creature rose from the page and met his.
His face immediately lighted in a surprised oh!
The little thing jumped to his feet, and a moment later Thorin was buffeted by the peculiar sensation of someone extremely zealous and yet a bit surly at the same time.
The creature was clearly worried for him and, judging from the comfort he was now surrounded by – the pillow and blankets, barely able to impose their smooth presence through the raging discomfort overflowing his battered body – he had tried to ease his suffering while he was out cold.
Despite that, there was something about him that screamed of hostility, although in a muffled way.
And then, again, he was too dazed and confused to think properly, or to think altogether.
Everything that happened from the moment the Hobbit helped him to his feet – wobbly legs barely supporting him – until he was lying down again, this time on a soft featherbed, passed in front of his eyes in a blurred sequence of moments merely spilling one into the other.
He thought he didn’t spoke bar some slurred nonsense, and was pretty sure he didn’t answer any of the questions the other asked him.
What the problem could be, it just floated carelessly out of his reach.
Probably it had to do with the fact that he had just crashed into what he had somehow come to realise was the tree decorating the roof of the halfling’s house, but it was not sure that was really the matter. It felt like something deeper; but, at the moment, he had not enough strength or will to find out.