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Chapter Text

The last thing he remembers is desperation, terror, and pure, unadulterated  rage  before everything is gone, and he is alone in the vast emptiness of space.

He'd give anything for a second chance, a chance to get out and a chance to set things right.

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Bilbo Baggins is old, now, and he knows he does not have much time left.

The others know this, too, but no one says it aloud. Gandalf has taken to sitting with him and Frodo, talking of times long past, of dwarves and mountains and dragons and immeasurable amounts of gold.

Bilbo thinks he might have lived these tales, once upon a time. His mind isn't what it used to be, though, and he finds it easier to simply listen to the old wizard's tales, feel the gentle rocking of the ship as they sail for the Undying Lands, and ignore the nagging longing at the back of his mind.

He doesn't know how long they sit there, how long Gandalf talks in that calming voice of his… But eventually, the words are beyond Bilbo's grasp, and he feels so horribly tired. Frodo shifts slightly, but Bilbo pays him no mind as he feels his head fall gently onto his nephew's shoulder. He sleeps, for the moment, for he is weary…and he dreams in startling clarity of dwarven kings and shining stones and long-mourned regret.

And then he dreams of nothing, and his soul slips away to the skies.

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Thorin Oakenshield dies in blood and rage and what some might call glory.

(All he can think is that he has failed each and every person he has ever come to love.)

He was awake—delirious, but awake—when his nephews fell: Fíli, first, to Azog's mace, and Kíli not long after, to goblin spears—and in the tents, he does not have to ask Balin of their fates. Fíli had fallen mere feet from Thorin, his crushed chest and neck a bloody mess, his eyes vacant and staring—dead before his body hit the ground.

(Thorin will never forget those eyes, nor will he forget Kíli's anguished screams as he realized his brother was gone.)

His younger nephew, though talented in the art of war (far too young), left himself open to Azog's guard—his vision surely blurred by inconsolable tears, standing before Thorin's prone form and fighting like a berserker, protecting the only family he had left.

Thorin wanted to be sick when he heard the blades pierce his nephew's body, and then he was looking into Kíli's eyes: dark, usually so full of life, but now pained and fading far too quickly. Kíli tried to say something (maybe I'm sorry, I love you, but just as likely I hate you, is this what you wanted?), but Thorin could not understand the choked whispers making their way through the boy's tortured throat.

His youngest nephew died then, tear tracks staining his bloody face, his last words falling on deaf ears.

Thorin will never forgive himself for this, even if he is accepted into Mahal's kingdom and pardoned by his family for his sins. He deserves every spearhead embedded in his gut, every slash of poisoned sword and scimitar and arrow and everything, everything, is his fault. He is in the camps, now, and Bilbo Baggins—Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit he dragged along, treated horribly and nearly killed time and time again—is crying; he is kneeling beside Thorin's mutilated body with its rasping lungs and its sluggish heart, and he is mourning the passing of one he should never have deigned to call a friend.

Thorin does not—cannot—understand why he has been granted this much, why he has been allowed to die with his friends at his side…not when so many others (Fíli and Kíli, and he cannot hold back his tears any longer) died so, so alone. Óin and Gandalf and the elves have said there is nothing they can do, that it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the wounds he has sustained. Thorin does not mind—cares only that he is hurting those left behind—because he knows he deserves nothing better and they deserve so much more.

He only wishes so many had not died before he saw how wrong he had been.

Bilbo Baggins is crying at his deathbed, is grasping Thorin's hand so tightly that his bloodied fingers are going numb, and Thorin knows there is nothing he can do to alleviate his friend's pain. He looks past the hobbit for a moment, sees Balin and Dwalin standing with stiff backs and tears in their eyes (bloodied and injured but alive), and knows he cannot possibly atone for anything he has done.

It's absolutely inexcusable and beyond words, beyond reparation, even if he had the time for such things.

But he does his best, and Bilbo cries, and his cousins can do absolutely nothing as their friend—their king—finally closes his eyes and breathes no more.

(He only wishes he had been stronger.)

(Maybe, then, things would have been different.)

But it's too late for any of that now.

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Yggdrasil: the great ash tree that binds together heaven, earth, and hell

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— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —

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He doesn't know how long the nothingness lasts. After all, even time is meaningless in such a Hell.

But then there is a chance, and he seizes it—an anchor, a miracle, a way out. He latches on and refuses to let go.

And finally—finally, after who knows how long—he is free, in the land he knows so well…but it is different than he last remembers. Different, but better, because the unthinkable—the impossible—has not come to pass. This is a land not yet ravaged by the greatest war of the age…and while it is strange, he does not think on it for long.

He has a second chance, and this time, he won't make the same mistakes.

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Bilbo Baggins realizes something is wrong the moment he wakes up.

He remembers the warmth of Frodo's shoulder as he drifted off to sleep. He remembers Gandalf's solemn voice, speaking a language he did not understand—or perhaps the words were simply beyond his reach. He remembers a cool breeze on his face as they sailed for the Undying Lands.

He remembers death.

There had been nothing, and then there had been—something, a great unknown, and a great pull, and then…

This.

He is in a bed, under a blanket, in a cozy house when he should not be alive at all. The smell is familiar—too familiar, though he hasn't been here in nearly two decades—and he knows where he is even before he opens his eyes, even before he admits it to himself.

Bag End is just as he remembers it—and yet it is ever so slightly different. There are fewer scrolls stacked upon his desk; there is no fire burning cheerfully in the hearth; there are fewer knick-knacks piled in the corners, a chest missing from the opposite wall—

This, he realizes with growing horror, is the Bag End of his younger years, the Bag End he inhabited before he ever traveled to Erebor.

He's standing and into the hallway before he even realizes he has moved, his nightclothes (when did he put these on he doesn't remember) swishing behind him in the too-silent house as he makes no effort at all to be quiet.

Frodo. Where is Frodo?

He remembers dozing on his nephew's shoulder, remembers—vaguely, for his mind had been sluggish and near-empty in those last hours—hearing the boy's tales of all his adventures across the land, remembers listening with pride as he learned that the boy he viewed as a son saved the world.

But it hadn't been as simple as that, had it? Because Frodo's eyes had been listless and empty, when he finally returned to Rivendell—the others, Glóin's son and Frodo's friends and the elf and the man and Gandalf the White—had been different than they once were, and Bilbo, even with his failing mind, had noticed it.

He was never told the whole story of the war—Elrond seemed disinclined to speak of it, and his sons were often gone to offer their aid in the south…but he gleaned enough from hushed conversations, from what Frodo was willing to tell him afterward and what Gandalf told him so long ago of the Ring…

It had been Sauron's, it had destroyed countless lives, and it had been entirely Bilbo's fault.

He tears through Bag End, searching desperately for his nephew—because what is his afterlife without the boy who meant the world to him for so long? But the house is silent as the grave, and he is the only one in it; and it is only when he pauses for breath in the washroom and looks up at his reflection, does he realize just how wrong this situation has become.

He is young again—young as he has not been in nearly a century—and his stomach is round like it was before he traversed half of Middle Earth—and he realizes, now, that he should not have been able to run through these halls as he has, that his mind is sharper and more focused than it's been in years—

He thinks he is lucky to be in the bathroom, because he is very quickly and very violently sick, throwing up a dinner he doesn't remember eating.

He is fifty again—he is young and untested and everything is wrong—

When he is finished he flushes the toilet shakily, washing his face with trembling hands and forcing himself not to look into the mirror. This is not happening. This cannot be happening. But it is—either that, or this is an incredibly vivid dream—and his mind is just reeling through the implications of all of this when there is a sharp knock at the door.

Rather numbly, Bilbo makes his way toward the front entrance, not bothering to try and make himself presentable—and when he opens it, his neighbor Hobson Gamgee greets him: "G'morning, Mister Bilbo! I—" But he cuts himself off, properly looking Bilbo up and down, and he's clearly worried as he says instead, "Are you well? You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

He's as good as, because Hobson died when Bilbo was barely into his nineties.

"Mister Bilbo?" Hobson's voice is rising in concern as Bilbo sways on his feet, his gaze transfixed on his old friend's face, but he doesn't respond. After all, what is he supposed to do, when he's somehow traveled eighty years into the past and is greeted by someone who he has thought dead for almost half a century?

He does the only thing a respectable hobbit could be expected to do in his situation: he collapses to the ground in a dead faint.

He wakes a small time later in his favorite armchair, where Hobson has evidently dragged him from the front hall—and Bilbo isn't sure that he's grateful for his friend's presence when his head still swims at the sight of him. "You gave me quite a fright!" Hobson says, jumping slightly and nearly dropping his plate of scones when he sees Bilbo moving sluggishly. "You shouldn't do such things, knocking your head like that—I'm sure it doesn't do much good for your mind—"

"This is going to be a very odd question, Hobson," Bilbo cuts him off, peering up at his friend, "but could you tell me the date and year?"

Hobson looks alarmed at such a question, but answers promptly—"It's the second of Astron, in the year 1341—do you think I should call a healer? If you're not sure what year it is—beggin' your pardon, Mister Bilbo, but that's not a thing you should be forgetting!"

"No, no, I remember now," Bilbo says quickly, his mind reeling from this new information—it's only a few weeks before Gandalf approached him about the quest to Erebor…a few weeks before he met some of the best friends he has ever had in his life. (Lives, he realizes.) "I must have been still half-asleep, but I remember now—there's no need to worry."

"As long as you're certain," Hobson says, though he looks utterly unconvinced as he continues, "I took out some scones for you to eat, seeing as it's near time for second breakfast—do you want me to stay and make sure you're all right, or—?"

"No, you can go home," Bilbo says quickly, accepting the scones gratefully, for truly, he is very hungry. "I promise I'll come get you if there's anything wrong."

"All right," he says, though he still looks very concerned as he heads for the front door. Bilbo follows after him a few seconds later, ensuring that he closes the door behind him and isn't dawdling on his porch—and when that's done, he lets out a shaky breath and slides down a wall until he is seated on the ground.

He's in the past. The Ring has not yet been found, Erebor has not yet been reclaimed—and Bilbo Baggins is still a perfectly respectable hobbit. The Bilbo his neighbors and relatives know would never dream of running off into the Wild with thirteen strangers and a wizard he only remembers vaguely from his childhood…

But he is not the Bilbo his family knows…not anymore. He's lived for more than a century, has seen the wide world beyond his doorstep, and knows there is so much more to his life than doilies and dishes and the comforts of his sheltered life in the Shire.

Thousands—millions—of lives are in his hands. The world has restored itself, but still he remembers how things once happened—and, he realizes now, he has the perfect opportunity to fix it.

Destroy the Ring. Defeat Sauron before he ever regains power.

Help the dwarves take back Erebor.

Save Thorin and Fíli and Kíli.

He moved on, eventually, from their deaths. Learned to control the grief, the longing and the relentless what-ifs… He could ignore them, after so many years. Of course he could. Hobbits are resilient, after all, and the deaths of three dwarves he knew for little more than half a year shouldn't…

But those three dwarves—and all the rest—were the closest thing to family, to home, he ever had, after his parents died, before Frodo entered his life. And even then, when he was old and grey, he still yearned for the adventure and peril and camaraderie he felt with that group where he was a decided outsider; they learned to accept him like nobody besides Frodo has in decades; he can't help but yearn for decades long past, where…

Even after eighty years, even in this terrifyingly young body, thoughts of his friends—living and dead (though he supposes, with another shuddering breath, that here, now, they're all still alive)—they still send pain arching through his heart, stuttering his lungs and burning his throat as he forces himself not to cry out from the pain. They were all so—so vibrant, and alive, and watching Thorin's life seep from his eyes, dripping from his lips and staining the makeshift cot—seeing Fíli and Kíli's mangled bodies as they lay, side by side, together even in death—

(Too young too soon how dare he not do more to save those precious lives—)

Fíli and Kíli were the soul of the Company, but Thorin was its heart—beating relentlessly toward their common, impossible goal. He was abrasive and bitter and angry, yes, but also passionate and all-too-deserving of the throne he ultimately died for…

But he realizes, like a rush of cold water, that something even more enormous is at stake here—for what good would it do to save their lives, if they will only die decades later at the hands of the darkest force Middle Earth has seen in millennia? He was the catalyst; he was the creature who recovered the Ring and hoarded it for decades, unknowing of its power. But now he is not so blind. To spare Frodo the torture that damned thing wrought, to end the War of the Ring before it even begins...

This, he knows, is his true purpose, and he will do anything to ensure he does not fail this second time.

He's clutching the scone so tightly between his shaking fingers that it is disintegrating, crumbs falling to the rug beneath him, but he pays it no mind as he stands up. He won't waste this opportunity; he won't let so many people die for his own weakness and greed. He will save Thorin and his kin—retrieve the Ring and destroy it before it can leech off of his life and his happiness and his sanity—he will make things right when he has so horribly disturbed them in the past.

That past is gone, now, and he will ensure it does not happen again.

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Thorin is screaming.

He's not sure how or why (because he clearly—clearly—remembers dying, remembers the way he struggled to draw in breath through his damaged ribcage and around the spearheads in his gut that shifted every time he moved—) but he is screaming, and he is so suddenly overcome with all-consuming, irrational horror that he cannot help but continue.

Pain and gut-splitting agony and death and nothing and then something and then he was being pulled pulled pulled

He was dead and now he is not—or else this is a very strange afterlife, because even if his wounds seem to be healed he doesn't know where he is, doesn't know what is happening because he was dead, there is no question of that, but—

There is the sound of a door slamming open, and he shoots up (he's lying down, why is he lying down where is his sword), his eyes flying open and trying to take everything in even as his head spins and he is filled with the sudden need to be sick—

He only just has time to lean over the bed (why is he on a bed) before he is vomiting all over the stone floor.

"Thorin! Thorin!"

Voices are overlapping, slamming into his mind, yelling questions and demanding answers but he can't understand any of it, can't pick apart their words to discern their meaning, and it is only when he has composed himself to sit up again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, that he realizes who is speaking to him—and he is very nearly sick again.

Fíli, the hammer he lost in Mirkwood clutched tight in his grasp—and Kíli, his hunting knife held defensively in front of him as his gaze sweeps the room, checking for threats, trying to find out why his uncle is screaming—they're dead, he watched them die but here they are, whole and hale, their faces open and terrified as they rush toward him as soon as they're sure he won't stab them out of reflex. Fíli's weapon falls to the ground as he reaches Thorin first, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him harshly, trying to bring him back to reality, but it only sends his mind reeling further.

Fíli's eyes were dead and wide and terrified and everything is his fault—

"Thorin! Look at me!" Fíli roars, his face inches from his uncle's, and something snaps, then, and Thorin finds himself letting out a sob into the terror thick in the room. Fíli nearly reels back with shock before he recovers, shaking Thorin again before calling over his shoulder, through the open doorway, "Ma! Ma, there's something wrong with Thorin—"

Dís' footsteps thunder through Thorin's ears even as he does not know why his sister would be here—why she would possibly be here when this must be the afterlife, for he is dead and Fíli is dead and Kíli is dead and Mahal he's going to be sick again—

He only just has enough time to shove Fíli out of the way before he empties his stomach onto the ground, and he wonders at its contents, because for these last weeks they have only had small rations of stale bread to eat, but the remnants of a hearty dinner he cannot recall are clear on the ground before him—

"Thorin!" That is undeniably his sister's voice, and he forces himself to look up in time to see her hurry through the doorway, a large kitchen knife clutched tight in her grasp and her face bloodless. "Thorin, what's wrong—"

He can only shake his head slowly, for he feels suddenly dizzy, but he does not wish to worry them further—even though he has no idea why they are worried for him in the first place. His nephews—they died for him, died for his idiocy and his rage and his greed, and they have every reason to hate him for it—but there is nothing but unmasked worry and fear on their faces as Fíli hovers at his side, and Kíli stands only a few feet away, his knuckles white around the knife still held tight in his grasp.

Why are they here, with him, when they deserve so much more? He does not understand…

"Thorin!" This time, it's accompanied with a harsh slap across his face, and he jolts back to the present, blinking up at his sister and doing his best to understand. She is not—she can't be dead, because there hasn't been an orc attack on Ered Luin in decades, so there is no way she could have—

"Should I go find Óin?" Kíli's voice is tense, and Thorin jerks as he realizes that this means Óin must have died in the battle as well—but no, he didn't, because he clearly remembers his cousin trying to save his mangled insides, clearly remembers his face falling in grief and despair as he realized that there was nothing to be done—

This makes absolutely no sense, even as Dís nods sharply at her younger son and he makes toward the door. But Thorin hears strangled words making their way out of his throat—"I'm fine. Stay. Please."

Dís sends him a sharp look, and Kíli hesitates before complying, moving instead to stand beside his brother, near enough for Thorin to touch them. He restrains himself from doing exactly that, for fear of shattering the illusion—surely, he will touch them only to find their skin icy cold, slick with blood, and he will look into their eyes to see only emptiness and betrayal and death—

"Are you going to tell us what happened?" Dís' voice isn't quite harsh, but it's demanding as she stands beside her sons with her arms folded across her chest, staring down at him intensely. "I have not heard you scream like that in years, brother."

He can't tell them—he can't—because the truth will shatter whatever wonderful illusion his mind has conjured up, with his family brought together one last time before he and his nephews are escorted to Mahal's halls—

Gods, Dís will be left all alone, and she's already lost too much in this lifetime—

He can't tell them, but he can't possibly lie…not when his own deceit and madness brought about their deaths in the first place—so he takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to look Fíli and Kíli in the eyes as he says in a choked whisper, "I watched you die."

Dís inhales sharply, and Fíli's face contorts for a moment before he steps forward, reaching for Thorin's arm even as he fights the urge to flinch away. "We're fine, I swear it," Fíli says, smiling crookedly at his uncle. "We haven't even left Ered Luin yet—I know you doubt our abilities sometimes, but we're not so careless as to get ourselves killed in our own home. It was just a nightmare—we're perfectly all right."

Kíli steps forward as well, grasping Thorin's other shoulder, and he feels such love overwhelm him in this moment—his nephews' hands are warm and alive and he is close enough to hear their breathing, feel the air they exhale as it hits his skin, and he is so full of heart-wrenching relief that he stands abruptly, pulling the both of them into a bone-crushing hug with another sob. He feels both of them stiffen at the sudden contact, hears Dís make an astonished noise beside him, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment.

He's never been one for excessive physical contact, but he thinks he should be allowed this much, when somehow, he has been gifted such a wonderful chance to see his family. They are where they should be (a life in the Blue Mountains that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor), and this is clearly his chance to put his regrets to rest before he moves on.

Maybe this is his penance; maybe this is Mahal telling him that, however unworthy he is of it, he is forgiven of his transgressions. Whatever the reason, he will accept this moment at face value (his boys are here, and even if he did not show it enough in life, he loves them more than words can say), and with the knowledge that they do not hate him, he will pass willingly into his Maker's halls.

Eventually, he releases Fíli and Kíli, who look pleased—though not a bit surprised—by his show of affection. "Are you sure you're all right?" Kíli says, a small grin on his face as he lightly punches Thorin's arm. "Remember, Balin and Dwalin are coming over in a bit to discuss our journey to the Shire—you'll need to look at least reasonably presentable for them."

Thorin blinks at him for a moment, his mind blanking in confusion. Why would they be traveling to the Shire? Surely—as much as Bilbo has come to mean so much to them during the quest, and as many regrets as Thorin has regarding their hobbit—if they are truly passing into the afterlife, there would be no need…?

But the three of them are starting to look at him oddly, and he knows now is not the time to ask strange questions—so he only nods, smiling slightly, and moves toward his wardrobe to find a presentable outfit for the meeting.

He hears Fíli and Kíli hesitate before leaving his room, the elder easily lifting his hammer from where he left it on the ground—but Dís remains, and as Thorin turns, her eyes are curiously soft as she smiles at him.

"You know I trust you with their lives," she says, jerking her head slightly toward the door. "I would not have allowed them to join you if I did not. I know you would die before allowing any harm to come to them on this journey, no matter what haunts your dreams…you need not worry, brother."

Thorin can only stare at her for a moment—she's speaking so oddly, as if it's all in the future—but she does not seem to find this strange; she only smiles slightly, saying, "Breakfast should be ready soon, if you're hungry—and I'll draw some water for you, but you'll be the one to clean up that mess." She gestures toward the puddle of vomit next to his bed as she steps toward the door.

"Thank you, Dís," Thorin says suddenly, and he means it; her smile grows wider, but she only nods before leaving the room.

Thorin dresses in silence, trying to wrap his mind around it all—his room is exactly as he remembers it, his sword and axe and various knives held up on pegs on the wall; his bed (perpetually unmade, and more than once, that has gotten him in trouble with his sister) taking up much of the small room; a large desk in one corner, stacks of parchment covering its surface. On a whim, he makes his way toward it, because something is still not quite right about all of this. He doesn't feel dead—though he feels occasional twinges of phantom pain where the mortal wounds were dealt, the pain is nothing compared to the full agony he felt in the shadow of the mountain.

He truly was injured, then, but somehow he is alive again…

And when he glances properly over the papers scattered across his desk, picking one up, his mind stutters to a halt.

The one in his hand is clearly dated 1 April, T.A. 2941—more than half a year before he died. A week before he and the others left for the Shire, three weeks before they truly began their journey…

The pieces are falling together, now, and his fingers clench involuntarily around the parchment, terror and hope in equal parts flooding his mind. He remembers this paperwork, because it tallies the tentative expenses for the first leg of their journey, and Glóin had given him a proper earful when it wasn't prepared exactly how he wanted it—

This strange dream—reawakening—isn't a final farewell to his friends and family, he realizes—this is a second chance.

The parchment crumples under the force of his grip, but he pays it no mind as he throws it back onto his desk and sinks shakily onto his bed, hands in his hair. He hasn't died, or at least he hasn't died here, yet; his nephews have not thrown away their own lives for his; they have not yet left Ered Luin on this ill-fated quest…

Why has he been granted such a miracle? He, of all people, deserves no such thing, not after what he has done to each and every person he has ever considered to be important to him. Or perhaps that is why he's been chosen—he needs to atone for all his wrongs, needs to fix what he has broken so that his world is right again. He needs to reclaim Erebor, but keep his sanity…and ensure that his nephews do not fall as they did the time before.

His own life does not matter. He will willingly forfeit it if it means keeping his family safe.

And he will do anything—anything—to ensure that he does not make the same mistakes again.

Chapter Text

(Inuit: the feeling of anticipation that causes you to keep looking outside for an awaited guest)

Time passes in a flurry of half-remembered events and a strange sense of foreboding.

Bilbo knows he should be worried about what sort of higher power has caused this. After all, hobbits do not have much to do with any of the Valar—or, at least, not like the dwarves do with Aulë—and he has no idea who might have sent him back in time. But he decides not to think about it—after all, he has been given this second chance, and he is not one to question such a great gift, no matter its source.

He speaks to Holman Greenhand and young Hamfast daily when they come to tend to the garden, travels to the market (and if he buys more nonperishables than necessary for one hobbit, none of the merchants are stupid enough to ask), interacts with all the neighbors and cousins and friends who see him as the slightly eccentric but perfectly respectable Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End and one of the wealthiest hobbits in the Shire.

He feels like he's going mad for the anticipation growing in his heart.

He sees off young Drogo Baggins (who he never spoke to much, the first time before the quest—and he regrets it) as he decides to visit Brandy Hall in the east. It's against his parents' wishes, of course, but by now the lad is thirty-three and can do exactly as he pleases.

(Bilbo sees the blush spreading across his cheeks and the way he ducks his head—so reminiscent of Frodo's mannerisms, though the boy scarcely knew his father—and knows Primula Brandybuck lives with her extended family in the Hall. He does not mention it, though, because the poor boy is getting enough heckling from his immediate family about why he's going, and he clearly has no interest in explaining.)

Nevertheless, he pulls him aside and presses a hunting knife into the boy's grasp, asking him to be careful…just in case. Drogo is clearly nonplussed, and rightly so; but seems to accept this as his strange cousin's antics, and only pulls Bilbo into a hug, promising to write often during his three-month stay.

Bilbo only smiles—he has a long wait ahead of him, for Primula is but twenty-one—and wishes him the best of luck.

(That knife had been his mother's—he dug it out of storage months after his return from Erebor, and it has been a prized possession ever since. He knows it is in good hands, though, and does not regret for a second giving it to his cousin.)

Mid-April comes and goes, and Bilbo knows that if he is to join the dwarves on their quest, he should be prepared ahead of time. He stockpiles nonperishables in his second pantry and plans to distribute them among their packs for their journey, because as good as rabbit stew is in moderation, he rather grew to hate it after months and months of nearly nothing else. His primary pantry, in the week before he knows they will arrive, fills quickly with meats and pastries and spices and everything the dwarves could possibly want to cook during their short stay in his home.

He counts and recounts his blankets and realizes that some of his friends must have gone cold that night without their bedrolls, for though Bag End is large, he has no more than eight spares; and so he goes out to the markets again, commissions six more on a rush order—one extra-large, for hobbit blankets are surely nowhere near long enough for Gandalf—and ignores the blank stares of the seamstresses as he hands over a hefty bag of gold.

Tongues, inevitably, begin to wag as the days go on, but Bilbo has long since learned to ignore them. Hobson finds more and more excuses to drop by, an incredulous, worried frown growing deeper each day. Once, he catches Bilbo returning from the market with a slingshot, a replacement hunting knife, and a sturdy oilskin, and apparently this marks the end of his patience.

"You're sure you're feeling all right, Mister Bilbo?" he calls after him as Bilbo bustles up the walk, humming a quiet tune under his breath.

"I'm wonderful—thank you for asking," Bilbo replies cheerily enough, already cataloguing what else he will need to pack. It's the nineteenth of Astron, only three days before Gandalf is supposed to approach him if he remembers correctly, and he has so much yet to do! He'll have to see if he can find the coat his mother bought for his father in their younger years, when she dragged him out adventuring. It was made of leather—sturdy and warm—and last time around, Bilbo's velvet dinner jacket had been anything but.

"It's just—you're ordering such peculiar things," Hobson continues valiantly, hurrying up the front stoop and preventing Bilbo from closing the door. "Beggin' your pardon, but why on earth would you need such a knife?"

"I'm expecting some visitors in a few days," he replies easily, hanging the oilskin on a hook near the door and quickly inspecting the knife again. The dwarves will scoff at its craftsmanship, of course, but perhaps having such a weapon—no matter how small or poorly made—will soften Thorin's first impression of him a bit. "I might be leaving the Shire to travel east for a long while."

"What—!" Hobson chokes, hurrying into Bag End as Bilbo makes his way to his study. "Leaving the Shire? What's possessed you to—"

"I can promise you that I know what I'm doing," Bilbo says, setting the slingshot and knife down on his desk and turning to reassure Hobson with a smile. "It's not anything terribly dangerous…just a few old friends who might need my help."

"Well, I never—" Hobson seems to be at a loss for words, his mouth gaping open as he takes in all the things spread out on Bilbo's desk. "Who's to tend to your parents' house, then? If you're to be running off—"

"I was hoping you and Hamfast would take care of that for me," Bilbo replies readily, shrugging. Perhaps, if he takes more precautions this time around, he won't have to buy back his own furniture if he returns to the Shire. "Make sure my less savory relatives keep their hands to themselves, if you catch my meaning."

Hobson makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his eyes impossibly wide as he stares at Bilbo, clearly wondering if he has lost his mind. "You're sure this is a good idea? You know what they say, Mister Bilbo—'never venture east, lest you—'"

"Yes, I know the stories," he says, restraining himself from rolling his eyes—after all, he recited it to the dwarves often enough that he's honestly surprised Dwalin never wrung his neck. "I can assure you, it will be perfectly safe. I'll even let you know when I'm leaving, if you'd like. There's absolutely nothing for you to worry about."

Hobson stares him down levelly for several moments before sighing and turning away, toward the front entrance. "Well, I suppose if there's no convincing you otherwise, I've nothing else to say."

Bilbo thinks he should reply to this, somehow—reassure his friend that he's not deserting him, that he will be home in due time—but Hobson has closed the front door behind him, leaving Bilbo alone in the silence of his parents' house.

And it's just as well, he thinks, because such words would be lies. After all, as he's been thinking about this quest more and more—as much as he can remember of the original journey, and all that he must do differently this time—he's slowly realizing that more likely than not, Bilbo Baggins will never be returning to the Shire. Mordor, after all, is his ultimate destination—and even with an unsuspecting Sauron, a scattered orc army and Erebor's relative proximity to Mount Doom, he doubts very highly that he will make it out of this alive.

(And even if he pretends that he doesn't mind this—doesn't mind giving up his life if it means saving the world from such darkness as he saw last time—he would be lying if he didn't say he is so very scared of the task ahead of him.)

But he must do it—he is the only one who can do it—and so he plans and he packs and he remembers—remembers Thorin's scorching gaze as he spoke of his lost homeland (and forgets the madness raging in his eyes as he threatened to throw Bilbo from the battlements), remembers Fíli and Kíli's optimism and loyalty and courage (and forgets the sight of their mangled bodies as they were sealed in stone forever)…remembers Frodo, his young cousin who gave up his happiness and his sanity to save the world…

And does his best to forget that all of this is his fault in the first place.

.

.

.

.

Thorin leaves his room as soon as he is able, though he still gets strange looks from Dís and his nephews for taking such a long time getting ready. His breakfast is cooling on the table and he sits down rather numbly, doing his best to ignore his gurgling stomach as he takes in the kitchen he was sure he would never see again.

Dís is puttering around the sink, cleaning the dishes even as she barks to her sons that their help would be greatly appreciated. Fíli and Kíli, for their part, are gleefully ignoring her—the elder is sharpening one of his many knives, and the younger is fletching some extra arrows to add to his quiver.

He finds himself staring at them perhaps longer than he should, but he can't help it…not when he's just now noticing the stark difference from the nephews that he remembers seeing in Erebor. Of course, he knows, the journey would have aged them—after such hardships they faced, it's a wonder they were able to keep up their good spirits, after all. But Kíli's cheeks are fuller than they have been since they nearly starved in Mirkwood, and Fíli's hair is bright as it has not been in months; he finds himself blinking in astonishment at the differences, and wonders how he could not have noticed such things before.

It was the gold sickness…of course it was. His memory of having any sense left in his mind starts to fade from the moment they left Laketown, and everything from once they entered the mountain is nothing more than an insane mess of wrath and greed. But he remembers—he remembers the stench of dragon enraging him beyond reason, remembers the need he felt in his heart to find the Arkenstone, remembers—

Mahal help him, he remembers nearly throwing Bilbo from the battlements, remembers the gleeful rage coursing through his veins as he watched the hobbit struggle in his grip, as he listened to Bard and Gandalf scream for his release…

He feels suddenly sick at the revelation, and any thought of eating breakfast is pushed out of his mind as his stomach threatens to upheave all the nothing left within.

"Are you all right, Thorin?" Fíli's voice is a mercy, breaking through his horrified haze and causing his head to snap up. Both his nephews are looking at him in concern, and Dís has stopped washing dishes to listen. Thorin knows he can't tell them the truth—how would he explain such a thing, after all?—but lying to them is absolutely out of the question anymore.

"Just…" he starts valiantly, but trails off, trying and failing to hold eye contact with Fíli before dropping his gaze to the table. (He won't ever forget his nephews' faces as they were in death—warped in agony and terror and grief and he won't let that happen again, he won't he won't he won't—)

"We're absolutely fine," Kíli says after several seconds of silence, twisting to try and catch Thorin's gaze. "It was just a nightmare, I swear it—"

"I know that," he lies, and he's horrified at the catch in his voice; he swallows before continuing, "but it doesn't make it any easier to forget."

Neither of his nephews seem to know quite how to answer that, and after a few seconds, they return to their weapons, the kitchen strangely quiet without their usual chatter. "Thorin," Dís says after a few moments. "Remember, Glóin wanted that paperwork by today, and Bombur wants to know how much food he needs to pack—and Balin and Dwalin should be here any moment, so you should at least try to eat something before then."

He hums noncommittally; she's right, after all, but with his churning insides, he's not so sure he'll be able to stomach it without making even more of a mess. But he's grateful for the reminder—after all, he doesn't remember the details, anymore, of what happened today the last time around…

And Mahal, isn't that a strange thought! He alone remembers what happened the past six months of his life; nobody else remembers the trolls, or the goblin caves, or being locked in Thranduil's dungeons for nigh on a month—

And—he realizes with a jolt—none of his kin remember Bilbo Baggins. He was so sure, half a year past, that the hobbit would be nothing more than a liability, the wizard's afterthought, their lucky number when Gandalf was too flighty to formally join them himself. But after the battle on the cliff—after the barrels and the gods-forsaken dragon—

After returning to grieve at Thorin's deathbed when he had no obligation to be on the battlefield at all, the hobbit has more than gained Thorin's hard-won respect.

But Bilbo won't even know they're coming—Bilbo won't know any of them, will be terrified all over again (and, Thorin realizes with a silent grump, rightly so, to have thirteen large, heavily armed strangers enter your house so readily…he'll have to have a word with the Company about greeting their host), will—hopefully—have to make the same decision, to drop his entire life to travel with these strangers, to desert his home to help them claim their own.

It's awful when he thinks of it like that, but what else are they to do? Bilbo proved himself invaluable throughout the entire journey; indeed, they likely would not have made it out of the Trollshaws intact without his quick thinking. They asked of him an enormous service, offering the only payment they knew—mountains of gold. But then, Thorin wouldn't be surprised if Bilbo had left it all behind when he journeyed home; what use do hobbits have for gold and gems, after all?

Food and cheer and song, indeed. If only he had not been so blind.

But Fíli and Kíli are standing up to clear their plates, tucking their weapons away at last, and grinning cheerfully at their mother as she levels a mild glare at them for avoiding their chores. "We're thinking we want to go sparring for a bit," Kíli announces to the room at large. "And then we'll check for ravens for you, Uncle, as you're like to be busy. Dáin's should be coming any day now, right?"

"Aye," Thorin agrees, for he remembers this much—he could not have expected Dáin to traverse the entirety of Middle Earth for a small council (already past, and he's grateful for it—he doesn't want to deal with the other lords again, treating him as lesser because he does not rule his forefathers' mountain). A raven's message is more than enough for the two of them, for though they are close kin, they both have their duties to attend to.

After all, he knows his cousin's answer and knows its sting in his heart, though Dáin came to him at the last for a mad, hopeless defense against Esgaroth and Mirkwood.

Mahal, he cannot let that happen again.

"It's much appreciated," he nods to his nephews, and Kíli stands a bit straighter, his smile broadening; he and Fíli quickly disappear down the hall to collect their weapons and head toward the training fields.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Dis asks, mere seconds after they've called their farewells and closed the front door behind them. He's still sitting at the table, his breakfast barely touched, and she sits next to him now, turning her chair to face him with a stern look. "That must have been some nightmare, brother. Are you sure we shouldn't call Óin—?"

"I swear to you, I am fine," he says, and forces himself to meet her gaze, for it would be stranger yet if he did not. And when he looks at her, her concerned gaze, her fists balled loosely on the table and her brow furrowed deep, he is so close to letting loose, to telling her everything. She is the one he most owes an apology to, beyond her sons and beyond the rest of their kin and beyond even Bilbo—for she is the one he left all alone in the world, without a single member of her family left.

She would have persevered, he is sure. She has always been strong—stronger than him, for sure—but it would have been awful. Impossible.

He can't do it.

She doesn't look like she believes him one bit, but sees something in his face that stays her demands; she only sighs, reaching out to grasp his hand—"What are you so afraid of? Yesterday, you were all too arrogant about this quest, but there's something different in your eyes, now."

He doesn't know how to respond to this around the lump in his throat (Fíli's chest was crushed despite the glorious armor he wore, destroying his heart and choking his lungs all too quickly; The spears rending Kíli's body stuck from him at grotesque angles, and the memory makes him want to be sick all over again). He only tightens his grip on his sister's hand and drops his gaze; she waits patiently for an answer, unwilling to let it go, and eventually he says, "I don't want to watch them die again. I can't. It was…"

He trails off, and to his horror feels his eyes burning; he blinks quickly, looking away in shame and anger, but Dis does not let it go. Her free hand comes up and pulls his face toward her again, and her expression is compassionate in a way he only rarely sees now on her aging, grief-stoic face.

"I trust you with their lives," she says, her grip tightening, "and they trust you with far more than that. They would follow you to the ends of the earth, and I know you would do anything to protect them. You are their king, and they are your sister's sons. If there is a stronger bond between living creatures on this earth, I do not know of it."

He swallows, opening his mouth to speak (she's wrong she's so wrong, none of them should ever trust him but how to tell her he can't he can't); the only thing that comes out is a pathetic, desperate noise from high in his throat. Dis' face crumples, and she leans in close to embrace him, her fingers disappearing into his hair to rub at his back soothingly. "You have nothing to fear," she says quietly. "I trust in you and in this quest. It has been too long since we have had a proper home, and you are right, I think, to reclaim it."

"We face a dragon," he responds, his voice cracking as he tentatively reaches to embrace her in return. "You cannot—I could be leading every one of them to their deaths, and for what? Our grandfather's gold?"

"For our home," she says immediately, her grip tightening. "And Tharkûn is coming as well—if anyone is capable of slaying a dragon, it is that impossibly irritating wizard. I think you have nothing to fear, brother."

Thorin remembers Bard the Dragonslayer—grim-faced and grief-stricken, struggling to provide for his children and his people—remembers turning him away so callously at the gates of the mountain—and cannot find it in him to reply.

They sit like that for a long few moments, though Thorin's thoughts spiral in dizzying patterns that would not make sense even if he tried to decipher them. But eventually, there is the sound of the front door opening again, and he reluctantly leans back, away from his sister, wiping a traitorous wetness from his eyes. He needs to compose himself. He can't let anyone else see him like this—Dis is bad enough, but—

"Thorin?"

It's Balin's surprised voice that greets him, and when he looks up, the younger brother is not far behind; both look at him with raised eyebrows and worried eyes, and, of course, for good reason. "Is everything all right, lad?"

"Aye," he says forcefully, and offers no further explanation; Dwalin, especially, shoots him a sharp look as the two of them move to sit at the table, but Thorin isn't willing to answer any more questions right now. They speak of the logistics of the quest at length; Thorin lets most of it wash over him, for he's experienced all of this before: knows what path they will take, how long each leg will take, how long the food will last…

(Bilbo ate more than any of them had expected—at first, Thorin saw this as greed and selfishness, but once he heard the hobbit's stomach growl loudly after a full meal, he realized that hobbits simply need more food. He accommodated for it—because even if he thought Bilbo useless, he was not in the habit of being cruel to creatures who had done nothing wrong.)

He has no way of telling Balin and Dwalin this, though…not without revealing what he knows, which he thinks he is unwilling to do. Dwalin would support him through the fires of hell without question (already has); but Balin would not be happy with vague descriptions, would want details of the quest, of what they should avoid, of…of the end.

(Madness and his own death are one thing. Dead nephews are another thing entirely, especially when they would have almost certainly lived had he not been dying himself. It's entirely his fault.)

So he keeps his silence, only suggests that, to be safe, they should err on the side of caution when it comes to food. Both of them—and Dis, likely more sensible than any of them—agree that there'd be no harm in doing so, and that's the end of that.

Can he keep lying like this? Telling falsehoods to the people he trusts most in the world: his sister and nephews and cousins and those not even his kin, who still are putting everything on the line for his foolish dreams? They deserve—they deserve everything, so much more than this…

But nothing good could come of it, he's sure. He has the entire journey clear in his mind…but none of the others do, and they would second guess, they would wonder…they would want to change things when, perhaps, they would better be left alone.

(Fíli and Kíli come first.)

He passes through the conversation, engaging when necessary but his mind spinning through ways to protect his nephews. His first thought, of course, is to leave them behind entirely—but he discards it nearly as quickly, because they would never allow it, and honestly, he's not entirely comfortable with the idea, either. Of course, if it were the only way, he would demand it without question, but…

As Dis said, they are his sister's sons, and Durin's heirs beside. They have every right to enter the mountain the moment it is reclaimed. He would not wish it any other way.

He's still mulling this over—with no real solution, except to forcefully bar them from the battle—as the conversation ends, and he knows he is distracted as Balin and Dwalin stand up, the elder tucking a roll of parchment back into his robes. "Thorin." Dwalin's voice is a low rumble, as always, and Thorin can see something strange in his eyes as he looks him up and down. "A word, if you don't mind."

It's not a request, but the two of them have long understood each other; he nods and heads toward the door to his bedroom, hesitating for a moment before simply turning and leaning against the stone wall. Dwalin closes the door heavily behind him, and turns to level him with a dark glare.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he says on reflex, but his friend doesn't believe it for an instant; Dwalin steps forward, crowding into his personal space and glaring at him, nearly eye to eye.

"We're sitting in there discussing your quest, plans to keep your people safe on this journey across half of Middle Earth, and you're sitting there daydreaming like a dwarfling in his lessons! Something's wrong, and if we're to follow you on this journey in less than a fortnight, I expect to be told the truth."

His words—they're truth, all of them, and Thorin knows it even as he struggles to reply. He can't—he wants to tell him, suddenly, because who else would understand him better than Dwalin?—but his own mind is still whirling with memories (the awful battle that happened scarce hours ago, bleeding out on a filthy cot because he demanded his soldiers be given the clean ones, dying as his cousins looked on with blood on their faces and tears in their eyes—)

He's barely keeping up with the world he's suddenly been dropped into, barely holding himself together through the grief and self-hatred still fresh in his mind, so how is he supposed to explain this even to Dwalin?

Then, suddenly, he knows.

"I want you to promise me something," he says, and this is the most desperate request he's ever made, the most serious and the one he's sure Dwalin will refuse in an instant.

"When have I not?" Dwalin snorts, but there's something else in his eyes, now, that looks a bit like worry. "Out with it, then."

"Promise me," Thorin says, "that if I fall to Thrór's madness, you will kill me before it causes any more senseless death."

Silence.

"Dwalin," Thorin says, working to keep his voice level. "You wanted to know why I'm preoccupied—I am terrified of becoming my grandfather. You must promise me."

He's silent for several moments longer, and Thorin starts to wonder whether Dwalin might punch him here and now. But he only sighs heavily, his eyes growing dark as he asks, "What's brought this on?"

"I—I had a dream last night," he begins, and it's a testament to the gravity of the situation that his friend doesn't scoff. "An incredibly vivid dream. I went mad, in Erebor. And in my madness…" he chokes, looking down and away, "I caused Fíli's and Kíli's deaths."

The silence is longer this time, and Thorin finally musters the courage to look back up to Dwalin's eyes. They're darker still, and his brows furrow deep as he crosses his arms across his chest. "I swear that I will stop you from falling to madness," he says at length, his mouth forming a thin line. "I won't let it come to that, Thorin, I promise you."

"But if it does?" he presses—it's not good enough. After all, didn't they argue, in the throne room, and didn't he cast his friend's words aside? Didn't Dwalin try to reason with him, and was it not futile?

His cousin lets out a heavy breath through his nose, but he says, nearly through his teeth in his reluctance, "I will do what must be done."

"Thank you," Thorin says, feeling himself nearly sagging with relief. And without much thinking (because he hates to ask this of his closest friend, but who else could do it? Who else would? Who else would understand the horror in his darkest thoughts of becoming exactly what he swore to avoid?), he reaches for Dwalin's shoulder, pulling him close and pressing his forehead to his own. Dwalin does not seem surprised; he only exhales heavily again, closing his eyes and reaching up to grip Thorin's shoulder as well.

"You are stronger than your forefathers," he murmurs, pressing against Thorin more firmly for a moment before pulling away. "Your dreams are only that. You shouldn't worry, Thorin-King."

He feels his throat clench as Dwalin's hand falls, but he knows he cannot be weak now. As Dwalin said, he has a dozen dwarves—nay, thousands of dwarves—relying on him to lead them safely to the mountain. His own fears, no matter how well-founded they may be, are nothing when compared to the needs of his people.

Thorin-King. This is who he is, and who he must be—he feels himself stand straighter, doing his best to push the memories and fears to the back of his mind for the moment. After all, why else would he have been given this second chance, if not to make right by his family and his people? He grips Dwalin's shoulder tightly for a moment before letting his hand fall as well, meeting his cousin's eyes with renewed determination, no matter the phantoms that mock him from the back of his mind. He will overcome them. He has to. He owes it to his sister and his nephews and everyone—everyone—else to be the strong dwarf his forefathers never were.

But even as he and Dwalin go back to the kitchen, to Dis' silent worry and Balin's piercing gaze, the silence is filled with the memory of Kíli's screams, and his vision is blocked by Fíli's blank, dead eyes.

Chapter Text

Bilbo has thought on this and thought on this, in the hours spent alone in his smial, and he knows he must do this in secret…at least for now.

Gandalf—as great an ally as he would be—would only meddle, for that is what wizards do, and would likely be more hassle than help. Once they have reclaimed the dwarves’ kingdom, once they must focus in full upon the Ring…yes, he would tell him then. But when they are passing through the mountains, through the forest, when other things (keeping his friends alive) are more important in the immediacy of the quest, Gandalf would worry about the bigger picture of it all, leaving such insignificant creatures as hobbits and dwarves to their own devices.

He tries to understand, but the thought of deserting the others on this quest is too awful to consider. No, Gandalf would want to take care of the Ring—and Sauron—as soon as possible, even though Bilbo knows they have decades before they will be in any danger. He would whisk Bilbo away from the Company at Beorn’s—in Mirkwood—on the steps of the mountain—whenever he deemed it suitable, and Bilbo refuses even to entertain the thought.

He must keep this secret until such time as the wizard needs to know.

But the others—the dwarves, do they not deserve to learn of their fates? Does Thorin not have a right to know that he is leading his nephews to their deaths; should he not be allowed to prepare ahead of time, if there is any way to save their lives?

But Thorin—he recalls that moment long ago on the battlements, when his friend lost his mind entirely and nearly killed Bilbo for doing what he knew to be right. (What they all knew to be right, at the last, as Thorin died and the others wailed their grief to their Maker, because any way to stop this war—even at the expense of their pride—would have been preferable to losing the greatest king of Durin’s line in living memory—)

What if Thorin loses control again?—What if he cannot stop his friend from falling to madness, and what if Thorin knew that Bilbo held the most powerful piece of magic in Middle Earth?

No. He cannot allow Thorin to know, and cannot control for the risk that he would take the Ring for himself by force. He will save the three of them in any way he can, of course—but he cannot properly allow for the variable that is Thorin’s sanity, and so he simply won’t.

He’s sitting out on his porch on a glorious morning, and he knows Gandalf will be here soon—it’s the proper day, and when he went to market earlier, he overheard mistrusting mutters of Big Folk wandering the Shire. Who else would that be besides his oldest, most irritating friend?

And sure enough, as he has been lost in thought, he’s missed the heavy steps of a man walking toward him, up the path. As he allows his eyes to focus on the pillar of grey before him, he feels torn between leaping up to hug the wizard—and having just as much fun with him as the damned wizard does with everyone else.

Crotchety, sneaky old man that he is, of course, he decides upon the latter.

“Gandalf!” he says loudly, allowing his face to break into a true smile and standing up before the old man can even open his mouth. “It’s so good to see you!”

The wizard’s heavy brows shoot up in surprise, his jaw clenching as he stares down at Bilbo. “I was not expecting you to remember me,” he says at last, considering Bilbo closely as the hobbit steps closer, his smile growing wider. “How many years has it been?”

“Decades,” Bilbo agrees lightly, “but who would I be to forget my mother’s dearest friend?”

“Hmm,” Gandalf says, his eyebrows falling into a squint as he peers down at Bilbo. “And what did you mother have to say about me, then?”

“That I wasn’t, under any circumstances, to follow you on whatever hare-brained adventure you’ve cooked up this time,” he replies lightly, smile still splitting his face as he inhales on his pipe. “But I daresay you’d drag me into it anyway, even if I didn’t wish to go.”

(Gods, this is far too entertaining, watching Gandalf’s skepticism spreading across his face as he attempts to decipher the hobbit before him.)

“And who’s to say I wish to bring you on an adventure in the first place?” he evidently decides on, leaning a bit on his staff as he continues to stare Bilbo down. The hobbit laughs.

“Why else would you come this far into the Shire?”

Gandalf’s face splits into a small smile, then, looking almost guilty…if that were possible for the sneaky old wizard. “Well, I must admit, I was hoping you would consider it,” he says at last, and Bilbo huffs his victory, blowing a smoke ring at Gandalf’s head. “I’m glad to see that you haven’t left your mother’s ambition behind, after all.”

“I haven’t entirely,” Bilbo agrees, shrugging a bit. (These last weeks in the Shire have been grating on his nerves, for even if he returned here after his adventure, he always yearned to go traveling again…right up until the moment he died.) “Though I think I would be remiss to agree to an adventure without even asking what it entails.”

The wizard laughs, truly, then, and lets himself in through the gate without asking. Bilbo rolls his eyes but gestures for him to follow, asking whether he’d like to discuss it over luncheon.

(After all, even if he knows what his friend is going to say,  Gandalf hasn’t changed a single bit in all the decades that Bilbo has known him, and the constancy of his presence is a comfort in this world where everything he knows is thrown awry.)

.

Gandalf doesn’t stay for long, though; he explains that he must hurry to the Green Dragon, where his associates have rented rooms this past night, and let them know that Bilbo has agreed to host them this evening. Bilbo asked him all manner of questions about the quest, just to try and get under his skin; he’s not sure how well he succeeded, but Gandalf seemed reluctant to tell him what manner of guests he would be hosting, or how many, and so Bilbo gleefully pressed him for details.

He knows the answer, of course: thirteen dwarves of varying backgrounds, all larger than him, all heavily armed. It was Dwalin who arrived first last time…and he wonders whether that wasn’t an intimidation tactic, to try and scare him into submission and keep him from kicking them all out.

Well, when Dwalin arrives tonight, they’ll all be in for a bit of a surprise.

But Gandalf is leaving, having given him the bare bones of the quest: that a group of misplaced people have decided to reclaim their home far to the east, and need a stealthy, hobbit burglar to help them. (Bilbo wants to laugh—of course, he leaves out the fact that this journey will take nearly a year round-trip, and involves a fire-breathing dragon at its end.) “I will tell them to call around suppertime, then,” the wizard is saying, squinting down at Bilbo for a moment as if trying to figure something out, before minutely shaking his head and straightening, out on the front porch. “Expect several hungry mouths to feed—I daresay none of them have tasted hobbit cooking before, and would love to appreciate it.”

“I’ll prepare myself as best I can,” Bilbo says wryly, and Gandalf smiles, nodding slightly before heading down the path.

It’s still mid-afternoon, but Bilbo sets himself to preparing tonight’s meal with enthusiasm. Several dishes have already been started, of course: those that need to marinate for hours on end, those that have been over a slow fire all day out in the sunlight behind the smial…but there is plenty to be done still, and he does not mind any of it—not when he is going to see his old friends in only a few hours.

(He’s been doing his best to put out of his head how he will react to Thorin and his nephews. After all, he watched them die—it was eighty years ago, but it was one of the worst experiences of his life, and not one he will readily forget. Thorin, spitting up blood as his eyes faded to grey; Fíli, a blanket carefully pulled to his chin to hide the disfiguration caused by Azog’s mace; Kíli, used as a pincushion for half a dozen goblin spears in quick succession…)

(They are alive, and that must be enough, because if he dwells on what was—what could still be—he’s sure he won’t survive half an hour of this journey, let alone months on end.)

The sun has set in the hours he’s spent preparing, and though he’s not completely finished, he supposes the dwarves may want to cook some familiar dishes themselves; he leaves enough food in his pantry, should they wish to do so, and is just counting out silverware and dishes when there’s a firm knock on the door.

His stomach does a funny kind of swoop, then, and he straightens stiffly, pulling self-consciously at his waistcoat and swallowing down whatever emotion has found its way into his throat. This—this is it, then; it’s really happening; Dwalin is standing on his front porch, waiting to be let in, an impressive glower, always, on his face.

(He’s not so sure he can do this, anymore.)

But he’s Bilbo Baggins, and a Took besides; he’s faced down orcs and Smaug and the Dark Lord Sauron, for heaven’s sake; he can surely deal with a surly dwarf or thirteen.

So he steels himself, swallows again, and heads toward the front door, swinging it wide before he can lose his nerve.

But he only stares—because it’s not Dwalin on his porch at all. Instead, it’s his older brother; Balin looks just as Bilbo remembers him from his last visit to the Shire, nearly forty years ago, except perhaps his beard is a bit thicker, and his face is a little less lined. But he’s—Bilbo’s sure it was Dwalin who arrived first the last time, because he had been scared half out of his mind, and the huge dwarf had helped himself to his dinner with barely a “thank you,” and Bilbo is so confused right now.

His shock must be clear on his face, and Balin misinterprets it; he smiles warmly at Bilbo and bows low. “I am Balin, son of Fundin, at your service and your family’s. I mean you no harm.”

He doesn’t attempt to push through the door as Dwalin did; he doesn’t do anything at all once he straightens up, just clasps his hands behind his back and smiles kindly, waiting for a reply. “Bilbo—Baggins, at yours,” he finally manages, bowing jerkily in return, but his mind is spinning—the great mace usually strapped to the dwarf’s hip is missing, and there is no sense of entitlement to his stance (and he’s only a few inches taller than Bilbo, after all); he’s making himself seem as small and unthreatening as possible, and what is going on here?

“I assume you’re one of—Gandalf’s acquaintances, then?” he finally says, when it’s clear Balin isn’t going to offer any more information. “He didn’t say what manner of people I was to expect, but it’s not often we see dwarves in the Shire.”

“Aye, that I am,” Balin says, and his smile grows wider, his eyes squinting as he shifts his weight comfortably. “He told you what we’re here for, then? Wizards can be infuriating, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave you no notice at all.”

Something clicks over in Bilbo’s head, then, because that’s exactly what happened the last time around…and though it could be an innocent observation (because Balin has always been astute like that, and wary of wizards in general), it is a bit of a coincidence, after all. “He told me I was needed for an adventure to the east,” he says, shrugging a bit and deciding to worry about it later, “but not many more details beyond that. I suppose he expected you would enlighten me.”

Balin harrumphs, shaking his head. “Gandalf is frustrating,” he agrees, more to himself than to Bilbo, but soon his face is cheerful again, and the hobbit is reminded of all the times Balin was kind and patient with him last time. “But I will be happy to fill you in on anything you would like to know, once the others arrive.”

(Once Thorin arrives, most likely. Or—and Bilbo has to stifle a snort—once Thorin is finished getting lost while finding the largest hill in Hobbiton.)

“Well, come in, come in,” Bilbo says hastily, stepping aside and pulling the door further open to allow him space to enter. “Where are my manners? I’ve started dinner, but as I didn’t know who I was preparing for, or how many of you there are, there’s more in the pantry if you’d like to cook some yourself.”

“I must tell you, we number thirteen, not including you and Gandalf,” Balin admits, wiping his boots carefully on the mat before stepping over the threshold, and then removing them and setting them by the door. “A large group to host, to be sure, though not so very large when you consider the magnitude of our quest.”

“You want to reclaim your mountain,” Bilbo says, because it’s surely what’s expected of him, even if he knows all of this and more already. “Right? That’s what Gandalf said.”

“Aye,” Balin says with a tilt of his head, “but the tricky part is what we’re reclaiming it from.”

Bilbo’s forgotten, over the years, exactly how much Balin enjoys his theatrics—because he doesn’t explain any more beyond that, saying, “It’ll be easier to explain once the others arrive, laddie. It shouldn’t be too long, now.”

And indeed, while the two of them are working to move dishes full of food to the dining room (“We’ll need some more tables to fit us all,” Balin says, eyeing the room carefully. “Do you have any more?”), the doorbell rings again; Bilbo waves off Balin’s offers to get it, striding toward the door and fully expecting that this time, for sure, it will be Dwalin.

But when he opens the door, there are instead twin smiles on youthful faces he saw dead and buried, and there’s a funny sort of buzzing growing in his head that nearly drowns out their introductions—

“Fíli—“

“And Kíli—“

“At your service!”

Both of their bows are low but jaunty, and Bilbo can see that, unlike Balin, both are carrying their normal array of weapons. But they don’t shove their way through as they did the last time, eager to see their kin and begin on this quest of a lifetime—

(gods above he cannot do this)

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he manages to stutter out around the lump in his throat and the ringing in his ears, blinking a few times and resisting the urge to run a hand over his face. “I suppose you’re with Balin?”

“Aye,” Fíli says, and his blond hair is as immaculate as always, that ridiculous moustache shifting as he smiles. “He’s told you why we’re here, then?”

“To an extent,” Bilbo agrees, his grip tightening a bit on the door because Fíli is smilinggenially at him and Kíli is nearly vibrating with excitement, trying to subtly peer around Bilbo into his home and both of them are so, so alive—

“I expect you’ll get the full story once Thorin arrives,” Kíli says with a careless shrug, his face still lit up with excitement. “Could we come in, or—?”

Fíli whacks him on the shoulder with a don’t be rude, you idiot, he’s our host, but it’s exactly what Bilbo needs, because he’s nearly forgotten that he’s supposed to be feeding them supper and joining them on a quest, not gawking like a child at two young dwarves who should be strangers to him. So he pulls the door open wider and steps aside; to his surprise, both take off their boots when they come in and line them up carefully next to Balin’s. When they begin stripping off their weapons and placing them up against the wall, Bilbo watches in amazement, because it’s been eighty years but he clearly remembers being weighted down with knives and swords and axes by the elder brother, yelling at the younger to stop wiping mud onto his mother’s glory box—

Did Gandalf—have a word with the dwarves about being polite? But why would he do it this time and not the last; what has he done differently, that the wizard would ask for manners and decency when he did not before?

Surely, actually agreeing to speak to Gandalf about this adventure would not have changed this?

But he has no time to ask—has no way of asking, anyway, not without arousing suspicion (all three of the dwarves present would not be able to keep this secret from Thorin, and he would never ask them to), and so he holds his tongue, only directing them toward the dining room and inquiring when the rest of them will arrive.

“Soon, I think,” Kíli says, shrugging with a quick grin down at Bilbo. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you with everyone arriving at once, but we’ve all been staying at the inn the last couple of days.”

Balin looks rather chagrined that Kíli has revealed this tidbit of information…likely wanted everything to happen smoothly, without alerting Bilbo to the dwarves’ plan. But, after all, Bilbo can recognize a pattern when he sees one, and they did the exact same thing when they met with Beorn so many years ago.

(He doesn’t mind it. If anything, he’s touched that the dwarves have put so much thought into making sure he isn’t so overwhelmed.)

(But, again, he has to wonder: what’s made the difference from last time?)

He’s still unable to quite meet the boys’ eyes without seeing what they could yet become; he still can’t really convince himself that they are here, and alive, and that this is such a good thing that if he were a lesser hobbit, he would have fainted of sheer joy then and there. He’s always remembered that they were far too young…but now, seeing them again, drives the point home, and they never should have been allowed to die.

 But he’s soon offered a ready distraction from his spiraling thoughts, for the others are beginning to trickle in: first, Dori and his brothers, different as night and day but polite and cheerful enough. And then, wild Bifur and his cousins; Glóin and Óin, the former so much younger than when Bilbo last saw him in Rivendell…

(Only Thorin and Dwalin are left, and Bilbo has to wonder—why did Dwalin not arrive earlier?)

But Balin has not mentioned a brother; nobody else has either, except to say that they are still waiting on two of their own and Gandalf; and so he cannot ask, and only waits, watches the dwarves as they move his furniture around to accommodate such a large group and cook all sorts of food, clearing out his pantry in the process…generally causing so much mayhem that Bilbo’s head is starting to spin.

(He’s forgotten how much he’s missed this, after living such a structured life in the Shire for so many years.)

So when nobody else hears the doorbell ring for a final time, he is the one to answer it—and there are three figures there, one towering over the others despite their relatively impressive height, and—

It’s Thorin, it’s Thorin who Bilbo grew to appreciate as a close friend despite the rough exterior—who Bilbo watched die—who Bilbo buried with grief in his heart and tears in his eyes because Thorin was so good and he only wanted to bring his people home—

Thorin was dead, Thorin has been dead for eighty years just like his nephews but he stands proudly on the doorstep of Bag End, glancing at Bilbo before looking past him, behind him, as if he owns the place, and Bilbo feels a horrible pit in his stomach as he remembers exactly how much disdain Thorin held for him at the start of the quest—

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service.” The huge dwarf breaks him out of his shock, causes his eyes to snap toward him, as he bows low. He carries his axes on his back (and his brother’s mace on his hip), but his face is clearly as kind as he can manage as he straightens, making no move to step forward.

And then—and then Thorin bows as well, not so deep as the others but it is a bow nonetheless, and Bilbo is shocked into silence as he says, “Thorin, son of Thráin, at yours and your family’s.”

No royal introduction—nothing at all to indicate that he is the greatest king of all the dwarven lines…and that is not the Thorin he knows at all. Bilbo nearly forgets to respond, and it is only when some of the dwarves trickle in from the kitchen, wondering where Bilbo has gone, that he snaps out of his daze, sketching a shaky bow of his own. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours. Please, come inside.”

Gandalf follows behind the dwarves, giving Bilbo an appraising look as he stoops low to avoid hitting his head. All three remove their boots and weapons, lining them up carefully in the crowded hall, and Dwalin quickly steps toward his brother even as Thorin stands in place, his eyes sweeping the front room as more and more of his Company join them.

“So, you are the hobbit.”

The line brings back harsh memories of being drilled in his own home, considered lesser because he had never needed to know how to fight…but Bilbo is not willing to be walked all over, this time. The dwarf says it in a much less accusing tone than Bilbo remembers, but then, it’s been nearly a century…and perhaps, he thinks, his mind has conjured up falsehoods to help him deal with the grief of losing a close friend.

Either way, he’s not willing to let Thorin demean him again.

“Yes,” he says, straightening his back and meeting Thorin’s piercing gaze levelly. “Are you the leader of this company, then?”

Thorin blinks, but quickly recovers himself—“I am,” he says simply, his eyes sweeping Bilbo up and down again before seeking out the others. “I trust they have not been too awful to you or your home?”

This…is not what Bilbo is expecting, and he flounders for a moment before collecting himself—“It’s been a madhouse, but with so many dinner guests, I would be surprised if it were anything but. It hasn’t been any trouble.”

“Indeed,” Thorin hums, his eyes narrowing at Kíli (who colors a bit but does not look away) before looking back to Bilbo. “I am glad to hear it.”

Bilbo isn’t quite sure how to respond to this, and so he stays silent. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Thorin, who steps around slowly, sizing Bilbo up, and he, again, gets the uncomfortable feeling that he’s being judged by this dwarf whom he has (supposedly) just met. “Do you have any skill at fighting, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks, just the same as he did before, and Bilbo opens his mouth to object, because what kind of question is that to ask of a hobbit—? “This quest will not be safe. If you do not, I would like to know so we can accommodate, or teach you along the way. For your own safety. I’m sure you understand.”

Bilbo shuts his mouth in shock, because this night—which he was sure he was prepared for—is making less and less sense as time goes on. The fact that Thorin is—asking, to know to look out for him, rather than humiliate him, is…what? “I’m—I’m sure I’m no master like any of you,” he hedges, gesturing to the veritable armory stacked precariously by the door, and a few dwarves snicker behind him. “My mother taught me some amount of swordplay when I was young, but it has been decades since I practiced, and I have nothing more than a knife and a sling, anymore.”

Thorin’s brows shoot up, and Bilbo feels some measure of pride that he has been able to shock the dwarven king so easily. Never underestimate a hobbit, you ridiculous dwarf. “Should we find a sword for your stature, Fíli may be able to continue your training, then,” Thorin says at last, nodding to his elder nephew (for while many of those in the Company fight with swords—or close enough to one—Fíli alone seems to specialize in it), who stands up a bit straighter, his face lighting up. “In the meantime—“

“Do we have to discuss this now, Thorin?” Balin cuts in, stepping forward with an exasperated look on his face. “Master Baggins has prepared enough food to feed a small army, and all of it smells delicious. We can discuss the particulars of the quest after we eat…assuming he decides to join us, of course,” he adds, inclining his head to Bilbo kindly.

Thorin acquiesces with a grump, and Bilbo quickly excuses himself to the washroom, leaning heavily against the locked door and letting out a shaky sigh. This—perhaps he is relying on his too-old memories for this night, but he is fairly certain it didn’t go this well in any aspect. Thorin—seems to be giving him a chance, of all things, and the others were far kinder when they first arrived, and—

None of this is making sense, and he still is not comfortable with coming face to face with his long-dead friends. But what is he to do, except pretend all is well? What can he do, when he has sworn to keep his foreknowledge a secret from all the others?

He swallows heavily and turns the tap, splashing water on his face in a small attempt to get his skittering heart under control. Thorin is alive. Fíli and Kíli are alive, and the mountain has not yet been reclaimed, and the Ring has not yet been found, and—and—

It’s seemed so distant, everything he must do to fix things, but now that he’s met the beginnings of this quest head-on, he isn’t as prepared as he thought he was. This is so painful, so terrifying, but he has to pretend that everything is all right.

He has to, and so he will, because he has faced horrors far greater than a chance to save his friends’ lives, and so he will do this, at any cost to himself.

And so he wipes his face dry with shaking hands, steels himself with a straight back, and steps back toward his friends.

.

.

.

.

Thorin thinks the evening is going rather well.

Bilbo is reacting much better than he did the last time, for sure; though he still looks rather overwhelmed as he returns from the washroom, his face slightly red from the splashing he’s surely given it, he hasn’t fainted yet, and he even talked back to Thorin in a way he never did the last time.

Thorin is infinitely grateful that he sent Balin in first, instead of Dwalin, if only to calm the poor hobbit’s nerves.

He sees Bilbo’s gaze flicker to him a bit too often, sees him watching Fíli and Kíli almost warily whenever he thinks no one is looking, and narrows his eyes for a moment. He knows he himself strikes a rather imposing figure (no matter how much he attempted to downplay it for their first meeting), and he understands—but regrets—that Bilbo is likely wary of him and Dwalin. But Fíli and Kíli…can be intimidating when they want to, surely, but are not so much intrinsically…and they would have no reason to scare Bilbo, especially when Thorin gave them all specific instructions to be polite.

So why is he looking at the two of them so often? Perhaps they did something before he arrived; he’ll have to have a talk with them later about it. There’s no excuse for being rude to their host when he has offered them—at the very least—food and board for the night.

Dinner goes very well, in his opinion; though he wasn’t here for it the last time (all of the hills in this place look exactly the same—he can’t be blamed for getting lost), everyone seems to be enjoying themselves—and even Bilbo, sandwiched between Gandalf and Dwalin, seems at least content as he keeps up easily with the others’ eating habits. Besides the wary glances toward the three of them, he seems oddly at ease for having thirteen strangers barge in on him like this; Gandalf said that he was willing to hear him out, and surely the Company being a bit more tactful has helped, but…it’s strange.

He still looks a little overwhelmed, his hands shaking and his face a bit pale, but he doesn’t look frightened—doesn’t glance twice at the axe embedded in Bifur’s head, doesn’t even blink when Bofur sends an entire baked potato flying across the table and it lands neatly in his brother’s mouth.

He looks overwhelmed but at ease all the same, and it is such a strange combination that Thorin—terrible as he is at deciphering even his own emotions—cannot hope to understand.

Thankfully—or regretfully, because he’s not sure he’ll remember to be concerned about this later—dinner is soon over, and he has more to worry about as the others clear the dishes. (“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”—and Thorin is ready to call them all off with an angry bark, but then he sees only faint amusement on Bilbo’s face, and decides to let it be.)

After all, this is the last bit of fun they’re like to have in a long while.

The discussion of the quest goes the same as it did the first time—“Think furnace, with wings!”—but Bilbo only clenches his jaw and nods tersely instead of passing out—and soon, the hobbit has ushered them all to his living room, where they find seats wherever they can and Bilbo reads the minutiae of Balin’s winding contract.

And then, to Thorin’s astonishment (and several excited cheersfrom around him), he picks up a quill and signs his name with a steady hand.

He—he’s glad, of course he is, because while it’s likely the hobbit would have come charging after them in the morning, this is one load off his mind that he doesn’t need right now. But as he peers more closely at Bilbo, sees the smile (almost a smirk, if he didn’t know any better) on his face as he hands the contract to Balin, and remembers exactly how comfortable he seemed with their presence…

It’s such a stark contrast to the last time, though Thorin has changed so very few things. Has his meddling done this much already?

And if it has, what huge changes will come forth when he saves his nephews’ lives?

His mind is spinning with the implications—things he hasn’t even thought to consider in these past weeks—and he’s just starting to realize exactly how out of his depth he is when Balin’s warm hand comes down on his shoulder.

“Thorin? Are you well?” he asks in an undertone, clearly not wishing anyone else to hear…and for good reason, Thorin supposes. Obvious weakness in one’s leader is not good for morale the night before one leaves on a death-defying quest.

He nods jerkily, knows that it doesn’t convince Balin one bit, and casts his gaze around the room. In the time he’s spent thinking (brooding, Dis would call it, though he’d never admit it aloud), the others have dispersed. Bilbo and Ori are clustered around some books on the hobbit’s shelf, but the others are sprawled in various semi-upright positions around the den, talking quietly amongst themselves.

Gandalf is nowhere in sight, but Thorin knows suddenly what he has to do to ensure his quest succeeds.

“Where is the wizard?” he asks, narrowing his eyes a bit and peering through the strange round doorways. “I need a word with him.”

Balin’s brows are nearly at his hairline, but he gestures toward the front entrance, saying, “I believe he went outside to smoke…and to stand up straight,” he adds as an afterthought, and if it were any other situation, Thorin would crack a smile. “But Thorin—“

“Everything is fine, I swear it,” he says, standing up and patting his friend on the arm. “I just need to discuss some things with him. I’ll even leave my axe inside, if it would put your mind at ease.”

Balin’s face indicates that isn’t what he was talking about at all, but he sighs and turns away, stepping to sit next to his brother on a too-small couch. Thorin shoots one last look around the room before hunching slightly through the doorway and making his way toward the front door, fishing his own pipe from his pocket.

With the conversation he’s planning to have with the wizard, he thinks they’re both going to need it.

It’s only a moment before he reaches the door and pushes it open, breathing in the fresh air for a moment—so much clearer than a hobbit hole stuffed with fifteen too-large bodies—before focusing his attention on Gandalf, who has apparently forgone the little bench by the window and is standing near Bilbo’s flowers, looking out upon Hobbiton. Thorin spares it a glance as well—it’s a nice enough place, he supposes, but far too open and indefensible for his tastes—before coughing gruffly, closing the front door.

Gandalf turns, and there’s an infuriating little smile on his face as he catches sight of Thorin. “I thought you might want a word,” he says lightly, puffing out a smoke ring before turning fully to give him his attention.

“And what do you mean by that?” Thorin shoots back, not meaning to be so defensive. But honestly, he’s a dwarf—and dwarves have little patience for riddles. He’s here to discuss something vitally important with the wizard, and he expects to be treated with respect.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” he says, his tone exactly the same, and Thorin nearly snaps before reining in his temper. After all, they have more important things to discuss.

“You’re right, I do need to speak with you,” he admits, foregoing the bench as well so as not to be put at an even greater disadvantage. “Some…unusual circumstances arose a few weeks ago, ones that I have never before heard of. And as much as I regret saying this—“ (because even if Gandalf is immensely powerful and surely wise, he has always had so little patience for the wizard) “—I need your assistance.”

“And here, I thought dwarves were proud and straightforward,” Gandalf muses, adjusting his robes slightly. “Yet, you prove to be neither.”

“I would not ask if my nephews’ lives did not depend on it,” he snaps, glaring up at Gandalf. “They will perish should I fail, and I am not willing to take that risk.”

That seems to give the wizard pause, and Thorin allows himself a moment of satisfaction at the rather startled look on his face. “I did not know you were a Seer,” Gandalf says at last, giving Thorin an appraising look. “I would guess you were Durin’s final coming, but you look nothing like him. So speak plainly, and tell me what you mean!”

“I am not a Seer, nor am I Durin reborn,” Thorin says tersely, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions sure to come. “I mean that I have lived this journey in its entirety, died at the foot of my mountain, and then woke screaming in my rooms in Ered Luin as if none of it had happened!”

There’s a long pause; Thorin does not understand the emotions flickering across Gandalf’s face, and his patience is quickly waning…not when he is so desperate to ensure his nephews’ safety. “I know what is to pass,” he says after several more seconds of silence, his dead pipe shaking in his clenched fists. “We reclaim the mountain, but my heirs die alongside me. I would be content with dying, should they survive, but I watched both of them join their fathers, and I would do anything to ensure I do not waste this second chance.”

“And who gave you a second chance, I wonder?” Gandalf muses, his eyes far away as he considers…his mind clearly on many other questions beside. “Who but the Valar would have such power?”

“I do not know—“ (don’t particularly care, so long as he’s able to change their fates) “—but tell me, will you help, or must I do this on my own?”

The silence is a few seconds too long for Thorin’s tastes, but Gandalf eventually nods, his face grave. “I have told you, a great King beneath the Mountain is essential for the times to come. And though your cousin Dáin—and even your sister, though I do not know the inner workings of dwarven royalty—would make good rulers, you are a great one, Thorin Oakenshield, and I have a vested interest in seeing you regain your throne. I will do what I can to save all three of you.”

Thorin lets out a great whoosh of air, then, and finally reaches up to light his pipe. “You will need to trust my judgment on many things,” he says after a pull. “As I said, I have lived this quest through to the end, and I know what we must avoid, what we must do to have the best outcome.”

(What I must do to save my mind from its inevitable decline.)

Gandalf inclines his head again. “In turn, however, you must trust that I know what I am doing, as well. If it is true that you died at journey’s end—I am not doubting you!—then you do not know which way the world turned in the decades to come. I fear a darker power is rising, darker even than Smaug, and you must understand that a wizard has many duties beyond reclaiming lost mountains, no matter how noble your reasons.”

Thorin scowls—remembers how he deserted them to the goblin caves, to the darkness of Mirkwood—but reluctantly nods. “And I assume you would have this kept secret from the others?” Gandalf continues after a moment, peering down at him with narrowed eyes. “It seems you have not told even your closest friends and cousins where you stand.”

“Aye,” Thorin says, for while he has calmed down substantially from his near-panic the day he woke up, he is still not comfortable with telling the others—even Dwalin, even his heirs, even their burglar. “It would cause complications even greater than I have already seen, and I do not wish to explain to them that I caused Fíli’s and Kíli’s deaths.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf hums, contemplative, and responds with—“What ‘complications’ have you seen already? Your quest has not even begun.”

“I know,” Thorin says, and again a bit more forcefully than he meant. “I mean that Master Baggins was never this at ease, the last time. He refused to speak to you, nearly fainted when he heard of Smaug, and only signed the contract once we had already left the next morning. The hobbit I have just met for the second time is not the same one I remember.”

Gandalf’s brows shoot up in surprise, and he chews on his pipe for several seconds, considering. “I think you have little to worry about for now,” he says at last, and Thorin is grateful for the serious look leveled at him, rather than the dismissal he was half-expecting. “The behavior of one small hobbit—though of greater importance than one may think—means little at the moment. Alert me if he turns even stranger, or if anything else starts happening differently. But for now, I think we simply must wait and see.”

Thorin is thoroughly unhappy with this answer, but can see the sense behind his words, and so only huffs and finally sits down on the too-small bench. “He reminds me of the hobbit I knew at the end of the journey,” he says suddenly, realizing—for the brazen authority in Bilbo’s eyes as he argued with Thorin in the front hall reminds him starkly of the Bilbo who stole the Arkenstone to save his friends. “He saved us all many times, and may have saved countless lives at the end, though I was not counted among them.”

He can see the questions burning in Gandalf’s eyes, flickering in the dim light of the evening, but the wizard eventually decides that explanations can wait for another time…perhaps he plans to corner him one day on the road, when he takes watch, or when the others are sufficiently occupied.

Thorin does not care at the moment.

Eventually, Gandalf turns away with a bemused smile, staring out upon the Shire again. And though Thorin dislikes the openness and the vulnerability, he realizes that it is a good home in its own way—peaceful, happy…more quiet than Erebor or Ered Luin have ever been.

“The mettle of hobbits never ceases to amaze me,” Gandalf says at last, a smile in his voice, and Thorin cannot help but agree.

Neither of them say any more on the subject the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

(a youthful old age)

The next morning brings a bustle of activity within the hobbit hole even before the sun has fully risen. Several of the dwarves have gone down to the Green Dragon to retrieve their ponies and supplies, but the rest are swarming around Bilbo's home, packing leftover food into every spare cranny of their bags, cleaning up the mess they made the night before, and generally causing so much noise that Bilbo is starting to get a headache.

He's digging through his parents' closet to find that leather jacket; it slipped his mind in the past days, and though they're largely traveling during the warmer months, a sturdy coat for the journey certainly couldn't hurt. That successfully retrieved, he does a once-over of the deserted bedroom to see if there is anything else that could be of use.

Nothing. He gave Drogo his mother's knife, and even Belladonna Took didn't keep full-sized weapons in the house.

He sighs, resigning himself to waiting for Sting (and the trolls—he's not looking forward to that part) and exiting the room, walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, where several of the older dwarves have congregated. He's in the hall, just thinking of where he had put all his papers (a will—while it's morbid, he'd rather keep his belongings in the better side of the family, should something happen) when he turns a corner, nearly ramming into a solid mass of dwarf.

"Ah, I'm sorry," Bilbo says, stepping back a pace and looking up at Bifur. The dwarf only smiles—it's rather manic, but normal for him, Bilbo supposes—and waves a hand. Not a problem.

"You're—ah, Bifur, right?" he says, because if he's to keep up this façade, he shouldn't know every dwarf by name just yet. Better to act ignorant. "I'm sorry, I haven't quite figured out all your names yet."

His smile broadens, his eyes crinkling and the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced around the axe as he nods. Bilbo smiles back, ready to continue the rather one-sided conversation, when Bofur appears around the corner, his ever-present smile widening as he sees the two of them together. "I see you've met my cousin!" he says jovially, striding over and throwing an arm around Bifur's shoulders. "He's a bit short on words you'll understand, unfortunately, but makes for great company, otherwise."

"We were just talking," Bilbo responds readily, feeling his smile growing wider. Bofur—ever ready with a crude joke or a lively tune on his clarinet—he has always considered one of his dearest friends of the Company. "I'm trying to learn all your names."

"Ah, and that's quite the task!" Bofur laughs. "But just remember good ol' Bofur's the one with the hat, and Bifur's got the axe, and Bombur is about two of any of the rest of us—"

Bifur snorts and says something in that throaty dwarven language, elbowing Bofur in the ribs, and Bofur laughs again. "Aye, I guess that's not a nice thing to say about my own little brother, but if he's trying to learn us all off by heart, he's gotta work with the most obvious traits!"

Bilbo's heart warms as Bofur turns his kind smile upon him, and he remembers now how Bofur always made a habit of translating Bifur's speech so Bilbo could understand—and not making a fuss about it, either. These dwarves are so good—he forgot, over the years, how much he honestly enjoyed their company. (Once he got over the smell, and the yelling, and the table manners, and the…)

"I hope it won't take too long," he says amiably, smiling back at the dwarf. "You all do look very distinct. One of the lads is the only blond you've got, and—Dwalin?—is bald, and then there's the one with the hair—"

"Oh, aye," Bofur says with a barking laugh, his eyes crinkling into slits. "Nori's quite the vain dwarf, you know. We've been taking bets on how long it takes him to fix his hair in the mornings—hopefully we'll find our answer soon enough—"

"More than half an hour," a voice pipes up from behind Bofur, and Bilbo shifts a bit to look beyond the dwarves in the narrow hallway; he sees Ori trotting toward them, a veritable mountain of blankets in his arms. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mister Bilbo, but where would you like me to put these?"

"Oh, I can take them," Bilbo says immediately, which is rather silly, because of course he's no taller than Ori and already has a heavy coat over one arm. Instead, Bifur huffs, disentangles himself from his cousin's grip and takes the pile with little effort, glancing to Bilbo for direction. He flounders for a moment before just pointing him toward his own bedroom, nearby—"Just put them on the bed, it's not as if I'll be using it again soon"—and then returning to the matter at hand—"It honestly takes him that long to fix his hair? That seems…"

He flounders for words, because while he never knew Nori well, the last time, that seems excessive, even for a dwarf. Ori only laughs, rolling his eyes.

"Don't bring it up unless you want a knife in your bedroll, but it's entirely true."

Bofur throws his head back and laughs, then, and smacks Ori on the shoulder on his way down the hall. "Are you doing all right, Mister Bilbo?" Ori asks, his voice a bit more somber now that Bofur—and Bifur, with a cheery wave as he follows his cousin—have retreated to join Thorin and Balin in the kitchen.

"Of course I am," Bilbo says immediately, shifting the coat over his arm and frowning a bit at Ori. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just—thought I'd like to make sure," he says, and it's so strange to see him suddenly hesitant, after just seeming so confident when speaking with Bofur. "I realize it's rather a lot to dump thirteen dwarves on you in one day, and to ask you to leave your home—well, it's like Thorin said, and I'd like to make sure you're doing all right. I'm sure the others would as well," he adds on quickly, peering into Bilbo's face as if attempting to make sure he's not lying.

"I promise you, I'm perfectly all right with this," Bilbo says, though some parts of that small speech stick out in his mind; he intends to visit them again later. (Specifically: Thorin said?) "Hobbits in general aren't usually very adventurous, of course, but my mother traveled quite a bit in her younger years. And, as my father always said, I inherited more of her traits than just her eyes!"

"As long as you're sure," Ori says, but his shoulders have relaxed a bit, and he's smiling tentatively now at Bilbo. "I know a lot of us—we're, well, a lot to take in at once."

"I'm absolutely sure," Bilbo says, and he smiles easily back at the dwarf. "I wouldn't have signed that contract if I wasn't, now would I?"

"I suppose not!" At that, the last of Ori's doubt seems to slip away, and he gestures with a wider smile for Bilbo to follow him down the hall, back toward the kitchen. Bilbo follows with a little smile, only pausing for a stop in his study—his will and other instructions are laid out neatly on his desk, waiting to be delivered to the Thain. Strictly speaking, he should probably deliver it to the Mayor…but Fortinbras is his close cousin, and a Took beside. Even the most stubborn of hobbits likely wouldn't dare to argue with such a powerful figure.

Thorin and Balin are bent closely over several pieces of parchment laid out on the kitchen table—Thráin's map, Bilbo recognizes, but also a worn map of the continent, the Shire and Bree displayed prominently as the two argue over the best route to take east. "Actually, I need to ask a favor," Bilbo butts in during a second's pause, causing both of them to look up in question as he waves the paperwork briefly toward them. "I have some papers I need to deliver to my cousin Fortinbras in Tookland, just south of here. It shouldn't take more than a day longer, but I need to put some affairs in order if you're expecting me to travel with you for so long."

Thorin blinks at him, as if he hadn't even considered the idea that they'd be leaving Bilbo's home unoccupied for months on end. Bilbo wants to huff and tell him off for his single-mindedness, but Balin asks—"Could you bring it to someone just in town, here? We're on a tight schedule, I'm sure you understand—"

"It's fine," Thorin says, just loud enough to cut his friend off, and everyone in the kitchen turns to look at him in surprise. "A day's journey is nothing, Balin. We can always make up for it later."

Bilbo sees something in those eyes as they turn upon him with that strange, appraising look from last night, and he's reminded of exactly how differently Thorin is behaving compared to his memories. He's tried to chalk it up to his old mind playing tricks on him—making it easier to mourn a friend he remembers as bitter rather than as tolerant or even kind—but this is so…so different, and he honestly isn't sure what to make of it.

But it is neither the time nor place for such discussions—not with four others in his kitchen, and anyhow, he has no idea how he would bring up the topic in the first place—so he only nods at Thorin and gives his thanks.

They're ready to be out the door sooner than Bilbo expected—but then, these dwarves can be incredibly efficient when they want to be. Bombur is considering the perishables left in the pantry, as if he could create space for them just by staring; Dori is cleaning up the remnants of their mess from last night with efficiency enough to impress even Bilbo. "You don't need to do this," he tried to argue, because really, it doesn't matter if there's a small amount of mud in the front hall from their boots piled by the door, but Dori won't have any of it.

"You've just hosted fourteen guests with less than a day's notice, Master Baggins. It's the least I can do."

(Bilbo remembers Dori's terrifying will, remembers the way he could easily lift and throw any one of the Company, and wisely decides to let the dwarf be.)

Fíli and Kíli—young and spry as they are—are busy putting bags on the ponies, tossing them to and fro just as they did with his mother's priceless dishes. Dwalin watches them as he apparently stands guard by the gate with his axes in easy reach, brushing his own pony down and staring out over the Shire.

"You can't possibly expect to be attacked here," Bilbo says, coming up beside him as he wanders outside and staring incredulously up at the huge dwarf. "Nobody more troubling than Gandalf has shown up in all the Shire in almost thirty years!"

Dwalin huffs, not looking Bilbo's way as he gives the pony one final pat, stowing the brush in the saddlebag. "Is it that obvious, Master Hobbit?"

"You're doing your best to glare a hole through the entirety of the main road," Bilbo observes, nodding toward the offending line of dirt that stretches far beyond his own vision. "I don't know why you dwarves are so paranoid, but there is nothing to fear here."

He mumbles something under his breath in reply, but it doesn't sound like Common and Bilbo knows better than to pry. He's just trying to decide how to continue the conversation—he's forgotten, over the years, how taciturn Dwalin can be, but he's a hobbit, and hobbits can keep up a conversation with a rock—when Kíli hails them from down the road, walking toward them quickly.

"Mister Boggins! We've given you the best pony of the lot!"

"Oh?" he asks wryly, even as Dwalin glances, skeptical, at the younger dwarf. "When you say 'best,' do you mean the rowdiest creature you could find, or one that won't toss me the first chance it gets?"

"The second, of course!" He looks offended that Bilbo would ever suspect him of such treachery, motioning Fíli to come closer with a pony's reins in his grip. "Bilbo, meet Myrtle!"

For the life of him, Bilbo cannot recall whether this is the pony he rode so many years ago—but she does seem docile enough, submitting to his petting with only a soft whinny as she pushes toward his other hand, searching for food. "She seems fine enough to me," he says at last, and Kíli huffs his indignation that he was ever doubted. Dwalin doesn't seem so amused.

"If our burglar is injured, you'll be the one patching him up—Óin won't want to be bothered."

"I'm honored," Bilbo says wryly, and Dwalin only snorts in reply.

The boys have done a fine job of saddling the ponies in preparation for their departure—even Dwalin can find no fault as he tugs at the ties for good measure, going down the line. He nods his approval—"Go tell Thorin this is done, then"—and then only Bilbo and Dwalin are left outside, staring again out upon the rolling hills of Hobbiton.

"Indefensible," Dwalin grumps, shaking his head. "You say you haven't been attacked in decades, and it's just as well—what would you do if you were, hope they impaled themselves on a fence?"

"We're not entirely defenseless!" Bilbo defends. "You would know better than I that we have treaties with the dwarves in the Blue Mountains, food for security."

"It's at least a week's hard ride to Ered Luin," Dwalin counters, turning toward the door again. "Let us hope you need not call for our aid, because our kin will be too late in coming."

Bilbo shakes his head at the huge dwarf's back as he ducks through the doorway—ridiculous, the lot of them—before following him inside.

Barely an hour later, they have all finished the last of their preparations, have tidied up Bilbo's home within an inch of its life, and are pulling themselves up onto the ponies along the main road. Gandalf—atop his great horse—stays at the front, puffing on his pipe as he scans the line of dwarves behind him and then the landscape of the Shire.

Bilbo is out of practice, and though he remembers the logistics of it all, his inexperience is showing; he hears a few snickers from behind him that likely come from Nori before he feels strong hands lift him under the arms, depositing him a bit roughly into the saddle. He looks back in surprise to see Glóin peering up at him with narrowed eyes.

"You'll have to get used to it, Master Baggins—we've a long road ahead of us, and you can't walk the entire way."

"I know!" Bilbo says, a bit indignantly, stroking Myrtle's mane for good measure as he frowns down at the dwarf. "I haven't ridden a pony in many years—and every one of you is bigger than I am!"

The laughter from behind him stops abruptly from what sounds like an elbow to the ribs, and Glóin only huffs, shaking his head and moving to mount his own pony. They've just begun moving—making quite a racket, truth be told, but Bilbo shouldn't be surprised—when there's an alarmed yell from down the road.

"Mister Bilbo, what's this about?"

Bilbo grins a bit sheepishly at Bofur, beside him, before turning in the saddle, careful not to lose his balance. The others gradually stop as well, turning curiously. "Good morning, Hobson!"

"Mister Bilbo!" Hobson's voice is more indignant than concerned, now, as he hurries along the path, giving the ponies and the dwarves a wide, suspicious berth as he approaches Bilbo. "When you mentioned old friends, you can't have meant this lot! What business do you have with Big Folk? I doubt even your mother would—"

"Mother would have been proud of me, I should think," Bilbo cuts him off, knowing every pair of eyes is on the two of them as he continues, "I told you, you needn't worry—Gandalf just asked a favor of me, and I'll be home in a few months' time. I'm even dropping some papers off with Fortinbras to make sure everything is in order."

"Gandalf," Hobson says the name with equal parts derision and fear, glancing toward the wall of grey at the head of the line. He clearly decides that angering the wizard is more risk than it's worth, however, because his focus returns quickly to Bilbo. "You know hobbits have no business leaving the Shire—I'm sure these—these—they will have no trouble finding help among their own kind. Come home, Mister Bilbo, it's where you belong."

Bilbo glances at the dwarves nearest him—Fíli wears a slight frown, ahead of him, but Kíli and Bofur look more bemused than anything as they watch the conversation. The others, further away, are (not) subtly craning their necks to see what's going on. "I've already agreed to help them," Bilbo says, resisting a sigh and nearly wishing Hobson had missed them leaving. It'd make things much simpler, even if a chance to say goodbye to his friend is greatly appreciated. "It's not befitting of either a Baggins or a Took to back down on his word. I promise you, this is something I need to do. I'll be home in due time."

"Well—I—what am I supposed to tell everyone else?" He's clearly spluttering, stalling for time, desperate to make Bilbo stay behind though they both know it's a lost cause.

Bilbo laughs. "The truth, if you'd like. I don't care a bit what they'll think of me."

Hobson opens his mouth for a moment, but closes it again soon enough—and Bilbo knows he's won as his friend crosses his arms. "I expect to see you home in one piece, or they'll be answering to me—and the rest of the Shire," he says at last, glaring down the line of dwarves and standing his ground quite admirably. "A few months, you say?"

"If all goes well," Bilbo hedges. After all, if Mordor enters the equation (and it will, if he has any say in it), all timelines get flung out the window. Hobson huffs his displeasure at the lot of them but seems to truly notice the bounty of weapons for the first time, the way Dwalin's face, near the front, is growing increasingly impatient, and wisely decides to back down.

"Well then, Mister Bilbo, don't let the outside world drive you mad," he says at last, making to turn away. "More hobbits have disappeared than returned home, you know, and I doubt anyone wants that for you."

"I'll be absolutely fine," Bilbo calls after his friend, wishing he could say more, but Hobson only raises a hand in farewell as he retreats down the path.

(Bilbo's not sure how he feels about the snub—he probably deserves it, after all, but Hobson and his family are dear friends, and ones he wishes could understand what he needs to do.)

(But how can he make his hobbit friends understand, when even the wizard and the dwarves must be kept in the dark?)

"You're all right, there?" Bofur asks after a few moments of awkward silence—strange, among the Company—as they alternately watch Hobson's retreating back and Bilbo's face. "Not having second thoughts, are ya?"

"Absolutely not," Bilbo says immediately, straightening in his saddle and facing ahead again, glancing toward Gandalf and Thorin with a raised brow. "I told you I'd come along on this journey, and so I will. As I said, I come from two long lines of hobbits who make good on their word, and I'm not about to end that now!"

"That's a good lad!" Bofur laughs, slapping him on the back with nearly enough force to knock him off his pony, and there are a few more whoops from the other dwarves before they start moving again.

It's all lively chatter—cheerful and fast-paced, but Bilbo has no trouble keeping up as they make their way out of Hobbiton. It's about a day's ride to Tuckborough, as Bilbo promised, but the hours pass quickly—and though they got several strange (and often dirty) looks from hobbits going about their day early on, it's thinned out considerably since they've entered the countryside.

The dwarves routinely swap positions in line as the conversations flow seamlessly, speeding up or holding back to talk with someone new without missing a beat. Bilbo isn't sure he's that skilled at riding a pony just yet, but due to the others' movements he's found himself toward the front, within earshot of Balin and Thorin's conversation. Dwalin is ever nearby as well, speaking with Fíli about something or other as Bilbo tentatively nudges Myrtle forward.

"You're doing all right, Bilbo?" Gandalf asks kindly enough, though there's something ever behind his eyes that betray whatever ulterior motives drive this line of questioning. "Not too overwhelmed by us just yet?"

Why do they keep asking him this? "If I were overwhelmed by a group of dwarves, I'd never survive a Took family function," Bilbo says, loud enough for the surrounding dwarves to hear, because Thorin and Balin have paused their conversation to listen to his reply. "I'm not sure why you're treating me like I'm fragile or easily frightened, but you really don't need to worry."

"That's good to hear," Balin says, smiling over at him. "We just want to make sure—you see, most talk of your kind in the wider world is that you're not too keen on traveling. It's a lot to ask of you, to leave your home—we don't want to make it any more stressful than necessary."

"I'll let you know when it gets stressful," Bilbo says, smiling back, though it's still a bit irritating. After all, last time, they didn't give him any free passes for being a hobbit. "In the meantime, just treat me like you would any other of the Company, all right?"

Thorin's brows are rising higher and higher on his forehead, and Bilbo turns a skeptical eye toward him. "What's wrong? Don't believe I can keep pace with dwarves?"

"No," Thorin says immediately, blinking a couple of times before turning fully to Bilbo, pinning him with a hard stare as he says, "just surprised. I've never expected much from halflings, but it seems we have much to learn of your kind."

"First thing to know, we're hobbits, not halflings," Bilbo says immediately, slightly louder, so his voice carries back a ways as well. He knows they mean no ill will, but it's a term Big Folk have adopted with no affirmation from the creatures in question, and personally, it rubs him the wrong way. "We're not half of anything, especially you lot, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't name us as such."

"Apologies," Balin says immediately, and Thorin inclines his head slightly, his jaw clenching. "As Thorin said, we have little knowledge of your people. We mean no offense in our ignorance—we only ask that you correct us."

"That I will," Bilbo says, allowing a slight smile to split his face to show he's not truly upset with them. "No need to worry."

The day goes by quickly—though Thorin is his normal, taciturn self, both Balin and Bilbo have managed to pull him into conversation while Bilbo has been near the front. But the hours pass, and Bilbo's gradually fallen back. They're coming upon Tuckborough quickly, set to enter soon after the sun goes down—and Bilbo (who has been carrying on a rather loud conversation with Óin and Dori, halfway down the line) is hailed by Gandalf and Thorin.

"We can make camp outside of town, if you'd prefer," Gandalf says, glancing back to the Company as Bilbo approaches. "Such a large group may be overwhelming for them, Tooks or not."

Didn't seem to matter when it was me, in Hobbiton, Bilbo thinks wryly, but decides to let it slide. "I think they would appreciate that quite a bit," he says instead, nodding to them. "It shouldn't take too long—Fortinbras is a reasonable fellow, with some of the wanderlust in his blood—he'll understand my decision to leave."

"I would like to accompany you," Thorin says suddenly, and Bilbo turns in surprise. Neither Gandalf nor Balin look surprised by this announcement; they must have discussed it earlier. And, based on their expressions, decided it was a good idea. "As I understand it, the Thain is the closest you have to a ruler in the Shire, and your kin beside. As the leader of this Company, it is my duty to tell him exactly what I am asking you to do."

What? "That's not at all necessary," Bilbo says, rather stupefied, his mind racing furiously through possible outcomes of the proposed meeting. More than likely, it won't be pretty…if only because two hard-headed people like them would never get along well. "We're very informal in the Shire—even if you told him all your accolades, I doubt he'd know of you, or very much care."

"Nevertheless, it is my duty to protect you in any way I can on this journey," Thorin shoots back, stubborn as always, and Bilbo suppresses a sigh. "If a group of strangers were to spirit one of my kin away on a quest, I would like to know why, how, and when they should be expected home. And," he continues as Bilbo opens his mouth to argue, "I would prefer to hear it from the leader of that group."

"It shouldn't be much trouble, lad," Balin says. "Give your cousin your paperwork, allow Thorin to speak with him for a short while, and you'll be back to camp in time for dinner."

This is absolutely ridiculous and utterly unnecessary, but Bilbo sees no real way out of it. He doesn't have any rebuttals that won't insult Thorin (you're utterly tactless—more than likely you'll offend Fortinbras within five minutes of arriving—you're going to get yourself kicked out without a possibility of return), and so he eventually acquiesces.

(Even if this is either going to be a disaster or a complete waste of time.)

And so half an hour later, the fifteen of them have situated themselves on the borders of Tuckborough, unloading the ponies and beginning to set up a fire. "We'll be just a moment," Bilbo promises as he and Thorin set off toward the town proper, leaving their ponies behind.

It's…an interesting walk, to say the least. Thorin, of course, is never much inclined for talking, and though Bilbo could easily keep up a conversation with him, he's not sure that he wants to. After all, he's not sure what to make of the dwarf—is still failing to reconcile him with the angry, often hateful leader from his memories—and so is not sure where to tread, what they can speak of without the air becoming too strange between them.

(Listen to him, dancing around this dwarf as if he were a tween attempting to ask a girl to a party! Could he get any more ridiculous?)

Thorin, of course, seems perfectly content to walk in silence, and only follows Bilbo down the winding paths toward the heart of town, where Fortinbras lives. "Try not to offend him too badly," Bilbo says as they come upon the doorstep, and Thorin frowns a bit at him; however, he has no time to argue the point, as in the next moment, Bilbo is knocking firmly on the door.

A call of "Just a moment!" comes from inside, and then Lalia Took opens the door, a smile ever on her round face as her eyes alight on Bilbo. "Cousin Bilbo! What brings you all the way down here? And—with such strange company, at that?" she adds, her gaze flickering briefly to Thorin. To her credit, however, she does not shrink away, only raises an eyebrow at the two of them as she waits for the answer.

"I actually need to speak with Fortinbras," Bilbo says, smiling back at her. Though others have so often found Lalia intimidating, he has instead found her pleasant company when compared to the uptight Bagginses he has spent so much time with. "This is Thorin—a dwarf of the Blue Mountains. I'm planning to travel with him and his kin."

"Oh, you're adventuring, are you?" she asks, though she steps aside to allow them entrance. "Suppose it was only a matter of time, with my husband's blood in you—he's in the study, just down the hall."

"Thank you," Bilbo says, smiling a moment more before heading in that direction. He hears Thorin hesitate in the front hall—likely taking off his muddy boots—before following quickly behind.

Fortinbras is bent low over his great desk, piled high with correspondence from across the Shire and beyond. Bilbo knocks lightly on the doorframe to gain his attention, smiling all the while—his cousin is older than him by more than a decade, but they spent plenty of time together in the Old Took's halls when they were small, and he has always had fond memories of time with Fortinbras.

His cousin looks up and turns around, a smile growing on his face when he recognizes him. "Cousin Bilbo!" He's on his feet and pulling Bilbo into an embrace in the next moment, slapping him on the back forcefully before pulling him to arm's length, looking him up and down. "It's been months since I saw you! I hope you're well?"

"As well as can be expected," Bilbo says, his smile growing as well—Fortinbras' cheer has always been so contagious. "I'm being whisked away by a wizard on some death-defying quest, but my mother always returned from those in one piece! I'm hoping I'll manage the same."

"And you've come to set affairs in order," Fortinbras nods immediately, his eyes narrowing as Thorin's rather loud footsteps announce his presence before he comes into view. "And I suppose this is him?"

"No, it's the leader of the group I'm traveling with," Bilbo says, orienting them aside a bit so Thorin can be easily seen from the doorway. The dwarf in question clearly is attempting to look as hospitable as possible; his face is carefully neutral, and he sketches a slight bow from the waist. "At your service, Master Hobbit."

"Oh, none of that nonsense!" Fortinbras shoves at his shoulder, forcing him upright again, and Thorin stands again, looking rather bemused. Bilbo laughs.

"Fortinbras, this is Thorin Oakenshield of the Blue Mountains," he says, always aware of how this quest is meant to be low-profile. "Displaced King of Erebor" would stir up more interest than the Company wants to deal with, and he's more than willing to respect that. "Thorin, this is Fortinbras Took, Thain of the Shire."

"A pleasure," Fortinbras says amiably enough, though Thorin gives Bilbo a sudden look that he's not sure he likes. "Well, come in—I suppose you'd like to go through some sort of dwarven formality, asking my permission to take my cousin on a quest or some such nonsense."

"It seemed only right," Thorin says, following the hobbits into the study and sitting gingerly on the chair offered him. "We are asking him to leave his home for several months, after all."

"To do what, exactly?" Fortinbras asks, sitting back a bit in his own chair, looking more curious than probing, but Thorin has ever been serious and cynical, and takes the question very seriously as he glances toward Bilbo.

"It is not a quest we wish to broadcast to the world," he hedges after a moment, and Bilbo sighs, realizing he's going to tell Fortinbras the truth…at least in part. More than likely, half the Shire will know by the end of the week. "My people lost their homeland nearly two centuries ago, and now is the time to reclaim it. Gandalf has assured us that a hobbit would be beneficial to our cause, and I trust his word enough to believe it."

Thorin, trusting Gandalf? What has the world come to? Bilbo blinks for a moment, remembers the mistrust between the two through the entirety of the last quest, and feels as if the world has tilted on its axis a bit. Something isn't right.

Fortinbras' brows are rising, though, and Bilbo is pulled back into the conversation—"And you agreed to this, Bilbo?"

"I am my mother's son," he says, shrugging and smiling a bit ruefully at his cousin. "I've been itching to see the world for a little while, now…this seemed as good a time as any."

"I see," his cousin says slowly, considering the two of them for a moment before shaking his head. "Master Oakenshield, my history lessons are decades old and rusty, but I seem to remember your name labeling the lost king of Erebor. And, if memory serves, your mountain is currently occupied by a dragon."

Thorin blinks, and even Bilbo is surprised—he knows, of course, that Fortinbras is the one who treats with the elves and men and dwarves when need be; he knows Fortinbras to be more worldly than most other hobbits. But even Bilbo didn't know such things when the Company arrived, the last time. "That…is correct," Thorin says after a moment of silence, inclining his head. "As I said, it is a great service we ask of Master Baggins, and we are deeply honored that he has agreed to it."

"Oh, bollocks," Fortinbras says, not sharply, but Thorin looks up in surprise nonetheless. "Bilbo wouldn't be a Took if he didn't look for some risk in his life. I do wish, though," Fortinbras glances to Bilbo with a frown, and he knows he deserves nothing more as he smiles sheepishly back, "that he would have picked a more reasonable adventure to travel."

"I will do everything in my power to protect every member of my Company," Thorin says in earnest, and Bilbo can see a glimmer of that proud leader he remembers in scraps of memories and fading stories, the one who's led his people for nearly a century and retained their trust and their loyalty through too much strife. "Your cousin is counted among them, Master Took, and I would see him returned home to you safely."

"I would see that as well," Fortinbras says, his eyebrows still raised, "but I doubt the dragon shares your sentiments."

"We have a wizard, Fortinbras," Bilbo butts in, feeling rather like he needs to defend Thorin though the dwarf would have no trouble doing it himself. "Gandalf has promised his help. I trust that he will see us through to the end of this quest."

"Gandalf," Fortinbras says, in nearly the same tone as Hobson, from this morning, and Bilbo has to stifle a smile. "Well, your mother always did put great stock in him, even beyond his fireworks. And far be it from me to dissuade you from leaving. Where are the papers, then?"

Bilbo fishes in his coat pocket, pulling out the packet and handing it over. "Wait two years before you assume I'm not coming back—everything should be in order," he says, nodding, and Fortinbras' brows rise higher.

"Two years?—"

"A precaution," Thorin says immediately, glancing toward Bilbo with a slight frown. "We expect the trip should take four to five months, depending on how hospitable the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood are. The round trip should take no more than a year."

"I see," Fortinbras says slowly, again, tucking the papers onto one of the numerous shelves on his desk. "It will be done, Bilbo, though I expect you to return home in one piece."

"I expect the same," Bilbo says, smiling at his cousin, and reaches to grasp his shoulder. "And I'll have plenty a tale to tell, I'm sure!"

"You had better tell them to the lot of us, then," Fortinbras says, and his face relaxes a bit as he laughs. "I'm sure the children would love to hear stories of dragons and adventures, though their mothers may not appreciate them so much."

Bilbo laughs as well, and Thorin seems to relax, sensing the easing of whatever tension he might have felt before. "We had better return to our companions," he says, regretful but mindful of Lalia's likely ear at the door, mindful of the fact that there are twelve dwarves and a wizard waiting for their return. "I'll pay you a visit on my return and let you know what happened, all right?"

"It's a promise, then," Fortinbras says, and his smile has grown a bit sadder as he stands with Bilbo, pulling him into another hug. "And it was good to meet you, Master Oakenshield," he says once he has released Bilbo, turning to the dwarf and sticking out his hand to shake. "If you were to choose a hobbit to accompany you, I doubt you there was a finer choice."

Thorin blinks at him before inclining his head again, reaching to shake the extended hand. "The pleasure is mine," he says, and soon the three of them are walking toward the door. (Lalia moved aside to let them pass her wide girth, a pile of towels conveniently destined for the nearby linen cupboard stacked in her arms.)

"Take care of yourself, Bilbo," Fortinbras says, pulling him into another hug on the stoop. Bilbo smiles.

"I'll do my best—you as well! Don't let that wife of yours take over your post!"

"She'd do a better job of it than me, I'm sure," Fortinbras laughs, waving them off as he steps back into the doorway. "I'll see you when you return!"

And then they're walking back through town, the roads lit only by lanterns every hundred feet or so—but Bilbo traveled here often enough in his youth that he would know the way even without them. It seems that Thorin wishes to walk back in the same silence that they arrived in, and Bilbo is content to allow him that. It's been a long day of riding, after all, and his thighs are unbearably sore, and right now, all he really wants is a bite to eat and then—

"Master Baggins," Thorin says suddenly, and Bilbo starts, turning to look at his companion.

"Please, just call me Bilbo," he says, waving a hand and attempting to recover his composure. "I'm just a regular old hobbit, nothing special at all."

"Gandalf seems to think differently," Thorin says, rather stiffly, and Bilbo wonders at that before he shakes his head and continues—"You introduced me as Thorin Oakenshield to your cousin."

"Because that's your name," Bilbo says, rather nonplussed by the non sequitur. What else would he have said? "Should I not have said that? I suppose he might not have recognized you if—"

"That is of no concern," Thorin cuts him off, his frown growing deeper as he stares down at Bilbo. "What I wish to know is how you know of my epithet. To my knowledge, neither I nor any other of the Company used it last night."

…Oh, bollocks. How could he have made such a careless mistake? "Like Fortinbras said, you're in the history books," he says, thinking quickly. After all, a Baggins must be light on his feet and quick of tongue, as his father always said. "You're a king named Thorin who lays claim to the throne of Erebor. Who else could you be?"

"Indeed," Thorin hums, and looks pacified for the moment, though his brows are furrowed, and he seems to be deep in thought as they make their way back to the Company. Bilbo doesn't mind; in fact, he appreciates the time to think, because he can't afford more careless mistakes like that one. If he seems too strange—too—knowledgeable, Thorin might grow suspicious (more likely, Gandalf might grow suspicious), and he can't afford that—not when they're barely a day into their quest.

But, putting aside his own actions for the moment—doesn't Thorin seem strange as well? He's tried to put the thoughts off as memories warped by time and grief, but he's not sure he can claim that anymore. Thorin barely gave him the time of day, last time; he remembers this clearly. The Thorin he used to know wouldn't give a whit whether Bilbo preferred to be called a hobbit or a halfling; he would never insist on speaking with Fortinbras with Bilbo. More reasonable would have been Thorin irritated by the trip, hating that Bilbo was holding up their travel with pointless goodbyes.

He's realizing that this is not the Thorin he remembers—not at all—but has no idea what to make of it. That's entirely more terrifying than the prospect of taking on this quest himself… Not knowing how to anticipate the dwarf's reactions, not knowing what his goals are or what he'll do to accomplish them—how will he know the best course of action?

Thorin wishes to reclaim Erebor, certainly, to earn his homeland and its gold for his people. No matter how different he might be acting, surely this, at least, has not changed.

But where has the bitterness gone? Where is the rage and prejudice and hatred for anything that might think about standing in his way?

Where is the Thorin Oakenshield he thought he knew?

(And what has caused this drastic change in his attitude?)

.

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.

.

…How does he know that he is the only creature given this second chance?

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.

Traveling through the Shire is about as exciting as it was last time—which is to say, dead boring, but for the ruckus his Company causes wherever they go.

Thorin has never much been one for talking, and they all know it, but Fíli and Glóin and Balin and all the rest have pulled him into enough conversations over the past week that Thorin has found the rhythm again.

(Weeks cooped up in a death-choked mountain that reeked of dragon—and after that, weeks of pretending he hadn't died and caused so many others to do the same. He's still reeling from the guilt and the self-hatred, but Bofur's raunchy songs and the way Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli—those who know the most of it, though he wouldn't be surprised if Balin did as well—speak of everything and nothing with him, if only to keep him from the brooding moods he's so known for among their people.

He appreciates the effort, even if he's not wholly sure it's succeeding.

Bilbo, too, has been giving him strange looks all week, though they share a fair number of conversations without incident as well. Thorin has been reflecting on his conversation with Gandalf, that first night—though they haven't had a chance to discuss things further, he's becoming more and more certain that something is definitely wrong with Bilbo.

Well, perhaps wrong is the incorrect word; different may be more accurate and sufficient, because if anything, this is an improvement on the Bilbo he remembers from the beginning of the last quest. He is outspoken and cheerful rather than timid and irritated—a member of this Company almost immediately when it took a stand-off with Azog the Defiler to gain that status the last time.

Something twists in his chest at the memory of that disgusting creature—the vision of Fíli's destroyed chest, of Kíli staring death in the face, alone for the first time in his life—

Did Azog die? Was he slain by some other hero of the battle? Bard, or Beorn, or Gandalf, or even Thranduil? He can't stand the thought of Azog surviving the battle and retreating to skulk in the caverns of Durin's people—the thought of he, Thorin, giving up everything he never had a right to give, while his sworn enemy survived to slaughter more and more and more—

No. He must have been defeated. There is no other way the pieces could have fallen. Azog the Defiler was no more, and Thror and Frerin and Fíli were avenged—

He realizes, though, that things have been reset—that he must still be alive, here and now, hiding in the Misty Mountains and waiting again for his time to strike, and the thought makes him want to be sick.

He will kill Azog before he can take any more lives. He will stop that monster from ending lives that should have accomplished so much more…he will avenge his grandfather, and his brother, and the memory of what could still happen to his nephews.

(That will not happen again.)

They're nearing Bree, a week into their journey, and the Company is more comfortable with each other than he has had a right to hope for. Of course, there are those who keep to themselves; Nori rarely speaks to anyone beyond his brothers, and Dwalin is as taciturn as always. Dori and Bombur and Ori and Bifur seem unsure of how to act when surrounded by nobility they have only interacted with in passing, though Bofur seems to have no such qualms, and Thorin knows that they will all relax, in time.

They must, because if they are to ascend Erebor and reclaim its glory for their people once again, the members of this small company must learn to trust each other.

(They'll trust each other with their lives by the end…but Thorin will have to hope that it will be enough to save them from dragonfire and darkspawn's wrath.)

The dwarves of this company will learn to trust each other, just as Bilbo will—though he seems to be well on his way there already. He's picked up on their names remarkably quickly—even manages to keep Fíli and Kíli straight every time—and Thorin doesn't know whether to be suspicious or impressed. He takes their teasing in stride—laughs as Nori hauls him none too gently onto his pony one morning, as Fíli tries to spook him with tales of trolls out in the wilderness.

It's like…it's like he's comfortable with them all. It's an impossible thought, that a hobbit become so comfortable with thirteen strange dwarves within a week of meeting them. Thorin's suspicious, but how could he possibly bring this up? "Bilbo, I noticed you're acting differently than I remember. After all, I've traveled through time and have already lived this quest, so I know these things. Could you tell me why you're not acting like yourself?"

Except he is acting as himself—or, at least, the Bilbo that Thorin remembers in Erebor, on his deathbed, with his friends until the last. He is the Bilbo he remembers but he shouldn't be, because that was a Bilbo tried and tested by the wider world that is cruel and unforgiving and often hateful…the world so different from the sheltered haven offered by the Shire. This Bilbo is comfortably fed, is soft-handed, is short-haired just as the Bilbo of the early days of before, but he carries himself differently—he carries himself as Bilbo the Barrel-Rider, Bilbo the Riddler, Bilbo the Hero.

Bilbo, the hobbit who very likely diverted more bloodshed than was already destined to be spilled, and deserved, more than anything, to be remembered and hailed for such a thing.

(Thorin's sure he would have hated it.)

This is wrong, and though he tries to justify it to himself, he is not unintelligent, and so recognizes that he cannot write this off as nothing.

(If he, Thorin, was given this second chance, who is to say that others weren't as well?)

But who is he to speak of about this? Gandalf, surely, though he has had no time alone with the wizard for the past week. He wants to consult with him, discuss his thoughts, consider the repercussions and decide on a course of action, but the others will not give him a chance.

But as he thinks on this, considers the possibility that Bilbo, too, has memories of that last time—then he must remember those last weeks in the mountain, when Thorin lost his wits entirely, when he threatened his friend's life…when he banished him for trying to save so many lives.

Should he not hate him for it?

Bilbo should despise him, should avoid him at all costs, because words spoken to a dying man are quite different from words truly spoken from the heart, and he would not be surprised if Bilbo has cultivated anger and spite in his heart just as he cultivates the land around his beloved home. He realizes that it's only reasonable that Bilbo do so, and flounders with the facts before him that the hobbit simply doesn't.

Surely, his friend is not so forgiving? Even if Bilbo lived years and years past the battle—even if he has had years to think and to forgive, surely there should be resentment here?

But there is not; there is not; and Thorin is astounded and confused and humbled because he does not deserve such loyalty and such friendship.

(If Bilbo has returned along with Thorin—has decided to keep it from them all just as Thorin has—then his respect for the hobbit must only grow, and he will honor his wish for secrecy, though he cannot think of why he must lie.)

(Besides, he reminds himself, the fact that you tried to murder him with your bare hands.)

They are on the outskirts of Bree, a day later than the last time, and though everyone is in high spirits, Thorin calls a halt when he did not the last time. They sped through the town, eager to begin the true journey in the Wild, but the last time, Thorin is sure there were not so many Rangers about. They're not even attempting to blend as is their custom, and are congregating in unusually large numbers. It's just strange enough that he thinks he won't feel comfortable leaving until he discovers what they're about.

(Gandalf's slight frown doesn't help, either, and the others' whoops when he tells them to get a hot meal from the tavern make up for any misgivings he may have left.)

"Gandalf!" one man hails, his green cloak billowing behind him as he hurries up to Gandalf, Thorin, and Bilbo—the remnants of the Company, for the rest have already abandoned them for the Prancing Pony. "Are you planning to stay long? We could greatly use your help."

"I'm afraid not," Gandalf says, though his thick eyebrows are steadily rising as he looks the rather disheveled Ranger up and down. "I have pressing business in Rivendell. What seems to be the problem?"

"Damn," the man says under his breath, turning to Thorin with even less hope in his eyes. "And I suppose the dwarves at the inn are with you?"

"Aye," he says, raising an eyebrow as well. "We are only passing through."

The Ranger sighs, pushes his hood back, and runs a hand through his light hair distractedly. "We have reports of orcs in unusual numbers to the southeast—we've been wanting to bolster our ranks in that area for some time, beside, but there have been rumors of Uruk sightings as well, which worries us greatly."

"Uruks?" Bilbo squeaks from behind them, and the Ranger blinks, clearly not realizing a hobbit was with them.

"Nothing for your people to concern yourselves with," the Ranger says quickly, trying to appease. But as Thorin turns and catches sight of Bilbo's face, he realizes that though the Ranger interpreted his alarm as unfamiliarity, Bilbo knows exactly what Uruks are. "You'll be perfectly fine."

Bilbo opens his mouth to argue, looking outraged, but Gandalf cuts him off—"Bilbo, go join the others and get yourself a bite to eat—I'm sure you're famished by now."

The look he sends the wizard is nothing short of scathing, but Bilbo obeys, digging his bare heels into the pony's sides and soon disappearing down the street. Thorin is sure the both of them will be getting an earful later, but for now, he's glad Bilbo has gone, for the Ranger seems willing to speak plainly now.

"We're not sure what they're planning, and they haven't moved far west from Moria yet, but we can't risk anything," the man says quickly, looking almost pleading as he glances between the both of them. "The Shire is utterly undefended but for us—and should they mount an attack, we could never run them off on our own. A wizard, and even a troupe of dwarves, would be welcomed gladly."

"We can't stay," Thorin says, though there's a dark pit growing in his stomach—surely, these orcs are only those who gave chase to the Company last time? Surely, they are planning to travel north and west, to intercept them in the mountains and on the plains?

Surely, this is just something he failed to notice last time due to their hasty trip through Bree?

The man's face is growing grimmer still, and Gandalf is frowning at him and beyond, clearly thinking on something. Thorin hesitates—truly, they cannot tarry here, because Durin's Day grows closer by the moment, and they have little time to spare if they are to be sure of their success. "Listen to me," he says at last, because he cannot leave these men and the hobbits they guard utterly unprotected. "Travel to Ered Luin—ask to speak with Dis. Tell him that Thorin sent you, and tell him the situation. He should be able to send greater numbers of dwarves to help."

He speaks of his sister as male to these outsiders, as is dwarven custom—though she has been named de facto leader of Durin's Folk in Thorin's absence, and her authority is unquestioned, he would be loath to let these men know of the existence of a dwarrowdam in such an exposed position of power. He loves his sister far too much for that.

(It's not as if they'll realize she's female, after all.)

The man blinks at him, relief flooding his face as he runs a hand through his hair again. "I'll send riders out today," he says, nodding quickly. "Do you have any idea of how many he might be able to muster?"

"A few hundred on such short notice," Thorin says, because the city guard and some soldiers will wish to stay behind—leaving their women and children behind undefended when there are Uruks about is out of the question. But there are plenty warriors to spare among his people and those native to the mountains, and their dealings with the hobbits have never been anything but kind. Even if Dis did not trust his judgment as much as she did, the people would not be opposed to defending the Shire.

The man's face transforms in relief; he clearly wasn't expecting such a large number. "You have my thanks," he says, and the heartfelt words betray how desperate the situation seems to be. Thorin frowns, even as Gandalf says—

"If the situation grows worse, send word to Rivendell. You know Lord Elrond will send his guard, though I do not know how much help they would be, so far away as they are."

"We will," he says, casting about for one of his comrades to send word. "You both have my thanks—this may be nothing, but it's not a risk we're willing to take. The orcs have been quiet for years, so why they would resurface now is just…"

He shakes his head before hurrying away down the street, toward a cluster of his fellow Rangers. Thorin frowns after him, his teeth clenching, even as he sees Gandalf turn toward him with a similar frown on his face.

"I do not recall this happening," he says before the wizard can say anything, and Gandalf's frown deepens further as Thorin nudges his pony into motion. "We did not stop in Bree, but there were certainly not so many Rangers about."

"And the orcs?" Gandalf presses, his hands tightening on the horse's reins as he keeps pace. "Surely, something like that you would notice?"

"There were orcs about, of course there were," Thorin snaps. "We were chased across all of Middle Earth by Azog the Defiler. But that was past the Trollshaws, and those monsters come from Gundabad, not Khazad-dûm."

"And Uruks are found only in Mordor," Gandalf muses; Thorin's gut twists at the mention of that horrific place. "This is strange indeed, and not something I wish to hear…especially now. I only hope that we are not too late in reclaiming your mountain as a stronghold of the North."

"Nor I," Thorin says. The battle was surely a turning point in the politics and defenses of the north and the east… But though there were countless Gundabad and Moria orcs, and goblins from the Misty Mountains, he did not recall seeing any creatures that hailed from Mordor. Unsettling isn't nearly a strong enough word for what he feels right now. "What are we to do?"

"We can do nothing for now," Gandalf says heavily as they reach the inn, tethering their ponies and stepping toward the door. "Though I am a wizard, and you a king, we have our own duties to attend to. If it is true that orcs and Uruk-hai are massing, then we need more than ever to strike Smaug from his throne in Erebor."

"Aye," Thorin says, though he does not like it one bit, leaving this peaceful country to the whims of the men and the elves. Dis, at least, will send enough help to defend them.

(It will be enough. It has to be enough.)

(He will not let these people burn as his did, so many years ago in hellfire and nightmares.)

Chapter Text

The crowd in the Prancing Pony is large and overwhelming and tall, and Bilbo can only fume as he walks in and wades through the men, looking for the rest of the dwarves. Gandalf telling him to leave when that Ranger was talking about Uruks on the move—how does he expect him to be calm? Bilbo may be a hobbit, but he did plenty of reading in Elrond's library in his old age—Uruks are abominations, and they haven't been seen this far from Mordor—well—ever.

And Bilbo was sent away from the discussion like a child being sent to bed.

This is his home—if there are Uruks about, then every hobbit in the Shire may be in danger, and he demands to be treated like an equal participant in such discussions. He finally runs into a bemused Fíli during his fuming; the dwarf is cheerful as ever, carrying half a dozen pints of ale back to a large table, but he slows as he catches sight of Bilbo's face, turning in concern. "Why the long face, Master Baggins? One of these ales is for you, you know."

Bilbo could say nothing, or lie. He's sure Thorin would like to tell the rest of them himself—or not at all—about the orc problem. But he is angry, and maybe a little petty, and so he sighs and says, "Our dear wizard saw fit to send me away from a conversation like I was a fauntling, all because the Ranger didn't want to talk about orcs in front of me."

"Orcs?" Fíli's brows rise as he stares down at Bilbo. "Are there orcs about?"

"So he claimed, at least before he spotted me behind Thorin," he grumps, taking a seat between Fíli and Nori and grabbing an ale for himself. "I suppose hobbits are too soft for such talk, even if it's our homeland they're speaking of. What do we know, anyway? They'd better leave defense to every race but our own."

"They think they're going to attack the Shire?" Glóin asks from across the table, butting into the conversation and causing his brother to turn curiously. "What would they gain from doing that? Your people aren't wanting for much, but I doubt there's much gold to be found here."

"I have no idea," Bilbo scowls. "I could probably tell you if Gandalf hadn't forced me to leave."

"We can bother him when they arrive," Fíli promises earnestly, slapping him on the back and nearly knocking him off the bench. "And anyhow, I'm sure it's nothing—they might just be heading for Gundabad, or—Moria." He says the Common-Tongue name at Dwalin's quick glare, and Bilbo stifles an exasperated laugh. Dwarves and their infuriating secrecy.

"I certainly hope so," he says in reply, and Fili smiles encouragingly before turning to his brother to strike up a conversation with him instead.

The food comes out in good time, especially for a party of fifteen—and still Gandalf and Thorin have not arrived. Bilbo digs into his dinner hungrily ("We weren't sure what you'd like," Kíli explained earnestly, "but I hope you don't mind pork!") as he listens to the varied conversations around them. The dwarves seem willing enough to let them join in—they're far more open and friendly than they were the last time, and Bilbo has to wonder whether that has to do with his own openness or Thorin setting a better example, this time—but for the most part, he's content simply to sit and stew.

Gandalf…he had better have a good explanation when the two of them finally show up.

It's only minutes later that Gandalf's tall form finally arrives, followed closely by Thorin—the both of them sit near the end of the table, next to Balin and Dwalin, and soon the four of them are deep in serious conversation. Balin's brows are soon furrowed, and he glances toward Bilbo every so often with concern clear on his face.

Bilbo has had enough; he polishes off the last of the food on his plate and pushes himself up from the table. Nori catches his eye and shoots a quick, toothy grin, clearly anticipating the shouting match as entertainment—but Bilbo, of course, would prefer to simply get the information and give the wizard a proper dressing down, if necessary. Hobbits tend not to be confrontational, at least in public—and while he's angry with Gandalf for sending him away, he'll resolve this quietly, if he can.

Thorin looks up as he approaches the end of the table, raising an eyebrow at the look on his face, but Bilbo hones in directly on the wizard—"So, Gandalf, would you care to fill me in on what the Ranger had to say?"

"Nothing concrete, to be sure," Gandalf says dismissively, and Bilbo bristles. "There is orc movement to the southeast, and the Rangers would like to strengthen the borders of the Shire, if possible. Thorin has sent word to his sister to send assistance—but in all likelihood, it is nothing at all."

"So why did you send me away?" he challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best to look taller—even though, seated, Gandalf still has a few inches on him. "If it's nothing, why didn't you wish to discuss it in front of me?"

"I had no qualms with it," Gandalf says immediately. "The Rangers, on the other hand, have a rather sheltered view of your race; it was clear he would say nothing of importance with you there."

Bilbo sighs explosively, rolling his eyes, and Balin puts out a calming hand. "The Lady Dís will send fighters to protect your country," he says with a bracing smile. "Even if it is nothing, a few hundred dwarven warriors will certainly appease the Rangers—and, well, if anything does happen, the Shire should be very glad indeed to have them."

Bilbo half-shrugs; he thinks it's more likely his fellow hobbits will treat the dwarves with frosty hospitality until forced to think otherwise. "But what are orcs doing in this area?" he presses, looking back up to Thorin and the wizard. "It's been—it's been decades since they were any danger to the Shire, why would they move now?"

"We can only guess," Thorin says gruffly, looking away. "Perhaps they have heard the same rumors of Smaug, and plan to take Erebor for themselves. In any case, your people will be kept safe."

But Bilbo—he can't bring up the pressing topic on his mind, the obvious point that though there was orc activity the last time around, they never posed any sort of threat to the Shire. Something is—different, more dangerous than he remembers, and though he does not remember enough details of the orcs' movements, eighty years ago (and anyhow, has no way of discussing it with them), this is…this is not the same at all.

"I don't appreciate being treated like a child," he says, a bit harshly, to Gandalf, who inclines his head; Bilbo can see a smile playing at his lips.

"We will certainly keep that in mind, the next time Big Folk need to have a discussion."

He knows his old friend is jesting and yet it still rankles; Bilbo only huffs and turns away, reclaiming his seat next to Fíli. Nori leans over (though Glóin turns, interested, as well) and asks, "So what's that about? Sorry not to hear any shouting, could have provided us with a mite of entertainment!"

"Not every race is as loud as yours," he says, though his scowl lessens as he sees Nori's flippant grin. He never knew the dwarf well, last time, though he often made cracks about being replaced as the resident thief. This time, however, he plans to make a point of befriending them all. "But they have no answers as to what the orcs are doing—so now we can do nothing but wait."

"Aye, that's a nasty predicament," Glóin says, sympathy painted on his face. "But like I said, I doubt orcs have much use for the Shire—more like than not, they're planning to head north."

Bilbo wants to believe it; he really does. But why did they not notice this the last time—why were they not stopped on their first trip through Bree? Surely, if orcs were massing in such numbers, they would have heard similar rumors of planned destruction?

His stomach churns at the thought that his beloved country could be razed just as it was in the great War, and he feels sudden, great thanks to Thorin swelling in his chest that he immediately sent to his kin for help. Even if it is nothing (and he sincerely hopes that is the case), he will be able to rest easy, knowing that even if—gods forbid—orcs and Uruks come down upon the Shire, his friends and neighbors and relatives will not be unprotected.

Dinner is a lively affair, as are most endeavors with a troupe of dwarves, and Bilbo is already quite exhausted from the day of riding as the sun begins to set. He excuses himself to the room he shares with Bifur and his cousins as soon as possible, curling up on his half of one bed and staring at the dim light offered by the candle on his worn bedside table. He knows he needs to think these things through—what he is going to do with the Ring (and how he will convince Gandalf to allow him to carry it to Mordor, for he is the only one who can) in order to prevent that awful war from ever spreading across Middle Earth. But, more immediately, he needs to determine what he is to do with Thorin.

He cannot deny the strangeness of the dwarf's mannerisms, not after a week of traveling with him and seeing exactly how tactful and even courteous he can now be. Even after he won the dwarf's favor, years and years ago, he has never known Thorin Oakenshield to be welcoming to outsiders or understanding of foreign cultures.

He, Bilbo has been given this second chance—and now he is almost certain that Thorin has as well.

It nags at him, in the back of his mind, that he should be up-front with the dwarves and with Gandalf about his knowledge and motivations. But at the same time, he knows his oldest friend could not be trusted to see the quest through when such greater things were at stake; and he remembers harshly, even eighty years on, the madness in his friends' eyes as they looked out upon the liberated treasure of their fathers.

Most of them were able to keep a handle on their greed, of course—most did not succumb to the dragon's curse. But Thorin—greatest and most powerful of the Company—was not, and Bilbo shudders to think of what might happen should Thorin go mad for a different kind of gold...one with a spell more powerful than any dragon's.

He wants to tell Thorin and Balin and Bofur and all the rest but he cannot—and he only smiles wanly at Bifur as he comes into the room and lies down on the other side of the bed, grinning a bit at Bilbo before falling asleep within minutes. He needs to trust these dwarves implicitly if they are to survive the quest—and he does—but he does not think he trusts the minds of some of his dearest friends to hold fast against one of the darkest beings to ever exist.

Bofur and Bombur come into the room soon after, and Bilbo's mind is soon full only of Bombur's snores—but he cannot sleep for long hours despite his exhaustion, because despite his decision, despite the fact that he knows it to be the best he can make, he can't help but think that he should be able to trust his friends more than this.

.

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.

Thorin has been on the road with his Company for several weeks now—nearing a month—and though he is loath to admit it (because he cannot let himself become complacent when the stakes are so high), he finds himself taking comfort in the routine of the road again.

Bofur, ever talented with his clarinet (and, when that's impractical, his impressive tenor), leads the Company in increasingly raunchy songs—often, Fíli and Kíli join in enthusiastically, and Thorin can see the exasperation growing across Dwalin's face with each passing day. Óin is grumpy, as always, but readily engages in lecturing anyone's ear off who even vaguely pretends to listen—and is absolutely delighted, one day, when Bilbo seems honestly curious about the uses of different herbs in medicine.

Thorin had been leery of allowing Ori to come along, the first time—though any brave souls willing to take on a dragon are of course more than welcome, he is very young—scarce decades older than his nephews—with no ties to the throne. But Dori had been a welcome addition, with his strength and impressive intimidation tactics, and Nori had bullied himself in as well; Thorin supposed that he couldn't exactly let the youngest brother fend for himself in Ered Luin.

He worried for Ori when he signed the contract, for he, even now, has no weapon beside the slingshot tucked snugly at his hip; he has even less worldly experience than Fíli and Kíli, young as they are. But Ori has not uttered a word of complaint since the journey started, even when Óin often complained of roots under his bedroll, and Bofur has poked fun at his brother for not mixing up their menu while they have the chance.

Thorin remembers the way Ori hefted a battlehammer alongside the rest just before the final battle, all those weeks ago, and knows to rebuke his nephews' good-natured heckling, because Ori is just as worthy of being here as anyone else.

Currently, the young dwarf is conversing seriously with Bifur, speaking in Common and watching the other's hands closely as he signs in Iglishmêk before scribbling something down in his notebook. Perhaps he isn't fluent in Khuzdul, Thorin wonders vaguely, for Bifur speaks their secretive language fluently, if perhaps with a bit of a slur. That's something he should investigate, when he gets the time—not to scold the dwarf and his brothers, but to ask if he would like to learn. After all, he realized long ago that not all of the dwarves in Middle Earth—even the dwarves of Erebor—came from nearly as opportune means as he and his kin.

He is riding near the front of the group, as always, currently in discussion with Balin about whether to stop in Rivendell. Ostensibly, of course, they need the moon runes translated, and Elrond is the only one who can do it; but Thorin already knows what they say and where the secret door is, and he is loath to waste precious time in the lands of elves when they have a deadline on their journey. Even, perhaps, a more deadly limit than before, if the Rangers' predictions of the orcs' movements are true—after all, if they truly are moving upon the Shire, Ered Luin would be the next to be attacked, should the hobbits fall.

They must reach Erebor to find safety and haven for their people, but Balin questions the wisdom of skipping over one of the oldest beings in the land who can do what even Gandalf cannot. Thorin, of course, cannot tell his oldest friend what he knows without inciting further questions he has no interest in answering; though Dwalin has joined in support of Thorin, and Gandalf has thrown in his two cents ("I have pressing business with Lord Elrond," which really explains nothing at all, but Thorin has long learned to only roll his eyes at the wizard rather than argue), it's still unclear as to whether they will darken Rivendell's doorstep once again.

But before they reach the Last Homely House, Thorin knows, they have more important matters to take care of—because the destroyed farmhouse they come upon one day as the sun sets reminds him harshly of what is lurking in wait for them (and the ponies) in these woods.

"Gandalf, a word," he says, doing his best to sound like he wishes a private continuation of the Rivendell discussion, though he does not miss the look Balin sends him as the wizard levers himself up by his staff, following Thorin a ways away from the camp.

"There are trolls in this area," he says in a low voice, ensuring there's no way anyone could overhear. "They nearly ate our ponies—and us, had you not decided to reappear at the most opportune moment."

"I would never leave you to the mercy of trolls," Gandalf says, rather indignantly, though he seems to realize the significance of this as he watches Fíli and Kíli corralling the ponies to lead them into the trees. "They are dangerous, then?"

"Mountain trolls from the north," Thorin confirms, crossing his arms over his chest. "While we could simply avoid them, they also have a hoard of treasure I'd like to recover before we move on."

"You are interested in a troll's hoard?" Gandalf says, sounding rather taken aback. "Only rarely do they have anything of value, especially by a dwarf's standards!"

"You and I both found new swords in that cave," he says stoutly, because he has missed the comforting weight of Orcrist strapped across his back, these past months, since Thranduil stole it away. "As well as Master Baggins."

Gandalf considers him, a little frown on his face. "Even I would have trouble subduing mountain trolls in the middle of the night," he says eventually. "It would be best to raid their cave while they are gone and then collapse the entrance so they are not able to hide from the sunlight, if you are so set on recovering these swords."

Thorin nods sharply; he was thinking along the same lines. The trolls have already killed the family who lived here—it would be best to ensure they do not take any more lives. "I will alert the others," he says, turning back toward the camp, and doesn't look around to ensure Gandalf follows.

"Fíli, Kíli," he calls over the general ruckus, and his nephews turn curiously, tilting their heads. "The wizard says there are mountain trolls about these parts—be on your guard. If we lose any of the ponies, it will be on your heads."

He has no idea what the boys were doing, last time, that they did not hear a troll stealing four of their ponies, but it does not matter so much, anymore—so long as it doesn't happen again. "We'll be careful, Uncle," Kíli grins at him, though he seems to take the warning seriously—and the suddenly worried look on his brother's face promises Thorin that one of them, at least, will be on their guard the entire time.

He navigates the chaotic camp, sidestepping Bombur and his large cooking fire—Nori as he lays out his bedroll. Thorin steps toward Dwalin, planning to set out his things, stretch himself out from the hours on a pony's back, and wait for dinner to be ready. But Bilbo is also nearby, talking with Glóin animatedly, and Thorin leans a bit closer to listen—

"Yes, hobbits usually have very large families," he is saying; a few of the others—Ori and Bofur, specifically—are stepping a bit closer, interested in the conversation. "I was my parents' only child, which is uncommon—usually, hobbit families usually include at least four children."

"Four children!" Glóin says in astonishment, his eyes wide. "Mizim and I were blessed to have our Gimli—many dwarves don't have children at all!"

Bilbo clearly stifles a smile at the mention of Glóin's son, and Thorin is confused for a moment at what he takes to be familiarity—before he realizes that his cousin has likely talked Bilbo's ear off half a dozen times already about his spitfire of a boy. After all, even if Bilbo has lived twice, what reason would he have for meeting Gimli?

"Just another difference between dwarves and hobbits, I suppose," Bilbo says, that same amused look on his face. "My mother had ten siblings—most went on some adventure or another, too. Hobson was more surprised than he should have been that I was leaving the Shire—my mother did quite a lot of traveling before she settled down in Hobbiton!"

"Ten siblings?" Bofur asks, rather faintly, and Bilbo laughs outright at the look on his face. Even Thorin cannot quite mask his shock—he has known that Hobbits were much more...proliferative, of course, through his dealings with the smaller race, but he had never known that families so large were even possible.

"More children means more hands to help in the family trade," Bilbo says with a shrug. "Farmers have more help in the fields, weavers can produce more clothes to sell—it's useful, if nothing else. But we hobbits have a great fondness of fauntlings, too."

Dwarves, of course, treasure their children—if only because they are so few—but Thorin finds that he can think of nothing to say to the hobbit's explanation of his own race, because it is so strange. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Thorin," Bilbo says with a frown, not so much malice as exasperation on his face.

"I had no idea your families could grow to be so large," Thorin says simply, after a moment—making a concerted effort to mold his face into something more typical. "My parents' three children was heralded as a blessing—I don't think I've ever known any families to be larger."

"You have two siblings?" Here, Bilbo's brows shoot up in surprise; he stares at Thorin curiously, even as Dwalin gives him a strange look for his openness. Thorin only rarely speaks of his brother—and, after all, dwarves are reluctant to mention their scarce dwarrowdams unless necessary.

"Once, yes," Thorin says simply with a small shrug to Dwalin. After all, even though the others have not seen Bilbo save them all from perils on a deadly journey, they have surely seen his mettle and strength in this month on the road, helping out wherever necessary with jobs the others would rather leave alone. Surely, even if that does not convince them all of his trustworthiness, it will convince them that he is not the dead weight that so many of them have feared? That this may be the beginnings to friendship and even trust?

"Oh," Bilbo says, immediately realizing what he means—Thorin knows Bilbo is sharp, and likely knows the war-ridden history of Thorin's line, to boot. He says nothing more on the subject, dropping it in favor of regaling Ori—at his behest—with his mother's escapades when she was younger.

Thorin cannot help but be grateful—after all, he has no reason to lie about his family to a hobbit he would easily trust with his life, but speaking of Frerin brings back long-repressed memories of blood and ash and mourning, and speaking openly of Dís would bring up difficult questions from the others. After all, though he knows Bilbo to be trustworthy beyond any doubt, the others know him only as a surprisingly accepting outsider who has agreed to stare death in the face for people he has barely met. Though they respect that, and appreciate him all the more for his friendliness and his easy manner, they surely would not trust him with their lives—nor with their most precious secrets.

He is ready to roll out his bedroll when there is the sound of someone pounding through the trees toward their camp; Thorin is on his feet again, reaching for his axe, though he knows the noise is not nearly enough to be made by trolls. Sure enough, Kíli bursts into the campsite, his face bloodless, and he seeks out Gandalf immediately; the mirth is entirely gone from his face as he says—

"You were right, there are trolls, three of them! Fíli is trying to get the ponies to safety, but they're huge, there's no way the two of us could have fought them on our own!"

There's no way the fifteen of them could fight them, Thorin knows, but Kíli is alarmed, worried for both his brother and the ponies, and so he steps forward quickly. "Where are they?" he asks, his voice tense, and Kíli turns to him.

"Maybe five hundred yards into the trees—we heard one of them crashing around, looking for food, we think. We hadn't let the ponies loose yet, but some of them got spooked, so—"

Thorin nods, glancing around the camp to the others, who are looking toward them with wide eyes. "Bifur, Nori, go help with the ponies," he says quickly, and the two of them nod, running off quickly into the trees. "Gandalf, what can we do about the trolls?"

"Not much," Gandalf says gravely, glancing amongst the grey-faced dwarves—and Bilbo, who looks only a bit alarmed by the announcement. "We can hope they do not come back to this place in search of food, and we can attempt to find the cave they stay in during the day to collapse it. Sunlight is the easiest way to kill them, though it will not happen for several hours more."

"A cave?" Glóin asks, raising his eyebrows—he has ever a mind for gold, Thorin knows, and he knows what his cousin is going to ask before it leaves his mouth-"They might have treasure hoarded in there, right?"

Gandalf hesitates, glancing around the clearing—and as Thorin does as well, he can see that many of the others' faces have lit up in interest. "Indeed," Gandalf says eventually. "But you will have to decide whether it is worth the risk, if the trolls decide to come back early. If it comes down to it, it will be a messy fight."

Glóin blinks at the wizard before glancing around to the others, gauging their interest. "Why not?" Bofur asks, an excited grin spreading across his face. "A bit of gold to tide us over to Erebor won't hurt us, aye?"

Dwalin, to Thorin's relief, is nodding his agreement. "We can send the burglar in," he suggests, turning to Bilbo expectantly. "If he can't stand his own against an empty troll hoard, how can we expect him to outsmart a dragon? Best to test him now, and send him home if—"

"Fine," Bilbo says, glaring at Dwalin for the slight, even as Thorin opens his mouth angrily to rebuke his friend's ridiculous idea. "But you can't expect me to carry an entire troll hoard by myself—I'm just a hobbit, and not a very strong one, to boot."

"Dori and I will join you," Thorin says, and looks gratefully to the other dwarf as he nods immediately. Dwalin frowns at him for putting himself in such danger, but Thorin knows that he needs to find Orcrist, Glamdring...and Bilbo's little sword, Sting. Even if Bilbo has lived this before, he did not once enter the trolls' cave, and so will not know where to look. "Gandalf, do you have any idea where it might be?"

Fíli, Bifur, and Nori come into the clearing while the rest are deep in discussion of a plan of attack; they are sweaty and out of breath, but they lead sixteen ponies and a horse behind them. Thorin nods his thanks to them, claps Fíli on the shoulder for a job well done, and turns back to the wizard, who has already decided to lead a small group through the woods in search of the cave.

"Kili will be most useful in the trees," he is saying, even as Fíli turns with a frown, wondering what's happening. "Anyone else agile enough to climb can give advance warning if the trolls decide to come back early—" He nods tersely to Nori as he steps forward, interested—"and the rest of us can wait, ready to fight, in case they do."

It's not a foolproof plan, for sure, but Thorin cannot think of a better one—so he nods his agreement, steps forward with Dori and Bilbo, and leads the rest into the trees. Gandalf huffs at having his authority usurped, but stamps his staff on the ground and follows behind.

They give a wide berth to where Kíli claims the trolls are cooking, instead scouting the nearby areas as quietly as they can manage. With night quickly setting in about the thick, towering pines, Thorin can tell that Bilbo and even Gandalf are having some difficulty seeing—and even the dwarves, with their better dark-vision, are worried they will miss the cave for sheer bad luck as they scour the woods.

Eventually, someone gives the designated bird call, several feet to Thorin's right; he turns expectantly with Balin (for they have split into pairs to cover more ground), hurrying forward to see Bofur and Bombur standing proudly before a familiar cave, carved out of a large hill. It's dark and easily missed, but it's unmistakably the cave that holds their swords—and so Thorin gives the two of them a rare smile (Bofur's face lights up, and Bombur grins back broadly) before collecting Dori and a rather disoriented Bilbo, reminding the others to stay out of sight of the clearing. "We'll hoot twice like a screech owl if anything's coming," Kíli reminds them, already comfortably halfway up a tree, completely out of sight but with his bow surely at the ready, and Thorin nods to the rest of them, takes a newly-lit torch from Gandalf, and leads Dori and Bilbo down into the cave.

The stench is powerful, worse than he remembers—and the hobbit gags terribly behind him as they traverse their way through bones picked clean and gnawed upon; chests that, when opened, reveal nothing but cobwebs and spiders; racks of old, rusting armor that is now no use to anyone.

Thorin bids Dori and Bilbo begin searching for gold as soon as he can reasonably say the rack of swords in the back has caught his eye; the cave is nearly pitch-black but for his flickering torchlight, and he sets it aside carefully, giving the other two the much-needed illumination as he begins sifting through the weapons before him.

It takes a moment, pushing aside worthless, rusted man-made swords and axes, but then he sees Orcrist—gleaming an inexplicable bright white in the dim lighting—and Glamdring close by. They're both covered in cobwebs, and Thorin has to take care not to nick his fingers on the sharp, rusted edges of the rack as he pulls them both free, blowing dust off the blades gently as he ensures they are the right weapons.

Yes; Orcrist fits naturally in his grip as if it were always meant to be there; Glamdring is long—too long to be practical for a dwarf, but perfect for a man-sized wizard—and stately, and he remembers the blade clearly though it has been months since he last saw it.

He turns triumphantly, ready to tell Dori and Bilbo to take what they can carry so they can get out of here and breath badly-needed fresh air, when Bilbo stands abruptly, a soft cry on his lips as he pulls something from the ground.

It's his little sword—a letter-opener, Balin called it, and he can't help but admit the truth of such a statement when the dagger fits a hobbit's hands perfectly. It would be nothing more than a knife to a wizard, elf, or man, but for a hobbit, it is the perfect size—and Thorin nods approvingly even as Dori barks a laugh at the sight.

"A sword for your stature, Master Baggins! You're becoming more dwarf-like by the day!"

"I don't have a beard, yet," Bilbo says, smiling a bit even as he rummages around on the filthy floor for a moment longer, retrieving the belt and sheath it is attached to, securing it to his waist. "I've gotten the impression you can't be a proper dwarf without a proper beard, right?"

Dori laughs again, hefting a large chest into his strong arms as he glances to Thorin—sees one over-long sword in his hands and another strapped across his back—and raises an eyebrow. "Are you ready to go?"

"Aye," Thorin says, nodding to the sword. "This one seems fit for Gandalf—and it would be a shame to leave such craftsmanship to rot here."

Dori shrugs (difficult, with the load he carries) as he turns with Bilbo toward the entrance. But there is the sound of a screech owl hooting from outside—short and sharp and desperate, twice in quick succession—and then again, and Thorin's face drains as he urges them to hurry up the slope to the outside, for if the trolls are returning—

The bird call comes again, more insistent than ever, and they are nearly at the top of the steep incline when the faint view of the stars and trees is blocked by something huge, hulking, and alive. Thorin swears, sees no way around the troll to the clearing unless they want to attempt sprinting between its enormous legs—but then the troll sees them, and its grotesque face twists in confusion.

"'Ey, wot are you doin' 'ere—?"

Dori drops the chest to his side, pushes it down the incline with a foot, and snatches Glamdring from Thorin's grasp. He stumbles at the weight and the balance for a moment, clearly unused to such a weapon, but his flail and short sword are unlikely to be of any help, here. Bilbo, too, draws his little sword with shaking hands, and holds it nearly straight before him; as Thorin draws Orcrist from its sheath, he can only hope that Gandalf is nearby and recognizes their predicament, because two dwarves and a hobbit will be killed in seconds by an angry mountain troll.

"That's mine!" the troll roars as he sees the blades glinting in the dim light of the torch, tossed to the side in favor of survival. "'Ow dare you—"

He takes a menacing step forward, and Bilbo takes a quick one back—but then the troll roars in fury, turning away from the entrance to the cave for a moment; Thorin sees a flash of fire shooting out of Kili's tree, and then a second flaming arrow bounces off the troll's thick hide.

It accomplished what Kíli intended, though, for now that the troll has turned, the next arrow finds its mark in its eye. The troll's roars increase in volume, and Thorin barely has a moment to worry that it might attract its fellows before he takes the opportunity; the troll is distracted, turned away from them and beginning to stumble toward the trees, and so Thorin grabs a hold of Bilbo's shoulder and runs.

They enter the clearing at the same time as the rest of the Company, their war cries drowned out by the troll's continued bellowing as they hack at his knees and ankles, anywhere they can reach. Thorin sees Gandalf in the mix, too, his sword whirling and his staff occasionally emitting blasts of light to momentarily blind the troll.

Another of Kíli's flaming arrows finds its mark in the other eye, and as Thorin jumps out of the way of a flailing arm, he wonders wildly whether they will actually survive this encounter—

But in the mayhem, they have missed the sounds of the other two trolls, come to investigate their fellow's distress—and then there are three monstrosities in the too-small clearing, two able-bodied, and the third so enraged at his blindness that he simply flings his limbs in every direction—

Bifur cries out as Bofur is knocked clear across the area into a tree and slumps to the ground, motionless; Thorin swears under his breath, looks desperately to a grim-faced Gandalf, but daylight is hours away; the dawn will not save them now.

Thorin narrowly dodges a grasping hand from the biggest troll, slashes at its exposed palm, and prays to Mahal that they will not die this night for his own narrow-mindedness and greed—

Ori is snatched off the ground, and Nori makes a horrifying noise as he smashes his mace into the troll's shin with all his strength, but the troll does not drop his brother; Ori is struggling, yet, so he has not been crushed, but the troll looks so angry that he appears ready to simply swallow him in one gulp—

Thorin roars, converging on the troll to help along with Dori and Glóin, but he knows it is beyond hopeless—Ori, who saw the end of the quest, last time (and even the end of the battle, if his greying, hazy memories of that medical tent are any indication), will be dead at the hands of a troll, barely a month into the journey; Bofur has not yet re-joined the fray, and there is no way for them to ascertain his condition. Thorin is desperate, and he is angry, and there is no way, he thinks, that the quest could go so badly so early on when he has been doing his best to ensure that everyone makes it out alive—

Suddenly, his vision fills with white. Thorin wonders whether he has been hit on the head and died, or whether Gandalf has one last trick up his old, tattered sleeve that will get them out of this (mostly) in one piece, but—

But his eyes take several moments to adjust, and he blinks around owlishly, his reflexes still on high alert because there are three mountain trolls in this clearing, but—

There are two more bright flashes, around the clearing, and though the rest of the Company is staring around in similar, half-blind confusion, the trolls have stopped moving—they seem to be solidifying, in fact, and—

It is the middle of the night but the trolls have turned to stone, and Thorin can find no explanation for this as he seeks out Gandalf, wondering desperately what is going on—if the wizard had such an ability, why did he not use it at the start of the battle, spare Bofur and Ori—?

But Gandalf looks just as confused as the rest of them—his staff is yet held defensively before him, his sharp gaze flitting about the darkened clearing as the last of the light fades away. "Show yourself!" he bellows, and many of the dwarves raise their weapons warily, but a deep voice only laughs from the trees.

"Gandalf, you would threaten me?"

Thorin does not let his guard down as the figure reveals himself, but he can tell quickly that he is man-sized, tall for his kind. He has long white hair, a beard better-trimmed than Gandalf's, and bright white robes that seem illuminated, even in this darkness.

He only realizes exactly what he is when his eyes fall upon the ornately carved staff he holds at his side.

He glances to Gandalf, unwilling to drop his defense until he has confirmation that the wizard before them is not a threat. But Gandalf has relaxed, his face even splitting into a smile; he sheathes his sword, and stumps his staff upon the ground before stepping forward. "Saruman!" he says, and embraces the other wizard. Thorin gets a good look at Saruman's hands as they gingerly encircle Gandalf's shoulders—they are gnarled, the fingernails blackened by dirt, and they seem quite at odds with the stately, pristine appearance of the rest of his body. "You came right in the nick of time, old friend!"

Bifur and Bombur are looking warily between Saruman and Thorin; when Thorin nods at them, they drop their weapons, dashing instead toward Bofur, who is yet crumpled against a tree. Nori and Dori, meanwhile, are working to get Ori loosened from the troll's stone grasp; they have enlisted Dwalin (the tallest of the Company) to allow them to stand on his shoulders, allowing Nori to reach the troll's high grip and start to wrestle his brother free. Óin has followed Bifur and Bombur, concern on his face; Glóin and Balin stand beside a stone-faced Dwalin, ready to catch Ori should he fall—for they have no way of knowing what injuries the trolls inflicted upon him.

Fíli and Kíli are checking over a furious Bilbo, who waves them off, swearing he's fine. Thorin is amazed at this, that the hobbit managed to get out of this nasty battle unscathed. After all, he was the one who was captured by the trolls, the last time—and with his limited swordplay skills (the fact that he has had any at all is news to Thorin), he had tried to keep an eye on the Company's smallest member, ensuring he was safe. He knows he was not the only one; Dwalin is glancing over there often, well-concealed worry on his face, despite having two heavy dwarves stacked upon his shoulders; even Ori waves off Nori's worried questions as he works at the stone hand, calling down to Bilbo and asking if he is all right.

It's clear that he is, at least physically, but the fury on his face is honestly surprising. After all, though the trolls were terrifying, the battle is over now—surely, Bilbo would not be working so hard at being angry, shoving Kili's well-meaning hands away at last and stalking off, sitting on the other end of camp from the wizards, staring down at his new sword.

Thorin hesitates—as the leader of the Company, he should probably go speak with this wizard Saruman and give him thanks for saving their lives. However, he also has a great obligation to his comrades, for Ori is still half-stuck in the troll's grasp (and he's sure that either wizard could break him free with half a thought, should they decide to help), and though Bofur seems to be stirring feebly, Óin is still crouched over him, worry obvious in his posture. Bilbo has anger on his face the likes of which Thorin has never seen there—and so he hesitates before stepping toward their hobbit, sitting down on the ground beside him.

"Is everything all right, Master Baggins?" he asks in an undertone, aware of several other eyes on them both.

Bilbo huffs, seems to think on what to say for a moment. "I'm fine, before you ask," he says at length, glancing up to Thorin sharply.

"So I gathered," Thorin says, his tone dry, and Bilbo huffs before looking down again.

"I don't trust the wizard," Bilbo says bluntly after several moments of silence, where Thorin's limited patience was starting to wear thin. "Saruman."

He spits the name with the same venom that Thorin does Thranduil's, and he wonders at that—because he has never known any wizard but Gandalf to take an interest in hobbits. How would Bilbo even know of his existence? "Why?" he asks after a moment, rather at a loss. "He just saved us all from certain death—I think that deserves at least a gesture of thanks."

Bilbo is silent for several moments more, looking between his sword and Thorin, then glancing out toward the Company. "He just rubs me the wrong way," he says eventually, though the look in his eye tells Thorin that this is not the case at all. "If you're smart, don't tell him anything of your quest. Better yet, don't talk to him at all."

Thorin can see the challenge in Bilbo's eyes, clear as day—why would you ever take the time to thank anyone you've just met, closed off and angry as you are? Thorin has no way of answering such things, especially in such crowded company as Fíli and Kíli hover nearby, as Nori finally breaks his brother free—dropping him as gently as possible into Balin's grasp. "He saved our lives," he says again, but dips his head for a moment as he continues, "but I will trust your judgment on this, if you are so sure."

Bilbo considers for another moment with a long, hard look before nodding in thanks.

They sink into a comfortable silence—truth be told, Thorin is not looking forward to speaking with the wizard—he can certainly see where Bilbo is coming from with his dislike of him, but after all, if he meant them ill, why did he not just leave them to die with the trolls? But this peace is soon shattered when Gandalf and Saruman walk toward them purposefully, and Thorin moves to stand, positioning himself very pointedly in front of an irritated Bilbo.

"Gandalf," he says as greeting, looking up at the Grey Wizard though he does not lift his chin. "Is this one of your many 'friends,' then?"

"This is Saruman, leader of my Order," Gandalf says with raised brows, gesturing to the other wizard, who steps forward, looking down his nose at Thorin in a way he does not like at all.

"Why would a small group of dwarves attempt to subdue three mountain trolls?" he asks mildly, though his tone rankles with Thorin, putting his hair on end.

"We decided it would be worthwhile to investigate their hoard," he says tersely, trying and mostly failing to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I thank you for your help in subduing them."

"You would have been dead without my intervention," Saruman says, his thick eyebrows rising. "Even Gandalf does not have the power that I do."

Is this a threat? "I will not say it again," he says, feeling his expression fall in ire, barely keeping himself from crossing his arms even as Gandalf frowns at him.

But Saruman only huffs a laugh, looking easily over Thorin's head to see Bilbo, who is pointedly turned away from the conversation, paying no attention to it whatsoever. "Why would a halfling travel with a group of dwarves?" he wonders aloud, and Thorin can see Bilbo bristle as he reluctantly steps aside.

"The members of my Company are none of your concern," Thorin says after a moment, when it is clear Bilbo has no interest in responding.

"Only idle curiosity," Saruman says, ostensibly taken aback, though his eyes flash in a way Thorin does not like at all. "After all, I rarely see your kind so far from your homeland, Master...?"

"Baggins," Bilbo bites out, still not looking their way—and so he misses the way Saruman's gaze sharpens further. "And it's clear you haven't met with us much at all, if you're still calling us halflings."

"My apologies, Master Baggins," Saruman says immediately, though Thorin thinks he doesn't sound very sorry at all. "I was under the impression hobbits were quite hospitable creatures, but perhaps I was mistaken...?"

"We are exhausted," Thorin says—tries not to snarl—as Gandalf's frown deepens further. "We have been up half the night fighting for our lives, and if you don't mind, I would like to ensure the rest of our companions are recovering."

"Of course," Saruman says immediately, though Gandalf sends Thorin a sharp look that clearly indicates they need to talk later. He disregards it for the moment, gesturing for Bilbo (who jumps to his feet immediately, clearly all too eager to be rid of the wizard) and walking over to Ori and his brothers, who are fretting over the youngest with an intensity that seems overwhelming to Thorin.

It, apparently, is overwhelming to Ori as well—because he shoves them away, complains only of bruised ribs and no, Dori, they don't feel broken, don't you think I would realize the difference? They all turn quickly when Thorin and Bilbo approach, though, and Thorin is relieved to see him doing well—he says as much, and Ori's face falls into an exasperated smile.

"It didn't have time to do anything to me—don't worry about me! Is that wizard to thank, then?"

"Aye," Thorin says, though he makes his mistrust clear in his tone to all who are listening. "We move on to a better camp as soon as he and Gandalf are finished—we should try and get a few hours of sleep before dawn."

(Before—he remembers with a sinking gut—they are chased across the plains by a pack of orcs.)

He does not want to stop for rest at all, truth be told, but it is past midnight—and everyone is very clearly exhausted. They will get half a dozen hours of sleep, hopefully, before the wargs converge on them—and then they will, grudgingly, find haven in Rivendell.

Thorin does not know what to think of this impending meeting, because Gandalf has sent him some very pointed looks in the past week or two that have indicated they have more to discuss. Perhaps Gandalf wants him to consult with the elf lord about his predicament; perhaps he simply wants to keep up the pretense of knowing nothing of the moon runes. Either way, he supposes, the approaching situation does not leave them much of a choice.

He moves to the other small group clustered about Bofur; the dwarf is moving, now, if rather slowly, and he tries for a grin as Thorin (and Bilbo, clearly worried for his friend) come upon his tree. "'M fine," he says, but the slur in his voice rather gives away his grogginess. "Head full o' rocks, as our mother used to say—give me a minute, and I'll be right as rain!"

Thorin is thankful, at least, that Bofur seems to have lost none of his cheer—but he looks to Óin anyway, wanting confirmation. "Aye, he should be fine," Óin agrees, though he frowns a bit at Bofur as he levers himself up. "Took a nasty blow to the head, but he's aware and moving, so that's something. We'll just have to watch him to make sure."

Bombur and Bifur look incredibly relieved at this announcement, though Bofur only laughs, cuffing his cousin about the shoulder clumsily. "I'll be in good company if this is permanent," he grins, even as Bifur frowns at him. "Ol' Bombur will be left out, but he's got too many mouths to feed to knock out the little brains he's got!"

Bombur looks more exasperated than annoyed, and Thorin, realizing Bofur is in good hands, takes a step away. "Treat Saruman with caution," he warns the four of them, as quietly as Óin's failing ears will allow. "He does not need to know anything about this quest, where we are going, or even who we are. I intend to leave him behind as soon as we can."

"He rubs me the wrong way, to be sure," Óin says with a frown, glancing back to where Gandalf and Saruman are still talking. "Glad I'm not the only one."

Thorin nods, also glad he's not alone in this, and turns away back toward Dwalin and the others—his nephews are suggesting loudly that they return to camp to gather their supplies and ponies and sleep before pressing on. Though Thorin wishes they could press on to a new campsite, he recognizes the logistics of moving fifteen people, seventeen beasts of burden, and all of their supplies—by the time they found a new place and set up camp, it would be nearly dawn.

He gives Fíli and Kíli his blessing to begin moving back toward their camp with a newly lit torch (though he'll be damned if he allows Saruman within a hundred yards of where he's planning to sleep), and soon the others are moving out as well. Ori's walking a bit gingerly, favoring a hip and his ribs, but is moving under his own power, and more than once rejects an offer of help from his brothers. Bofur needs to lean on his cousin's shoulder to stay upright, but everyone seems cheered by his relative health—even Bilbo, who follows closely after them, and his face relaxes as Bofur asks with interest whether that's a toothpick or a needle strapped to his hip.

Soon, the clearing is empty but for Thorin and the two wizards, and he is ready to follow his Company to bed—but he will not rest until Gandalf has parted ways from Saruman, until he ensures his company will be under the White Wizard's shadow no longer. Eventually, his glaring seems to pay off—Saruman says he must continue on, for he has pressing business to the north (though Thorin has no idea what that might be), and he nods to Gandalf, sending a long, unreadable look to Thorin before disappearing again into the trees.

"I have never known a Baggins to be ungrateful," Gandalf says, a frown on his face as he turns to Thorin. "Did Bilbo say anything to you? His attitude toward Saruman was very unlike him."

"Only that he doesn't trust him," Thorin says, his tone clipped, for truly, the events of this night are catching up to him. "Nor do I—nor many of the Company."

"He is harsh, to be sure," Gandalf cedes, but Thorin knows Bilbo's mistrust of the wizard goes much deeper than that. "He is on our side in things, though—firmly dedicated to eradicating evil from the world."

"I don't care what he does," Thorin shoots back. "I don't want him knowing my business without my consent."

Gandalf inclines his head. "A reasonable request, I suppose," he says, "though wizards, as you know, have a habit of finding things out on their own. Now, you said there was a sword for me in that hoard, yes?"

Thorin rolls his eyes but casts about for the sword that Dori hastily threw aside as soon as it was clear they were in no danger. The lighting makes it difficult to discern, but eventually he comes upon Glamdring, and retrieves it, carrying it back to the wizard. "Elvish make," Gandalf breathes, glancing up to Thorin before drawing the sword from its sheath, admiring the sheen of the blade. "I see you found one for yourself?"

Thorin nods. "It served me well in the past—Elrond gave his blessing to both of us, and I intend to carry it again. It is a fine blade."

"Indeed," Gandalf hums, considering the blade for a moment longer before fastening the strap about his hip. "Is there anything else I should know? I imagine this is not how things went, the last time."

"Saruman was not here," Thorin says—because this, above all else, is what seems the strangest to him. "Another of your order was here instead—Radagast, I believe you called him. I did not hear your conversation, but he gave you something to bring to Elrond."

"Radagast?" Gandalf asks, taken aback. "He rarely leaves his home in Mirkwood—why would he have traveled so far west?"

Thorin is ready to respond with an irritated retort—after all, he said he did not hear their discussion—but he realizes the question is more for the wizard himself, and so he only crosses his arms across his chest and continues, "Last time, we were chased across the plains by a pack of orcs and wargs, a few hours after daybreak. So if we would like to sleep, we had better do it soon."

Gandalf looks to him in vague concern, but Thorin has nothing more to say to the wizard; he turns and heads off into the trees, eager to find his bedroll and sleep until he is forced to wake again.

.

.

.

.

Ered Luin has been exhausting since Thorin and his Company left, but Dís feels entirely in control of things, nearly a month out from their departure.

Many of the dwarves originally from the Blue Mountains had scoffed at or even mocked her regency, but she had put them in their place early on—she is a daughter of Durin, tried and tested by the wider world that many of them have never been forced into, and if her brother has named her his surrogate, then his surrogate she shall be.

Less than a week after the Company's departure, she had silenced all the dissenters with sharp words and irrefutable, written proof in her brother's hand, and since then, things have been relatively quiet.

There is the buzz of nervous energy surrounding the quest, for though Thorin tried to keep it quiet, rumors spread quickly of the true nature of his journey east: to reclaim their long-lost mountain. The thousands of Erebor's dwarves that did not flee to the Iron Hills or to the south in the wake of the dragon have followed their kings for nearly two centuries, now, and are unflinchingly loyal to their line. Only a few yet have memories of the mountain—but the rumors are wild and far-flung, and more than once, Dís has had to debunk many wild tales of lakes made of gold, rivers flowing with mithril—though she has very few memories of the place, herself.

Ered Luin is abuzz with excitement at the prospect of Erebor reclaimed (though Dís knows, bitterly, that many of the most eager dwarves turned down an offer of joining the Company themselves), and several have already begun preparations for the long journey home, consolidating finances and belongings, purchasing wagons and carts and beasts of burden to carry them across the plains and mountains and forests to Erebor.

Dís is optimistic, of course, that her brother will indeed reclaim their lost homeland—but she is also practical, and she knows that it will likely be wintertime before they hear of the quest's success or failure—if they hear anything at all.

(She tries not to dwell on the very real possibility that her brother and sons—and cousins and friends—will all perish on this journey, due to orcs or goblins or sheer bad luck. Thorin has survived worse than this, she tells herself—and he will protect the others with his final breaths to see them all safely home.)

Running such a large settlement is exhausting, and though she is not so prone to brooding as her ridiculous brother, she finds herself worrying, at nights when their shared home is too cold and quiet—when Fíli's and Kíli's muddy boots have not tracked filth all over the house just after she finished sweeping, when Thorin's deep voice and woody pipesmoke have not filled this house to the brim with life.

Her brother and sons are gone—not to their deaths, surely, but she cannot help but worry when her mind is allowed to wander for too long. She resolves to keep it from such dark thoughts with friends and preparations and hard work, and so she does—throws herself into appeasing the dwarves of Ered Luin at every ridiculous turn, throws herself into dealings with men and hobbits and even the elves who travel to and from the Grey Havens, setting up tentative dealings and trade networks for the months to come when they have reclaimed their home.

There are thousands of dwarves under her protection and thousands more who have no ties to Erebor, and so she cannot know every one of them by name and face—but she thinks one guard who rushes up to her, sweaty and out of breath, a month after her brother and sons left for the Shire, looks familiar. She sets him at ease quickly from his ramrod posture, and he relaxes, removes his helm briefly to push thick brown hair from his eyes, and says, "There's a man at the gates who wishes to speak with you, Lady Dís—he claims he's a Dúnedain Ranger, referred to you as male—and he said King Thorin sent him."

A Ranger? Dís has only had fleeting interactions with the small, nomadic group of humans through her brother, but she has never known them to be troublesome. "Show him to the guardhouse," she says after a moment, already running through what she must change of her appearance to ensure her gender is not revealed. (Not that any man has ever recognized a dwarrowdam as such—but she would prefer that not start now.) "Give him whatever refreshments he needs, see to his mount—I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, ma'am!" And then the young dwarf is off, his spear nearly tripping him up as he hurries out the door and down the street. Dís laughs at him as he disappears, though not maliciously—he reminds her of Kíli, headstrong but more than competent, rather clumsy, but surely a skilled fighter when it matters.

But as she hurries to the washroom with its mirror, as she quickly removes her more feminine adornments and lets down some of her braids, she wonders what in Mahal's name a Ranger could want with them—and why, if he speaks the truth, Thorin would send him to her.

She is ready in minutes, and strides from the statehouse quickly to the guardpost at the head of the settlement, behind the great stone gates. An exhausted horse is tethered to a post outside, drinking greedily from a fresh bucket of water, and Dís pats its flank briefly before stepping inside to find its rider. Whatever the Ranger needs with them, then, it is clearly urgent—for she has never known these men to treat their animals harshly. For him to ride this horse to the limits of its endurance, there must be pressing news indeed.

She finds the man quickly; he's tawny-haired, flushed, and exhausted as he greedily downs water and a plate of cold food that the guards have set before him. He looks up as Dís steps in, though, and rises to his feet immediately, bowing slightly at the waist; Dís only looks on, waiting for him to speak first, wondering what this is about.

"Lord Dís," the man says, and his voice is young to match his features, though it is soaked through with fatigue—and Dís reminds herself to tell the guards to haul out one of the extra-long beds they keep in storage for such creatures, when they must stay the night. "Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice, but I have an urgent request to make of you."

"Sit," she says immediately, and makes no attempt to deepen her voice; luckily, he seems to think nothing of it (perhaps the women of his race have higher voices than even hers, and she is grateful for it). "You are exhausted, boy—what brings you this far north?"

"A dwarf named Thorin said you could help us," he says quickly, and she nods, urging him to continue. "We spoke with him and his companions briefly in Bree, though they said they could not help us themselves—we need as many fighters as we can muster."

"Why?" she asks, sitting across from him in an effort to help him relax; the way he sits so uncomfortably, eyes flitting around the room, betrays more nerves than paranoia, and she realizes that at his age, he may not have dealt widely with dwarves before. "We have assisted Rangers in the past, and would be glad to do so again, but we have not so much as seen you in recent years."

"There is a great amount of orc movement, to the the southeast," he says, worry clear on his face as he explains quickly to her what they know and what they fear. By the time he is done, Dís is concerned as well; she knows Khazad-dûm has been overrun by orcs and goblins for centuries, now, but even their best intelligence has never mentioned Uruk-hai sighted anywhere but Mordor.

"Where are they coming from?" she asks, though she doubts he knows the answer. "Mordor has been quiet for decades, and Moria has not been touched in over a century—why would they decide to move now?"

"We don't have time to ask those questions, Lord Dís," he says, his voice tight with worry. "We have nearly a hundred thousand hobbits to protect, and with their lack of skill with the sword, even a few hundred Uruk-hai could decimate the entire country, unchallenged."

"I agree," she says immediately, already categorizing how many of their own fighters they could send—and how many of those native to the mountain she could convince to help. "I will be glad to send dwarves under my command, but I could not muster a full army for you at such short notice—you will have to make do with less than a thousand warriors."

"That is more than we hoped for," the man says, his face relaxing at the figure. "Thorin said we might recruit a few hundred, should the winds be in our favor—but however many you could spare would be a great help, sir. Erebor's dwarves are well-known as furious, loyal warriors."

Dís inclines her head at the compliment, though she shuffles to the back of her mind the fact that this man knows exactly what kingdom she (and, by extension, Thorin) represent. "I will send out a call to arms," she says after a moment, categorizing which generals and commanders she could spare to travel south. After all, though Thorin is the leader of Durin's armies, as his sister, she knows more than enough—and as his regent, she wields nearly as much power as he would, in these lands. "I cannot go myself, but I will ensure the Shire is well-protected."

"You have my thanks," he says, relief seeping through the formality in his tone as he slumps slightly in the too-small seat. "I will leave in the morning to tell my fellows—if your soldiers could meet us in Bree, we can spread out our forces across the south and eastern borders of the Shire—hopefully this is nothing, but..." He trails off, swallowing for a moment, "from what we've seen, I doubt it."

Dís smiles bitterly, for though the man is young, he seems to have acquired the cynicism of old age that has kept many a warrior alive. "They should be on the road within the week," she assures him. "I will have a bed set up for you—we should have a man-sized set about somewhere, though it may be a bit musty. If you need anything else, send word, and I will see what we can do."

"You have my thanks," the Ranger says again, his gaze truly relieved, though his eyes trail down to his plate again, his mind clearly already on the bed promised him. With the sleepless way he must have ridden here, Dís can't blame him.

She stands, nods to the guards against the wall, and leaves the guardpost quickly, heading for the war room at the heart of the city—where she knows some of her highest-ranked officials will be congregated. Old and crotchety, many of them are, but many of them are also old hands who served under her grandfather—and trustworthy enough that they will listen and respect her request for aid.

Orcs—and Uruk-hai—marching on the Shire...unprecedented, for sure, and terrifying in its implications. After all, what could such creatures possibly want with hobbits? They are a peaceful people, she knows, who rarely travel outside their country—she can count on one hand the number she has met further abroad than Bree. She had scoffed, at first, when Thorin said that the wizard insisted upon a hobbit burglar, but Gandalf had said he would not undertake the quest without one—and even Thorin had seen the folly of taking on Smaug without a wizard at their side.

And Thorin had even begun to soften about the edges, when talking about the burglar Gandalf had in mind—a Master Bilbo Baggins, if she recalls correctly. Thorin had spoken of him with near-derision, and though Dís disapproved of his attitude, she had to admit that bringing a hobbit to fight a dragon was suicide. But in later days—after he woke up sick and horrified and screaming—he had been more amenable—even eager, had she not known better—to travel to the Shire and recruit this Master Baggins. If this were the only thing her brother had taken an about-face with, she might have worried that the stress of the upcoming journey had taken its toll on him—but Thorin had been acting just strangely enough that she's been wondering whether something else is going on with her brother.

Thorin has been acting strangely, and this is surely worrisome—but her brother has handled himself well (enough) for nearly two centuries, and she has much more pressing matters on her hands at the moment. Thorin can be irrational and annoying at times, but he is a more than capable leader; she is sure that whatever is bothering him, he will be able to work out on his own—or at the very least, with the help of Dwalin and the others (if he needs someone to knock some sense into that thick head of his).

She worries, always, for her brother—but right now, she has more immediate concerns, and so she steps into the war room, ready to fight tooth and nail for soldiers to protect the Shire, and trusts Thorin to stay alive and well until she receives word that they have made it home.

Chapter Text

The orcs do not come.

Thorin has the Company up and packed and ready to ride by daybreak (they both know the ponies will never outrun a pack of wargs, but they also know there is little else for them to do), but it is nearing mid-day, now, and Bilbo knows the orcs attacked earlier than this.

Perhaps Saruman scared them off, he thinks, optimistically, and then realizes the truth is likely the exact opposite. More likely, Saruman has diverted them to another task, something more pressing—and though Bilbo doubts that Azog the Defiler would follow orders even from the White Wizard, he can think of no other explanation.

They are riding at a punishing pace across the plains, and Thorin is wary—almost paranoid—as he watches over his shoulder, clearly waiting for an attack. But the orcs do not come, and Bilbo is left wondering what Azog has decided is more important than killing Thorin once and for all.

Gandalf, too, looks worried—and Bilbo has long surmised that Thorin has told the wizard of his own predicament—but seeing such an expression on his old friend’s face is quite disconcerting. Surely, he would be able to defend them all, should it come down to it? Surely (since it has not), he has some idea of where they might have gone?

Uruks may be marching on the Shire, and Saruman approached them on the road, and Azog’s followers are nowhere to be found. Bilbo has not been so frightened in years.

They are not rushing across the plains, and so it is nearly sunset before they begin to approach Rivendell. Balin and Gandalf, apparently, have won over Thorin and Dwalin, for they have decided to stay for several days in the house of the elves. Dwalin looks disgruntled, at this, but Thorin only looks mildly annoyed—after all, he surely knows what the moon runes say, and likely wishes to press on as quickly as possible. Even if he has lived twice, this does not mean he enjoys the company of elves any more than he once did.

Bilbo, for his part, does not at all mind returning to Rivendell, for it was his home for two decades—however, he has no intention of talking to Lord Elrond about his current predicament. Perhaps Gandalf wishes to discuss Thorin, and he is of course free to do so, but Bilbo means to spend his days alternatively relaxing with the Company and holed up in the library. Even if Gandalf wants to talk to Elrond on Thorin’s behalf (because Bilbo doubts very much that this was Thorin’s idea), Bilbo knows that Elrond cannot be trusted right now, just as Gandalf cannot. He would tell the Grey Wizard…just as he would, likely, tell Saruman.

He will tell the wizards and the elves of his true quest once Erebor is safely reclaimed, and not a moment before.

It is difficult to see the sprawling valley below in the dim light as they approach Rivendell, and Bilbo could not admire it even if he wanted to; he must take care to guide his pony along the narrow path so they do not fall down the cliffside. The trees and stone surrounding them are lined with small lanterns so they are not utterly in the dark, but Bilbo is relieved when they make it through the winding path and across the ancient bridge to Rivendell proper.

There are elven guards—of course there are—and though their faces are impassive in the dim light, Bilbo is sure they’re wondering what such a group might be doing in their lands. Gandalf’s presence, likely, is the only thing that stays their swords, and the wizard greets them in Sindarin (several of the dwarves frown in consternation). Bilbo, of course, has long spoken the language, and nods encouragingly to Thorin, who is beside him, that the wizard is not saying anything untoward about their group.

One of the guards nods and hastens up the steps and out of sight after Gandalf requests Elrond’s presence, and Bilbo relays this quietly to Thorin, whose eyes narrow down at him. “You speak the language of the elves?”

“One of them,” he says—why is he not surprised that Thorin does not know there are many? “Sindarin is the most common, and the one I learned, years ago. My parents had many books about elves, you know, and I’ve always been a bit of a linguist.”

Thorin hums, looking vaguely annoyed, and Dwalin’s frown grows even deeper on his other side—but they say nothing more on the subject. It’s several moments more, during which many of the others shift restlessly on their ponies behind him, before Elrond appears, his eyebrows rising a bit at the group of dwarves. However, he says nothing about it as he turns to Gandalf, greeting him in Sindarin. Thorin’s frown grows deeper, stepping forward.

“Thorin, son of Thráin,” Elrond says, cordial, nodding to him, and the dwarf inclines his head in response. “It is not often we see dwarves in our lands, but you and your kin are welcome in Imladris’ halls.”

“My thanks,” Thorin says, rather stiffly, but Bilbo is impressed at the way he manages to keep his usual growl from his voice. “We are only here because Gandalf wished to speak with you, and we are traveling together.”

“Indeed,” Elrond says (a little skeptically, Bilbo thinks), but he does not question it, only motioning for the guards to come forward. “We will see to your mounts; we can show you to our guest quarters after dinner.”

Bilbo’s jaw clenches as he remembers his friends using furniture for kindling, last time, even as the others’ faces light up at the thought of food—and as he glances to Thorin, the vaguely uncomfortable look on his face suggests he’s thinking the same. Hopefully, Thorin will prevent them from doing the same, this time, especially if he is trying not to antagonize the elves—and if not, Bilbo will attempt to do it himself.

Dwalin dismounts from his pony quickly but does not follow the others up the steps; he grabs Bilbo by the shoulder, as well, preventing him from leaving. He frowns up at the dwarf; Dwalin watches the guards with keen eyes as they gather the reins of the ponies.

“A word, Master Baggins,” he says after the last of the dwarves have made it up the steps, and follows them at a slower pace. Bilbo frowns at him but sees no reason to decline, keeping pace as they enter the elves’ halls. “I do not trust the elves,” Dwalin says bluntly, and Bilbo narrowly refrains from rolling his eyes—he’s never heard so obvious a statement. “If you speak their language, I would request you listen to their conversations, ensure they mean us no ill will.”

“You want me to spy on them?” Bilbo asks, his voice rising a bit in incredulity, and Dwalin’s hand falls heavily upon his shoulder, turning in the darkened hallway and halting their progress.

“I want to ensure they are not our enemies,” he says, his voice a low rumble and his face serious. “The elves of Mirkwood have betrayed us more than once, and I do not trust that their kin will not do the same. Thorin does not need more weight on his mind—and if you are the burglar that Gandalf claims, this should be a simple task compared to facing the dragon.”

Bilbo’s frown deepens, but Dwalin has always been a brutally honest dwarf—and he realizes that he would not ask this of him if he were not truly concerned. Indeed, Dwalin would never have trusted him with something like this, the last time. “I will keep my ears open,” he acknowledges, crossing his arms and shrugging the dwarf’s hand from his shoulder, “but I am quite sure you have nothing to fear here. My mother always spoke highly of Lord Elrond, and I have always understood elves to be honest folk.”

“Then you did not grow up a dwarf,” Dwalin says shortly, but something relaxes in his face, the smallest amount. “We will stay here until the wizard has finished his business, and not a moment longer. If you hear that they may attempt to stop us, you must tell me immediately.”

“Not Thorin?” Bilbo asks in mild surprise. After all, Thorin is the leader of this quest, and the one who might have the most power over Elrond’s kin, should they (for Bilbo would never expect it of the Lord himself) attempt to halt their quest.

“It is as I said,” Dwalin says shortly, “he does not need the weight on his mind. He is worried enough, of late.”

Bilbo supposes this is true enough, for several reasons (though Dwalin surely does not know the lot of them), and nods before following the rest of the dwarves, careful not to appear as if he knows where he is headed. He might be able to convince the rest of the Company that he came here with his mother as a child (though he truly does hate lying to them), but Elrond would not be fooled—and neither, likely, would Thorin.

Their late dinner is a lively affair; luckily, Bofur does not climb the tables to serenade them all with lewd drinking songs. Thorin looks honestly surprised at the spread of food on the table—there are plenty of meats interspersed with the greens (and the table the elves direct the Company to has a much higher proportion)—but the others all give cries of delight, setting upon the well-cooked food with a vengeance. Thorin only raises an eyebrow as he sits at the high table with Gandalf and Elrond, choosing the heartier fare for himself.

Bilbo cannot make out their conversation from his distance—especially with Óin sitting beside him, all but yelling supposedly subtle commentary on the elves in his ear. He has long known that the elves of Rivendell eat meat on occasion (though they do prefer greens and lighter food). Last time, he supposes, it must have been their subtle way of getting back to the dwarves for being so rude.

Either way, the food is delicious (just as it always has been) and he sets in heartily, keeping one ear open as Dwalin sends him a sharp look. The elves behind him are chatting cheerfully—about the Company, it is true, but mostly curious as to what they are doing in the elves’ land, and they are not expressing anything approaching ill will. The creatures of this land, after all, have always been so much more light-hearted than the elves of Mirkwood—at worst, they seem to think of the dwarves as curious, silly creatures, the likes of which they rarely see.

He smiles reassuringly to Dwalin, across the table from him (for his face darkened as soon as he heard the elves speaking in Sindarin), and swallows a mouthful of fish before saying, “They’re curious, is all. Wondering what you’re doing here.”

Dwalin grumps and shoves another scrap of meat into his mouth. “So am I.”

Their dinner is delicious, though, and even the most paranoid of dwarves seem unable to say anything to the contrary. Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin are still in deep discussion at the high table (Thorin looks surprisingly engaged—something that Dwalin’s frown deepens at, when he sees), and though Dwalin, Glóin, and Óin are still obviously grumpy about the accommodations, they say nothing about it—at least while in such a public place. Most of the younger dwarves seem to be taking everything in stride, though—Fíli, Ori, and Nori are heartily reenacting their fight with the trolls, to the clear amusement of the elves within earshot.

Kíli occasionally joins in with their fun, but more often than not, Bilbo sees his gaze drifting to the architecture of the hall, to the elves that pass them by—and though he’s obviously trying to stay subtle about it, he’s not quite succeeding. When Bilbo catches his eye and raises a brow in question, his face quickly colors, and he looks down toward his food again—with just as much meat on his plate as the others, though Bilbo has seen him trying bites of the greenery as well—even if his face twists in disgust at much of it.

Dinner is winding down, and though Thorin seems entrenched in conversation, still, Bilbo is tired after a long few days with little sleep—and grabs a passing elf by the wrist, asking where they’re staying for the night. The elf raises a brow and gestures for him to follow—and Bilbo hears several of the dwarves rise, behind him, clearly liking the idea of a (mostly) safe place to sleep.

Kíli seems to be lagging, and Bilbo frowns, dropping back in the group to make sure he’s all right. But as he gets closer, he realizes that he’s just taking in the halls they pass through, considering several of the tapestries they pass by, illuminated by the dim light as they are. “Everything all right?” Bilbo asks anyway, if only to be sure, and Kíli jumps terribly, spinning to face him with wide eyes.

“Perfectly fine, Master Baggins,” he says quickly, a grin on his face to hide something approaching embarrassment.

“I’ve told you a thousand times—call me Bilbo,” he says, frowning, and Kíli’s grin grows sheepish as he shrugs and nods, falling into step with Bilbo as they follow the others. “You seem interested in Rivendell,” Bilbo says casually—quietly enough that the others won’t hear—and Kíli’s face colors further.

“It’s not—quite that,” he says, glancing to Bilbo as if wondering whether he’ll admonish him for it. “I’ve just never seen elves before, or—really, gone very far beyond Ered Luin. And I think it’s interesting, how other races live.”

“You’ve never met an elf?” Bilbo asks, surprised, and Kíli shrugs a bit, glancing his way again.

“I was born in the Blue Mountains—how often do elves venture there? And I’ve not been this far east, either.”

Bilbo digests this for a moment, realizing that it makes sense—after all, Thorin would never expose his nephews to the race he despised, if he could help it. “So, what do you think?” he asks eventually, honestly curious—because what prejudices his kin have do not seem to have passed on to Kíli.

“It’s indefensible,” Kíli says immediately with a frown, and Bilbo stifles a laugh. “I’m sure there’s all manner of magic defenses about, but an open city at the bottom of a valley? Where are the walls? Supposing the enemy did break past Lord Elrond’s defenses, what would they do then?”

“Do you dwarves always decide the quality of a home by its defenses?” Bilbo asks, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Dwalin seemed unimpressed with the Shire, as well.”

“Mountains can stand for years under siege,” Kíli says immediately, as if it’s obvious. “Dwalin isn’t wrong—your people have been quite lucky, not to be attacked. And I suppose dwarves are more cynical about such things, anyway.”

Bilbo nods, because that, at least, is true—but Kíli continues, “But that’s not to say Rivendell isn’t architecturally impressive—there’s a bit more green than I’d like, but it’s obvious a lot of care was put into this place. And…” here, he falters, glancing behind him and then to the dwarves in front to ensure nobody is listening, “the elves aren’t what I was expecting, either.”

“Oh?”

“Thorin’s always spoke of them like they’re these awful, weedy creatures who spend their whole day singing in the trees,” Kíli admits, and Bilbo has to choke down a laugh, at that—because he has known several of the elves of Rivendell to do exactly that. “And it’s true, they’re very tall—but they don’t seem anything like Thranduil, if the stories are true.”

“Elrond’s kin are different than Thranduil’s, for sure,” Bilbo says with a nod. “That’s not to say the elves of Mirkwood are awful—“ (for here, he feels a need to defend them, after what Thranduil did during the battle and later war) “—but Rivendell is a bit…gentler.”

Kíli glances dubiously down to him. “What do you know of the elves of Mirkwood? They betrayed our people after the dragon attacked—many lives could have been saved, should he have opened his doors to the wounded.”

Bilbo hesitates, here—he cannot give away his knowledge, of course, but… “Thranduil and his father fought against Sauron, in the second age—and from what my books have told me, he has done well to hold off the sickness of his lands as long as he has.”

“We were their allies,” Kíli insists, his frown growing deeper. “Fighting against Sauron and lending assistance where it’s needed are very different things.”

“But just as important, I know,” Bilbo says, because even he cannot argue Thranduil’s aloofness in such grave matters. “I only mean to say that you shouldn’t dismiss him out of hand as a terrible creature on all counts.”

Kíli hums, a frown yet on his face, but he says nothing more—for the rest have stopped before an ornate door that the elf is gesturing through, saying that more sleeping accommodations can be arranged for all fourteen of them. Bilbo smiles at Kíli, knows he does not want to discuss such things in front of the others. It’s ridiculous of the older dwarves, of course, but Bilbo sees no reason to antagonize the point—and so he only claims a corner of the large room for himself, overlooking a particularly beautiful part of the valley.

 Ori sets up near him, his eyes alight with the opportunity to sketch such a view; Dori and Nori immediately join him, though whether in solidarity or wariness, Bilbo cannot tell. The others fill up the room quickly—while it’s spacious, there are fourteen of them, after all. Though Bilbo believes that the elves will attempt to make good on their word to bring mattresses for them all, he thinks they will be hard-pressed to fit them in.

Anyhow, the dwarves do not seem to mind sleeping in their bedrolls on the floor—the two over-large beds in the room are left empty, and it takes Bilbo a moment to realize that they’re reserving them for Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli. Whether it’s out of respect or some arcane dwarven rule, he isn’t sure, but the boys don’t seem to realize it outright...not until Dwalin shoves them up from where they’ve set up on the floor, pushing them toward the nearer bed.

Kíli blinks, and Fíli’s face shifts toward something like discomfort, but they don’t argue the point, tossing their bags instead on the floor beside the bed, sitting on the pristine sheets with their dirty, road-worn clothes, and pulling off their boots.

Bilbo rolls his eyes at them (no matter how much they can make an effort to be polite, he supposes, they are tired, and sleepy from the filling food to boot—and, after all, what clean clothes do they have to change into?) but makes no comment, only pulling his bedroll from his pack and laying it out in his corner, smiling brightly to Ori and his brothers as they do the same.

Thorin does not join them for nearly another hour, and Bilbo considers him from across the room as Dwalin all but accosts him, asking loudly what he was discussing with the elves for so long. Bilbo thinks it’s obvious that Thorin is uncomfortable with answering (and Fíli and Kíli seem to agree, if their constant, concerned glances are any indication), but he only deflects Dwalin’s questions, saying that Gandalf and Elrond spoke of many things, that he could not have escaped earlier without offending the elf.

Dwalin looks utterly unconvinced; after all, hasn’t Thorin ever actively attempted to offend elves? But Thorin is tight-lipped about it all (and seems to realize that the entire Company is listening in interest), and only says loudly—”Gandalf wishes to stay for a week before we pass through to the Misty Mountains, and I have the elf’s word that they will not attempt to stop us. Rest while you can—we will not have this great a lull in our journey again until it is ended.”

Bilbo is honestly surprised that Thorin consented to staying here that long, but will never object to spending more time in his old home—and so only nods when Thorin looks toward him, appraising, clearly wondering his opinion on the matter. If he has changed enough due to this second chance that he will willingly spend more time in Rivendell, Bilbo is not going to question it. After all, isn’t a less racist Thorin a better one?

Several of the other dwarves are audibly grumbling about the arrangements as they settle in for the night—they’re tired, of course, after a night of little sleep and a day of hard riding away from Saruman. Bilbo yet frowns at that whole situation (fitting in perfectly with the rest of the Company, though for different reasons entirely), because—why was Saruman in the area at all? Why did he deign a group of dwarves important enough to rescue from certain death?

He doesn’t regret their survival, certainly (even as Nori asks his younger brother whether his ribs are all right and earns a near snap in response; even as Bofur wanders over to Óin and asks whether he might have something for his head), but such things are...too strange, and it doesn’t sit right with Bilbo, that Saruman should be so suddenly philanthropic.

He has no one to discuss the matter with—even if he decided to share his story with Gandalf, right now, his old friend trusts Saruman without question; it would be futile—even dangerous—to attempt to dissuade him. Elrond, similarly, would not believe him...or, at least, would not take him seriously enough to do anything about it.

Thorin...would not have the power to do anything at the moment, it is true, but may be more sympathetic than the great lords and wizards of the age. He turns it over in his head; after all, last night, Thorin believed him without question when he said he did not trust Saruman, and honored Bilbo’s request to withhold information.

If the dwarf has guessed that Bilbo has been given a second chance, anyway—just as he has his friend—then perhaps some half-truths about the future would not go astray.

Thorin, of course, has no knowledge of the far future, but with Erebor reclaimed, may carry more sway in the times when Saruman will be the most dangerous—and, importantly, seems to value Bilbo’s opinion on most matters.

He considers Thorin from across the room, where his friend is settling down on the empty bed, obviously looking forward to a safe night’s rest. He will not bother him tonight, but they will need to talk soon—and Bilbo needs to decide exactly what he is going to say.

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It’s been clear that Gandalf wants to discuss Thorin’s predicament with Elrond, but that doesn’t make the valley of Imladris any more palatable; Thorin is ready to leave the moment they step foot in the elves’ lands. He trusts, at least, that they will not be attacked here, but that is small comfort when the clock is ticking, running on and on toward Durin’s Day—and Thorin knows he will not feel safe until they have reclaimed the mountain, and the battle has passed without casualties within the Company.

He spends an uncomfortable dinner at the high table listening to the wizard and the elf discuss the state of the world—to Elrond’s credit, he seems honestly concerned at the thought of orcs west of the mountains in great numbers, marching toward the Shire. Though Thorin assures him that his people will pledge their help (and likely have already sent soldiers to strengthen the borders), it is truly an alarming thought, that the hobbits might be at risk.

Saruman’s appearance on the Great East Road seems a surprise, as well, though Elrond seems relatively unconcerned. “Wizards tend to do as they please,” he says with a wry tilt of his head to Gandalf. “Perhaps he will reveal all in due time.”

Gandalf does not mention anything too strange while the hall is still filled with others, but only a few minutes after the rest of the Company disperse to the guest quarters, Gandalf stands, asking whether the three of them might discuss something in a more private setting. Thorin scowls but sees the benefit of discussing the situation with a creature who has lived so long as this—and only plans to ensure he will not discuss it with any others (Thranduil, perhaps, or the Lady of Lórien who he knows Elrond and Gandalf to both be fond of)…especially Saruman.

Bilbo’s vehemence against the wizard had been surprising, but for Thorin’s startling realization that his friend may have lived long decades past the Quest. Hobbits scarcely live to a century, of course, but he knows Bilbo to have lived only half of that—and perhaps, after Thorin’s passing, something else arose in that future to incriminate him.

But Gandalf greeted him as a friend, when they met on the road—and he is sure Elrond knows the White Wizard similarly. He will demand silence on the elf’s part, but does not yet dare bring up Saruman’s loyalties.

“Thorin has come upon a unique predicament, of late,” Gandalf says, once they are secured in quarters that Elrond assures will not be disturbed. The elf turns to Thorin, then, thick eyebrows rising, and he scowls for a moment at being backed into such a corner. He sees the sense in discussing this with him, but does not like it—and crosses his arms across his chest as he looks up at Elrond.

The elf listens to the tale with face impassive, but for his eyebrows, which rise steadily higher upon his head—once Thorin is finished speaking (he abbreviated it, it is true, but after all, Elrond need not know the intricate details of the Company, nor of the Mountain), his mouth presses into a thin line, glancing between the two of them, considering.

“I have never heard of such a thing occurring to any creature—mortal or not,” he says eventually, and Thorin raises a single eyebrow in response. “You say the tides have already shifted in the last two months?”

“Aye,” Thorin says, and decides almost immediately that if Bilbo wishes to discuss his own matters with the elves, he can do so on his own terms. “Most troubling is the Uruk movement that we mentioned, though other small differences worry me, as well.”

“Indeed,” Elrond muses, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you come to me for advice? It seems you know even more than the greatest minds of the Age, at least for the moment.”

“I come to you because Gandalf refuses to be usurped,” Thorin nearly snaps. “He claims that great allies in these times may help to hold off our enemies—of which I have many. I only wish to lead my people to safety as best I can.”

“A noble cause, to be sure,” Elrond acknowledges with a slight nod. “And you believe these changes you have seen are cause to worry?”

“I think a possible attack on the Shire is plenty cause for worry!” Thorin does snap this time. “There are a hundred thousand creatures who do not know how to fight, in indefensible lands—if even a hundred Uruks set upon them, the entire race would be decimated!”

“And your people are allied with the Dúnedain to ensure that does not happen,” Elrond says levelly, and Thorin clenches his jaw, utterly unsatisfied with that answer. “You never heard any news from the West during your travels, correct? Is it possible this might have happened, the last time?”

“Of course it didn’t,” Thorin snarls. “The mountains were teeming with goblins, Azog the Defiler was far east, and we certainly would have noticed if there were Uruk armies massing!”

He wants to believe that this is something they need not worry about—that the Uruks are not setting upon the Shire (for, truly, what good would it do for them?), that these are simply the creatures that mobilized toward Erebor as soon as they read the same portents as the dwarves. But Uruks are never seen far from Mordor—certainly not so far as the Misty Mountains—and something is settling just wrong enough in his gut that says this is not something to be ignored or even simply written off as changing tides.

“Time is ever unsettled,” Elrond is saying in a calming tone that Thorin finds, suddenly, that he hates. “Small, subtle changes are inevitable—perhaps that is what we are seeing here. We will take such things into account, of course, and will not dismiss your worries out of hand, but—“

But that is exactly what he is doing, Thorin can see clear as day. He is only a dwarf, after all, and has scarcely lived two centuries to these creatures’ millennia; surely, he knows nothing of the world, cannot grasp its intricacies and complexities, and this only fuels his rage further.

“Perhaps you have simply noticed things more than you once did,” Gandalf is musing, and Thorin is enraged that the wizard has betrayed him as well. “I’m sure you were much more single-minded, the last time, after all. And—“

“And Uruks are something I would have noticed,” Thorin snaps, his fists clenching, trying to stop himself from stomping out of here. “If nothing else, I would have seen their trajectory and worried for my people in the Blue Mountains.”

Neither of them seem to know what to say to this, and Thorin feels his face contort—he is finished with Gandalf and Lord Elrond, finished with being simply a player on the board to both of them—the East will be greatly strengthened with Erebor reclaimed; does Gandalf not care one whit for the safety and heritage of Durin’s people? Does he not care for the long histories lost in the mountain, everything they have worked for centuries to create and mold and love, lost to a dragon’s might?

No—everything is the bigger picture to them, and he feels his teeth start to ache from the way he is clenching his jaw. “You will tell no one else of what we discussed tonight,” he says, his voice low and furious, and Elrond raises an eyebrow at him. “Not Saruman, nor the Lady of Lórien, nor anyone else. This is my quest to fulfill, and I will not see it turned into a plaything by elves and wizards.”

“We would do no such—“ Gandalf sounds affronted, but Thorin is finished with this conversation; he turns sharply on his heel and lets himself out of the room, his feet pounding on the stone floors beneath him.

He knows he needs to burn off this energy and anger before he joins the rest of the Company—it would alarm them, and it would force him to answer questions he has no intention of fielding. And so he finds himself wandering the halls at a quick pace, his face furious and his thoughts far away as he passes by murals and grottoes and grand halls. There are few elves about—though whether they make way for him when they hear him coming or whether they have retreated elsewhere for the evening, he is not sure—and he is grateful for it. While shouting at Elrond is one form of disrespect, harming a lord’s subjects is another entirely—and though Thorin thinks he would not do such a thing, he has not been this angry in a long while.

Since he learned that Bilbo stole the Arkenstone—and his steps falter at that, as he realizes exactly what fury has arisen in his heart. It is justified, he tells himself—after all, is Elrond not treating his concerns as those of a child, and the lives of his subjects as playthings? Is he not justified in his rage that Elrond would reduce an entire race of proud, strong people to a game of strategy?

But did he not think the same, that Bilbo was disrespecting their friendship and everything the Company ever told him about Erebor and its history and its majesty—?

He breathes deeply, in the middle of this darkened hallway, considering himself and what he must not become, and after several seconds more he rubs two shaking hands down his face, struggling to relax. This will do Fíli and Kíli no good, stalking about the elves’ halls. The only thing that will help his nephews and his Company and his people is to actively ensure they are safe throughout this perilous journey, and so that is what he will do.

He needs to talk to Bilbo, who very likely has even more knowledge than he does—and, if nothing else, he must convince the hobbit to help him save his family’s lives.

.

.

Thorin pretends he isn’t irritated by the way Bilbo seems so at home in Rivendell, but he’s not entirely sure he succeeds.

Though the Company mostly stays in their quarters—occasionally venturing to the sparring yards to let off some steam, or wandering the halls restlessly—Bilbo seems at home here nearly as much as he did in his own smial. Thorin—who finds himself lost in thought more often than not, walking the halls of Imladris looking for more answers than the elves will give— finds Bilbo in the halls with a soft smile on his face, poring over books in the library, or simply taking in the architecture of the elves’ home.

Thorin would like to think that Bilbo felt so amazed by Erebor, but he is alarmed to realize that he cannot recall—with his thoughts so consumed by his grandfather’s treasures and the Arkenstone, any thoughts of the Company’s burglar—and even, perhaps, the others—fell by the wayside.

Not again. Never again. If Bilbo prefers the company of elves to that of dwarves, so be it, but let it never be said that Thorin was never hospitable or kind to the creature who has done so much for him.

They have been here for three days, now, and despite himself, Thorin feels himself relaxing in a way he has not since they left the Blue Mountains. He does not trust Elrond’s subjects, and he does not trust Elrond with that which is most important—but he thinks they have come to such an agreement that he will not interfere with the dwarves’ quest. This is all he truly needs, at the moment—and if he must ally himself with the elves in future, he thinks he has learned enough that such things will not be beneath him.

(So long as Thranduil does not antagonize them as he ever has in the past, he will make an effort to be civil. He thinks he trusts Gandalf’s judgment enough to ally against orcs and their ilk with Elrond and Galadriel, but any treaty with Thranduil will be fragile at best—and only if the fate of the entire world depends on it.)

He appeases Dwalin, the day after they arrive, by telling him that they spent so much time the night before discussing the map. His old friend had been furious at the idea of showing an outsider their precious heirloom, of course, but Thorin had told him simply that Gandalf had insisted—and if they had not talked to Elrond, they never would have found the moon runes.

Dwalin seems skeptical but accepts his explanations at face value, and Thorin can only be grateful. Perhaps he will eventually tell his kin and closest friends of what has happened, but now is not the time. These dwarves will follow him to hell and back without question, and though he hates that he feels like he’s lying to them, this is the best for his nephews, now and through to the end of their quest.

Thorin will give up anything to keep them safe—and if that means keeping his Company in the dark until they are safely in Erebor, then so be it.

They have been here for three days, and Thorin knows that he must talk with Bilbo—if only to ensure that he does indeed have an ally in this uphill battle. And so when he finally sees the hobbit alone in a hall, looking up at a mural of what looks like the Last Alliance, he tries to ignore Bilbo’s darkened face and hails his friend. Bilbo turns, his face shifting into something much more inviting almost immediately, and Thorin worries but does not question it, for the moment. “If you have a moment, I’d like a word.”

Bilbo sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, but nods, clearly waiting for Thorin to lead the way. He is not sure where to go, precisely, but decides that any empty chamber should be appropriate—and so leads Bilbo into one such room, closing the door behind them. It’s small but seems to be a sort of study, with comfortable chairs scattered amongst bookshelves and tables; Thorin claims one for himself, eyeing Bilbo as he does the same.

“I’ve been wondering if you wanted to talk to me,” Bilbo says eventually, into the silence, and Thorin takes this only as confirmation of his suspicions.

“Have I been so obvious?” he asks, resigned—after all, dwarves have never been so sneaky as hobbits. Bilbo snorts, a wry sort of smile spreading on his face, and only shrugs, settling more comfortably into his too-large chair. “You’re right—I need to discuss something of great importance with you. I have…been given the gift of a second life, to make up for my mistakes and ensure the safety of this Company. Forgive me if I err, but I believe you have received this gift, as well.”

Bilbo says nothing for several moments, long enough that Thorin—were he not so assured in his beliefs—might have doubted himself. “You awoke after your death?” Bilbo asks eventually, his eyes sharp, and Thorin stifles a sigh of relief—after all, how would Bilbo know of this, if he had not lived through the battle already?

“Aye,” he agrees, “and I know I am to ensure my nephews survive…that I do not lose myself to madness, like I did before.”

Bilbo nods, considering him, and though Thorin would like to think he is in control of the situation, he suddenly feels as if Bilbo is considering how much information to give him. “I would request your assistance,” Thorin continues. “Gandalf has promised his help, but Elrond is infuriatingly distant, even after the wizard forced me to tell him. Having you to rely on would be a great blessing, I should think.”

“I’m only a simple hobbit,” Bilbo says, apparently on reflex, but doesn’t seem to believe it himself—and Thorin shakes his head.

“You saved many lives in the battle, as well as ours many times over—and I would be surprised, should you refuse to do it again.”

It’s a gamble, to be sure, because a Bilbo who has lived twice is a Bilbo who remembers Thorin in his madness—but he can do nothing else but plead for his nephews’ lives, swear to both their gods that he will not succumb again. Bilbo stares at him, brows furrowed and hands clasped in his lap, now, as he leans forward slightly in his chair. “I lived eighty years beyond the Quest,” he says eventually, and Thorin feels his eyes widening—a hobbit, living that long? Even he knows that is nearly unheard of—! “Of course I will protect you, Fíli, and Kíli, but you must understand that there are other things I must attend to, as well.”

“What sorts of things?” Thorin asks, trying not to sound worried, because—after all—this sounds exactly like Gandalf deserting them halfway through the Quest.

But Bilbo waves a hand— “Not much until after Erebor is reclaimed—at which point, I will need your assistance, as well as Gandalf’s and the elves’.”

Thorin frowns, because that really does not answer his question at all. “What will you need assistance with?” he asks again, and Bilbo sighs.

“I forgave you long ago for what happened, Thorin,” he says, a different tone to his voice, “but this is something I can entrust to no one but myself.”

Thorin’s frown deepens, because he would understand if Bilbo did not trust him, but—“Is it so secret?” he challenges, because—“I would go to the ends of the Earth for you, Master Baggins, and in time the rest of the Company will as well. After everything you have done for us, in both lives, you need not worry about doing this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Bilbo says staunchly, and Thorin narrows his eyes. “As I said, once Erebor is yours again—we will discuss matters then. But until then, I must do this alone.”

“Why?” he presses, unsatisfied with that answer, and Bilbo sighs.

“The future holds many dark tidings, should I stand idle,” he says after a moment. “You must understand that I am the only one who can accomplish this. If you dwarves tried to help, even with the best intentions, it would destroy you.”

“And leave a hobbit untouched?” Thorin asks, stifling his horror in favor of incredulity. “You are a remarkable creature, Bilbo, but if not us, then Gandalf—Elrond, even—“

“Would meddle,” Bilbo cuts him off with a slight scowl. “Gandalf would abandon your quest for mine in an instant, should he hear of it—as I said, we will discuss this once Erebor is reclaimed.”

“Is it so important?” Thorin asks, wary—putting together the guesses he has made here and coming up very concerned. “You can’t expect to handle all this alone—“

“It has been done,” Bilbo says, something hard behind his words that Thorin doesn’t understand. It has been done—but not by him? In that other life? “It is not impossible—and I am the only one who can do it.”

Thorin clenches his jaw, sees exactly how far he is going to get in this line of questioning. “Only ask if you need assistance,” he says eventually, and Bilbo stares at him. “You are a part of this Company, Master Baggins, and you have long earned any favor you may need to ask for.”

“I appreciate it,” Bilbo says, and Thorin can tell that he means it. “And for what it’s worth, Thorin, I mourned all of you, after the battle. I would see you returned to your rightful throne.”

All of you? “Did any of the others perish?” he asks, rather desperately though he attempts to hide it, and Bilbo’s eyes fly wide.

“Only you and your nephews,” he is quick to assure. “And—I did not return to Erebor, after I left, but Balin visited for several decades after, and he said the mountain thrived under Dáin’s rule.”

Thorin absorbs this—knows he should be happy for it, that his cousin was such a just ruler, but the thought of another sitting upon the throne…it seems so wrong. As he looks at Bilbo’s face, he realizes the hobbit feels the same way.

“You will be king,” Bilbo says after a moment more. “I will make sure of it, Thorin.”

He does not need to shoulder such a weight when he did not even call the mountain his home—or its inhabitants his family—but Thorin appreciates his commitment nonetheless. “And whatever your quest, we will see it done, and you safely home,” he says in return, inclining his head.

Bilbo smiles, a little tightly, and only nods.

Chapter Text

They come upon the Shire like a hurricane.

The South Farthing is worst hit, with a barely-prepared militia of men more suited to tactical fighting than full-on warfare; though the dwarves make all haste, the orcs arrive first. The Rangers stand on the shores of the Brandywine, and fight with a desperation that may ultimately save lives—but there are hundreds of orcs, and dozens of huger, nastier creatures that can only be Uruks, and the Rangers prepared and ready for the onslaught number less than five score. They are overrun far too quickly, forced to fall back, forced to beg the gods and anyone else who may be listening to help them before they reach the hobbits in Sarn Ford, in Longbottom, in all of the larger towns further north, whose creatures have no idea of what is coming.

But the gods do not listen, and though the dwarves arrive at last and the Rangers rally quickly in defense of the hobbits, the casualties are heavy—and none of them have the chance to ask why this is happening, because they are dying and the enemies are far too many. Though the dwarves are fearless and the Rangers will do anything to stop them, too many orcs and Uruks slip through their defenses—and break off into small bands, disappearing into the Shire.

.

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Hobson Gamgee has heard the rumors, of course—he's not deaf, not yet—but he's tossed them away quickly as nothing, as something to scare the children, as a story started by the tweens across town who love to see the children and the elders grow shaky in fear.

He has dismissed the rumors as nothing until he is out in the garden one day, tending his tomatoes before he plans to go water Mister Bilbo's flowers, and he hears distant screaming coming from the south. He looks up with a frown, looking down the hill, into the countryside, and sees people running in every direction, running desperately for smials and buildings and anywhere with a door they can latch. He gets up off his creaking knees slowly, his heart starting to pick up, as he realizes that not all of these creatures are small enough to be hobbits.

He has never seen an orc before, of course, but the rumors coming from Bree and from the south had said they were going to attack and he supposes that these must be them—they look like nasty creatures, from this far off, but that's as much as he can say. He blinks, considers himself for a moment, and then realizes very quickly that he will be very lucky not to be able to say anything else.

He drops his spade in the dirt and turns quickly for the door, yelling for his wife and children as he slams and bolts the door behind him. They all appear, thankfully, and he waffles for a moment before deciding that the crawl space behind the master closet will have to do as a hiding spot; if they are discovered, of course, they will be trapped with no way out, but hopefully if the orcs do decide to pay them a visit, they will not be able to find them.

"Hob—" his wife starts, and their daughters clutch at her skirts in fear, but he shakes his head, grabbing her hand and cutting her off.

"We need to hide," he says, all in a rush. "The rumors were true."

He has considered himself a respectable hobbit, by all accounts—nowhere near a gentlehobbit like Mister Bilbo, of course, but what to do in any sort of attack has not ever crossed his mind. But he looks at his wife and his four beautiful children and realizes that he will gladly do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if it's hiding in a back closet…even, if it comes down to it, taking a kitchen knife to these orcs who have dared to attack their home.

He pushes them all toward the back bedroom, saying he'll catch up with them quickly, and darts toward the kitchen, stopping before the knife block and pulling out the two biggest ones they own; he holds them before him, one in each hand, and takes a few experimental swipes at the air, stabbing forward, trying to pretend an orc is standing before him, ready to murder his children.

His hands are shaking violently, though, at the mere thought of taking a creature's life, and he realizes too late that there is movement outside the kitchen window, something grimy and huge, whose lower torso is the only thing Hobson can see. He stifles a shriek of terror and ducks down, hoping he was not found, but then there is a roar from outside, and the front door rattles on its hinges once—twice.

It will not hold against such a monster, he knows, and he has no time to get to the back bedroom—and so he only swallows his terror as best he can, begs his hands to stop shaking, and climbs to his feet. He has not given much thought to how he will die; as a hobbit, he has long assumed he will die of old age or of sickness. But now, at forty-four years old, he realizes he is going to die in his own kitchen, trying to fight an awful creature he has never imagined with a kitchen knife the size of the creature's hand.

He stifles another high-pitched sob as the door splinters, and he hides behind a corner, hoping that he will at least have luck on his side—that he will at least be able to injure the creature before it finds his family.

He is waiting for the final push that will shatter the door, but it never comes; there are deep, throaty roars from outside that do not sound like the orc, and he stills as he hears heavy footsteps trampling his garden. He would be outraged at any other time, of course, but all he knows right now is that the monster has stopped knocking down his door—

He listens from his corner, not daring to move or even breathe as terrible, visceral sounds come from the front garden. There are at least two new creatures, he thinks, and they do not sound like any hobbit he has ever heard but they are the ones who distracted the orc, and so he thinks they must at the very least be on his side.

There is a final, rattling shriek then, and a heavy thump, and then the deafening noises die away. Hobson wavers for a moment, and then against his better judgment, slowly leans to open what's left of the door.

A massive creature is lying prone in his garden, black liquid pooling beneath and around it as two others stand over it, ensuring it's dead. They look up when the door creaks open, half-raising their weapons (one carries a great axe, the other a heavy sword) before they seem to recognize him.

"Master Hobbit," the nearer one says quickly, and Hobson is frozen, does not move—only stares at the blackness on the ground and on these creatures' bodies. "Are you hurt? Is your family safe?"

He blinks at them rather owlishly, takes in their long, wild beards and their thick, short frames, and realizes that these are dwarves not unlike the ones who stole Bilbo away a mere three weeks ago. "We're all right," he says eventually, and his voice sounds distant to his ears—but the dwarves seem to relax, at that. One, with fairer hair, kicks the orc's body viciously as he says—

"Damn Uruk, I've never seen an orc run so fast—I'm glad we got here when we did, else—"

"Enough," his friend says, frowning at him before turning to Hobson. "Do you have food in your house? Enough to last several days?"

"Yes," Hobson says, in that same strange tone he doesn't quite recognize, and he watches as the other dwarf wipes his axe on the lawn before sheathing it, moving to haul the orc—Uruk—away.

"Good," the dwarf says, and then eyes the front door. "Any spare wood, carpentry tools? I can barricade the door for you, but you and your kin'll need to stay inside until we've driven them all off. It's not safe out here."

Hobson nods, points vaguely to the woodpile they keep on the side of the house, and hesitates in the doorway as the dwarf hurries toward it, as his friend pulls the Uruk away, out of sight from the road. "What's an Uruk?" he asks the yard in general, and both dwarves come up short. "There were—the rumors, that there were orcs to the south…is Uruk another word for them?"

They hesitate, glancing to each other, before the light-haired dwarf says, "It's…a bigger type of orc, see. Nastier, too."

Hobson looks at the pool of what must be blood in his garden, considers exactly how much of it is now soaking into his plants, and realizes distantly that he's probably going to have to toss out the whole crop. "All right," he says, and the darker dwarf frowns, coming back with a huge armful of wood and peering down into his face.

"We're here to protect your country, Master Hobbit," he says. "No harm will come to you or your kin so long as we're here. You don't need to worry."

"Right," he says again, his voice even quieter, and the dwarf's frown deepens, shifting his load to lean up against the house and grasping Hobson's shoulder by his less-bloody hand.

"Go back to your family," he says gently, giving him a little push. "We'll take care of things out here, and let you know when it's safe again. We'll have patrols—if you need anything, just yell."

Hobson does as he's told, steps carefully over the threshold to his home, and realizes he doesn't feel safe here, anymore. He moves toward the back of the house, disappearing from the dwarf's view, and soon he hears the dwarf banging away, barricading the front door. It's necessary, he knows. It's needed to ensure he and his family are safe from—from the monsters now invading their country.

He means to go to the master closet and tell his family that it's safe to come out, but he doesn't make it all the way there—he collapses against the wall in the hallway, sliding down until he is curled in on himself, until the tears stream down his face and the sobs choke his lungs. They are—they are safe, for now. There are dwarves here, in Hobbiton, ready to protect them when they have never even met. He should feel secured in the fact that they are defended, but all he can feel is horror—and it is long minutes before he is able to collect himself, before the sobs lessen and the trembling subsides enough for him to get to his feet.

His family is alive, and in this he must take comfort—and so he walks unsteadily to the master closet, embracing his wife tightly when she emerges. Hobbiton is under attack, but his family is safe…and for now, he must take what comfort he can from that.

.

.

.

.

Primula Brandybuck wakes early one morning to utter madness outside her front door.

Brandy Hall has always been organized chaos, of course, and with her sleep-addled mind she at first thinks nothing of it. But as she rolls over, considers sleeping for a while longer before going out to play with her younger cousins, she listens a little closer to the sounds from the hall and the grounds—and what she hears sends cold terror scorching through her gut.

The horn is sounding, long and loud. Her father is shouting desperately about getting the women and children to safety, getting those vulnerable to the cellars and the crawl spaces and wherever else they may not be found. As she climbs out of bed quickly, looking out a window, she sees Big Folk on their lawn, too: Dúnedain Rangers, she recognizes for their cloaks and their dark hair, but too there are creatures not so big as them, much stouter and with great beards upon their faces. She realizes after a moment of staring that these must be dwarves.

She doesn't understand what is happening—though the Rangers, rarely, come to Brandy Hall to discuss things with her father, she knows that normally they treat with the Tooks—considered to be the most worldly and rational of hobbits. Though she's not sure she agrees (at least on the second count), it means she only rarely sees men—and never before has she seen a dwarf. She only knows these to be such because, after all, with their hairiness and their great, heavy weapons, what else could they possibly be?

She hesitates only a moment before rushing into a pair of trousers and a sturdy shirt (that her father bought for her gladly when she asked), tying her hair behind her head and slipping out into the hallway. There's sounds of alarm and rushing coming from the kitchens, but she does not need to go that way to get outside—and steps out a side door easily, unseen, to try and find out what all the ruckus is about.

Her father isn't the only hobbit outside, as it turns out—several of her uncles are there, as well as many hobbits she does not recognize by name though she has seen them about Buckland. And, she notices, Drogo is among them, apparently not sure what he is doing there but determined to help nonetheless. He pulls her by the hand when he sees her, away from the heart of the group as she tries to push her way forward. "You need to get inside, it's not safe—"

"What's going on?" she demands instead, digging in her heels and glaring at him. She's quite fond of Drogo, of course, with his kind heart and dashing good looks, but if even a Baggins is here and privy to whatever is going on, then she certainly should be as well.

He hesitates, glancing to the group again before swallowing. "The attacks that were happening to the south…the men say that they're going to be here soon."

She blinks at him, her mind failing her for a moment. She has not once heard of such attacks; her father has often ended a conversation abruptly when she entered a room, but this is not wholly uncommon—and she has shoved it under the rug easily. But attacks—what kind of attacks—?

She asks this aloud, rather desperately, and Drogo swallows heavily, glancing again over her shoulder as someone shouts impatiently in a thick Northern accent. "They're saying it's orcs," he says after a moment longer, and Primula feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Orcs, she has heard of in passing, though they have always been the monsters in fairy stories that are vanquished by the hero. They're supposed to be far away, the other side of the continent, nearly, and they have not been near the Shire in—

"There's not much time," Drogo says, and jumps terribly as a different horn sounds, behind him—one that does not sound at all fair or kind or anything a hobbit might think to produce. "You need to—"

A huge creature rushes by them, then, and Primula screeches as Drogo pulls her to the side—but it is only a man mounted on a horse, his dark hair all awry as he stops before the other Rangers, not dismounting his steed.

"I've been told to travel to Rivendell, seek Lord Elrond's aid—"

"We will be overrun before the elves can help us," a dwarf says impatiently. "Your bow will be more useful here!"

"One Ranger will make no difference," another man says over him, turning to the man on the horse with a deep frown. "Halbarad, what do you carry?"

"It's why I've stopped," he says, trepidation and concern all over his voice as he shifts his large cloak. Primula hears several curses as she also sees what he has hidden: two small hobbit children, no older than ten, huddled against his chest, clearly in deep sleep—though it must be a restless one. "I found them on the road, their parents were dead—I couldn't just leave them!"

"Leave them here," Primula's father says instantly. "They can stay with the others until—"

The horn sounds again, much closer this time, and Primula feels unsteady in her fear as she grasps at Drogo's arm for support. "There's not much time," her father insists, reaching up for the children—until something whizzes past the horse, missing it by mere inches, and the Ranger swears as the creature rears in panic, clutching at his charges to ensure they do not fall.

Primula realizes only after several seconds that this was a weapon, something meant to hurt or even kill—and she does not realize for several seconds more that Drogo is dragging her forward in a rush, desperate to get to the Rangers. "Take Prim with you," he shouts over the sudden ruckus to the mounted man, who does not appear to hear him immediately—not until Drogo releases Primula's hand, reaching to tug at his pant leg—the only part of him he can reach. The man looks down, then, at Drogo's near-panicked face, and Drogo drags Primula further forward. "She's not safe here—she needs to—"

The Ranger hesitates a moment, but he glances behind them to something Primula is not brave enough to witness before nodding, reaching down to grab her by the collar. In those last moments, Drogo presses something into her hands that she grasps on reflex—his gaze follows her up up up into the horse's saddle, where she is barely stabilized, surrounded by two tiny children and a fully grown man as she is. "Be safe," Drogo says to her, though the sound is lost to her in the mayhem of rapidly approaching battle—and she only stares at him with wide, trembling eyes—

Just long enough to see an arrow embed into his back as the Ranger rides away.

.

.

The hours and days pass in a haze as Primula travels further from her home than she ever has in her life. The Ranger is remarkably patient with her, though she thinks she is being irrational, and that a Brandybuck should be stronger than this. He treats her like a fragile child—like he treats the children (Paladin and Esmeralda Took, she learns eventually)—and she thinks that in any other situation she would be offended by this. She's not a child, after all; she's a tween, nearly an adult already—and she is her father's daughter. She should be strong in the face of peril.

She should be but she is not, because she thinks Drogo must be dead, and she saw the orcs clear as daylight before the Ranger urged his horse into the trees behind their great Hall. They were great monstrosities, awful, terrible creatures with crude armor and cruder weapons, and before they were out of earshot she could hear that the fields before her home were filled with screams. Her kin's screams, her friends' screams, and Drogo must be dead and her father as well because the orcs were huge and terrifying and she has never seen anything like them—

She does not sleep well for the nightmares no matter what herbs the Ranger (Halbarad, he has introduced himself several times, ever patient with her when her spinning mind refuses to remember the name) offers to help her slumber. She sees the arrow sticking out of Drogo's back, and her mind conjures similar wounds in her father and her mother and all her siblings, who may not have reached the cellars in time; she sees her home overrun and ruined by orcs, and all of her friends dead and trampled in the mud. She sees war the way a hobbit lass was never meant to, and she cannot sleep for the nightmares.

"My comrades are more than capable of defending your country," Halbarad tells her, many times. "And the dwarves, they are of Erebor—you will not find finer warriors in all the land."

This is all well and good but Drogo must be dead, her friend must be dead and her father was out on the front lawn. He was surrounded by warriors, it is true, but he was unarmed himself (carries no weapon, for what need would a hobbit have of such things?) and surely, with the orcs descending so quickly—

Halbarad can reassure her all he wants but she knows her family must be dead—and the days pass in a haze as he pushes his horse further and further east, desperate to reach the elves who will be too late in saving the Shire from the awful fate that has befallen it.

The large knife she found in her hands hours after they left Brandy Hall behind stays tightly in her grasp or at her hip for the journey—it was a gift from Drogo, a weapon in a country with precious few to spare, and he told her to stay safe and so she will do everything in her power to do so. Halbarad explains that they will easily outpace the orcs, that they brought no steeds of their own to this land—that this horse, the fastest that the Dúnedain have to offer, will leave orcs in the dust no matter how fast they try to run. She hears this and understands, and still holds tight to the knife because Drogo thought it necessary that she carry it and now Drogo is dead and so—and so—

She would have marveled at the lands they travel through in any other situation, she thinks, because they slowly turn from the green hills she knows so well to bluffs and valleys and forests with trees she does not recognize, that Halbarad names with ease whenever she asks. She thinks the lands would be beautiful if her own were not already drenched with blood, and though she is awake through most of the day, sitting in the saddle before Halbarad and grasping Esmeralda and Paladin tightly, she finds that she does not see much of the lands at all.

(She has wanted to travel, just a bit, once she comes of age in a little over a decade. She has never gone past Bree, on rare business trips with her father, but she has been fascinated with tales of dwarves to the north, of the elves making their final pilgrimage to the West. Though she has always thought Rivendell was far beyond the scope of her adventures, now she will reach it through no decision of her own—and she wonders whether such a trip is worth her happiness and safety and family.)

(She decides instantly that it is not.)

Paladin and Esmeralda are faring better, she thinks, and she wonders whether this is because they are young or because they did not see the bloodshed. They explain cheerfully, when Primula asks one day, that they were exploring in the trees behind their smial when their parents suddenly asked whether they wanted to play a game of hide-and-go-seek. Esmeralda is five, and Paladin is only three years her senior, and so they had agreed in an instant, shrieking their delight—until their father had hastily shushed them, reminding them that it was important to stay quiet so they wouldn't be found, right?

They had run deep into the trees, then, hidden themselves in branches and under leaves. They had waited nearly half an hour before each deciding that the game was boring, that clearly their Ma and Da weren't very good at it; they resolved to find them and suggest a game of tag instead.

They had first found each other, and then their parents—who were lying on the ground, taking a nap in uncomfortable, damp mud. Paladin had taken great offense at this, he recalls with all the righteous indignation of a child, and tried to wake them by first shaking his mother vigorously by the shoulder.

He recalls with a sudden frown that she had a cut on her face, that she must have run through some nasty branches or tripped over a root in the earth, but this is no excuse for not waking when her only son calls. They had vacillated and worried and waited for their parents to wake up—and when they did not, Paladin had decided to go to the main road and try to find another adult who could help them. That adult, as it turned out, was Halbarad, who they trusted instantly due to his familiar cloak and kind eyes. He followed them in concern to where their parents slept—and moments later, he had grabbed each of them by the hand and, pulling them away, asked whether they would like to have an adventure with him to Brandy Hall.

Primula realizes, just as Halbarad did, that their parents were killed by orcs, though both children seem blissfully unaware. And she sees the parallels, too, with Drogo, for Paladin's parents clearly hoped to distract the orcs from wherever their children were hiding. After all, if Drogo had not been distracted, making sure Primula was safely with the Ranger, on her way to faraway Rivendell…

If Drogo had not been so preoccupied with her safety then he may still be alive—and she reels with this knowledge, that she may be the reason her friend is dead. She reels and tries to understand and decides she cannot, decides it is impossible and so simply decides not to think on it. She is twenty-one; she is a tween-not-quite-adult and though she has desperately wanted to be treated as an adult just like all her older siblings, she realizes now exactly what being an adult entails.

If being an adult means she has to deal with her home and family destroyed, she wants to stay a child forever.

.

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.

.

Thorin would be furious if he saw her now, but Thorin is not here, and Dís cannot force herself to stand idly by when the Shire is nearly being overrun.

The council had nearly had a collective heart attack when she announced that she was traveling south, less than a week after the main force left, but she had bullied her way through with all of the stubbornness of her line. They had scoffed and blustered but eventually relented (not that she was giving them much of a choice), only insisting that a dozen guards go with her, to ensure nothing happened to her on the road.

Dís huffs after them, only glad that it will provide another dozen axes to the hobbits' defense, and leaves within the hour. She has no intention of dying, of course, and she has long known how to wield her great double-bladed axe; she is just as great a warrior as her brother. She may not be queen, but she is the king's brother—and leaving his allies to their deaths while she sits in safety is something she cannot stomach.

They reach Bree, which is quieter than normal—she learns, after asking a woman barkeep in an uncharacteristically quiet pub, that many of the men of the town have travelled west and south, answering the Rangers' call. "They'll like be glad to have you," she says, nodding to the axe strapped to Dís' back. "Word is they're mostly contained, but orcs in the Shire—and I've heard tell of nastier creatures, too."

Dís thanks her, slaps a silver coin on the bar, and makes a mental note to stop by for dinner and an ale on her way back to the Blue Mountains. She had hoped as much, that her people and the Rangers would be able to subdue the invading force; after all, a baker's dozen dwarves would not do any good, if the orcs had already overrun the country.

But they received that terrifying news nearly three weeks ago, and it's a two-week journey to Bree; though they made all haste, her people may not have arrived in time enough to save those areas first hit. Her jaw clenches at the thought of the southeast of the Shire laid to waste, and only goes out to her guard (dwarves she knows as friends and dwarves she has watched grow from tiny babes), saying that they must make haste to the west, to offer their help where it might yet be needed.

Brandy Hall is a place she has visited, rarely, as an envoy for her brother; though she often has been sent on to the Tooks, further into the Shire, occasionally the more convenient location meant she treated with the Brandybucks instead. Gorbadoc Brandybuck, then, is a familiar face to her, the head of the house and usually a stalwart, brave sort of fellow, especially for a hobbit. But she realizes as soon as they ride up at dusk that the orcs have reached even this far. The bodies have been piled already (and she is grateful to see that the orcs—and Uruks, she realizes with a sinking gut—greatly outnumber the fairer folk) in preparation for burning or burial, and a pair of dwarves are stationed at each entrance to the Hall as a guard, ready to sound the alarm if a second attack were imminent.

The pair at the front gates recognize her, though, and bow slightly, stepping aside as Dís slides off her pony, only briefly stopping to ascertain where the rest are before hurrying into the great smial. Several creatures look up when she finally enters a huge dining room-turned-war room, and though the Rangers and Hobbits do not seem to recognize her immediately, the few dwarves still inside bow slightly in deference. She waves them off, though, glancing around the room before simply deciding to ask, "What is the situation?"

"We killed a score of them five days ago when they attacked the Hall," one of the Rangers—an elder, if the grey in his hair is anything to go by—says briskly. "No survivors, as far as we can tell, and from what messages we've received from Hobbiton, Frogmorton, and further south, it sounds like they've been able to keep them from pushing further north."

"Good," Dís says, something unclenching in her chest, at that. "I have a dozen fresh soldiers with me, ready to fight—tell us where we will be most useful, and we can leave before dawn."

"The south needs guarding, especially if there's a second wave," he replies, frowning down at the map on the large table. "But it is as I said—with so few remaining, we should be able to handle the current invaders with those we have in the field."

Dís nods; she and all the rest are of course ready and willing to shed more orcish blood in defense of these lands, but the fact that they are already trimming their numbers down to next to none is a much better alternative. "We will ride south in the morning," she says, to general agreement of the table. And she hesitates, here, because she must ask—but at the same time, she does not want to hear the answer. "And…what of the casualties?"

Several of the Rangers grimace, but it is one of her own—a dwarf of Ered Luin, for she does not know his name off-hand—who replies. "Among our ranks, perhaps two dozen," he says, and she lets out a small breath. "But that's only those we've heard of. The Rangers and Bree-men have lost at least that many, and as for the hobbits…" he inhales deeply. "Right now, we're estimating at least four hundred dead, with many hundreds more wounded."

She swears under her breath, sending a quick prayer to Mahal that that total does not rise. "Is it the Uruks?" she asks. "I saw the bodies outside—but I was hoping the rumors would be false."

Many of them nod, their faces growing grim. "We're still not sure why they've ventured so far from Mordor," one of the other men says. "There's been talk of sending scouts to the east to find out if other strange things are amiss, but right now, we just don't have the manpower."

Dís nods, thinks suddenly, worriedly, of her brother—heading exactly in that direction right now. He's likely close to the Misty Mountains by this point, especially if they're hurrying; if there is any unrest near the Greenwood or the lands to the south of it, he will likely find out soon enough. "I think that can wait until the situation here is secured," she says, and he nods.

"Until then—"

He's cut off suddenly by a sharp whistle from outside—Dís knows it well, and as the rest of the dwarves stiffen, the men and hobbits quickly realize something is wrong. "Stay inside," one of the men says to the hobbits, grabbing his sword before rushing out of the room after Dís.

She's the first out the front door, where the two grey-faced guards stand with axes at the ready, their gaze focused on a single figure heading directly for them from the east. Dís realizes quickly that this cannot be an orc, unless orcs have finally learned to tame horses; but in this time and place, in the middle of the night, a lone figure riding for them is certainly cause for alarm.

The men clearly can't see as far in the darkness, but have their weapons drawn nonetheless; and as the horse draws closer, they finally see it—and Dís is able to make out features of the man riding astride. He's quite tall and thin, and carries either a staff or a sword upright at his side; she only holds her axe more firmly in hand, plants her feet, and prepares to strike this man from his steed if need be.

But he stops several feet from them, dismounts his horse and plants a staff in the dirt beneath him; Dís realizes what kind of man this must be just as soon as several of the Rangers do, behind her. It's not Gandalf, this much is clear, but it must be one of his fellows—the robes, beard, and staff are unmistakable. "What does a wizard need with us?" she asks, more defensively than perhaps the situation requires, but she has never trusted even the Grey Wizard. This one she does not recognize, and with the current state of things—

"I heard of the situation with the orcs," he says simply, raising an eyebrow at her before glancing to the group of dwarves and men behind. "I only thought to help, if I could."

.

.

Saruman, as his name turns out to be, seems reluctant to squeeze himself into Brandy Hall, but he doesn't have much of a choice when Dís walks back inside, many of the dwarves hurrying to follow. And, after all, the men have stayed here without much complaint, and Saruman is not so much taller than them. If he is so eager to help, she thinks, surely he can handle a few low ceilings.

Sure enough, he follows after the Rangers, his sword yet at his hip and his hand grasping the staff he has to hold horizontal in the house, lest it scrape the ceilings. "What has been done?" Saruman asks once they arrive in the war room, stooped slightly and obviously trying to hide his displeasure about it. Dís tries not to frown at him in impatience; she has ever had little patience for wizards, for Gandalf is ridiculous and flighty and useful only when he wishes to be, but she finds that she dislikes Saruman even more with every passing moment.

"We have the situation well enough in hand," the elder Ranger—Forden—says, and Saruman's thick eyebrows shoot up in surprise, "but there are still several bands of orcs and Uruks unaccounted for. If you are offering to track and slay them, we would be much obliged."

Dís considers the group at large before turning to Saruman, trying to gauge his reaction—though he seems to be much better at hiding his emotions than any dwarf. "It would be a simple task," Saruman says briskly, "and much faster for me to travel alone than for a band of men or dwarves."

"Indeed," Forden says, also considering the wizard before asking, "I think none of us have ever heard your name, Saruman the White, let alone seen you this far west—what has brought you here, truly?"

"I met my fellow, Gandalf, on the road to the north," he says, and then turns to Dís with rather sharp eyes. "He was traveling with a group of dwarves and a halfling—and they told me of their worries for this land. I thought it only right that I come to investigate."

Dís says nothing, though Saruman clearly remembers Thorin, sees the familial resemblance, and hopes for a reaction. "Then we are lucky you met," she says simply, and his eyes narrow a fraction though he says nothing in reply.

"This would change our plans," she continues, turning to the room at large. "The majority of the trackers you have sent out can be summoned back to watch the borders—what would you have me do? I have all of the resources of Ered Luin at my disposal—I can send for whatever the Shire needs."

"You have the permission of your king?" Forden asks, surprised, and she snorts, drawing herself up a bit taller.

"My brother," she says, and his eyes grow wider, "is traveling to the Iron Hills, and has left Ered Luin under my protection until his return. Whatever the Shire needs, it can have."

"My apologies, your majesty," he says hastily, sketching an alarmed sort of bow, but she huffs a bit, waving a hand at him.

"I didn't come here to be treated like a king—I came to help protect and rebuild the Shire. What do we need?"

The discussions continue late into the night, but by dawn, Dís has drawn up a detailed list of personnel and resources required to be brought down from the mountains. She sends it with a fresh rider, a dwarf of middle-age who has served her family for decades, that the council will recognize and trust. "Tell them that if they argue, I will come and shave their beards myself," she says, and he knows her well enough to know that she's entirely serious; he nods gravely, pockets the list with Dís' seal imprinted upon it, and says that it will be done.

It's dawn, and several of the hobbits are starting to wake; she sees women and children about when she was starting to wonder whether there were any left. She is glad to see them, despite her exhaustion—despite the trauma clear on their faces and the fear in their eyes as they wonder whether their home will be safe again.

Gorbadoc, she sees too, when she did not the night before; she would have expected him to be in the war room, deep in discussion about how to keep these lands safe, but she understands now why he was not. He's clearly wounded from the attack, though not critically—his arm is thickly bound and held in a sling, and he walks with a distinct limp, favoring that same side.

"Lord Dís!" he cries, when he sees her, stumping his way over as quickly as he can despite his children's squawks. "I was wondering whether you were behind our new dwarven defenders."

"We would not abandon you to creatures of evil," she says instantly, frowning a bit as his injuries become more apparent, but he waves off her concern with his good hand.

"Well, we appreciate it nonetheless," he says, a wan smile on his face though it's just as dampened as all the rest. "I only wish they had not managed to push so far east."

"Aye," she says, grimacing, and he grasps at her arm, then, his face growing grave.

"Tell me, what do you know of Rivendell?" he asks, and she stills, blinking at him, wondering where this has come from. "A Ranger came here, moments before we were attacked—he said he was riding for that place, and took my youngest daughter with him, to protect her. But I know nothing of Lord Elrond or his subjects."

She looks at him, the worry unconcealed on his face, the way his good hand trembles on her arm, just a bit. "I have never dealt with Elrond myself, nor has my brother," she says, and Gorbadoc's face falls at that. "But I think he would never turn away children, especially those in need. I have no love for elves, but I know that those of Rivendell defend all that is good—I'm sure your daughter will be in safe hands until she is able to come home."

Gorbadoc still looks distressed, but something relaxes in his frame. "I appreciate your honesty," he says, releasing her to rub at his face. "All of the Rangers have blindly reassured me she will be perfectly fine, but the road is not always such a safe place. They say their comrade is more than capable of defending her, but…" he trails off, shaking his head and rubbing at his face again.

"My sons are on the road with their uncle at this very moment," Dís says, and he looks up at her. "I understand your fears—but I think you are not being too optimistic, hoping that your daughter will return safely home."

He looks closely at her face, realizes what she can't bring herself to say, and slowly, eventually, nods. "Thank you, Lord Dís," he says, and she shakes her head.

"Just Dís, please," she says, and considers telling him that if anything, she's a Lady—they've worked together enough, after all. But right now, after everything, she decides it may not be the best time. "I will be here several days longer before I travel west, to Hobbiton—please find me if you need anything more."

"Thank you," he says again, honestly, before turning and stumping away.

.

.

Dís is sitting on the stoop outside, smoking and enjoying a short moment of quiet away from the madness inside—planning to find a quiet corner to lay down her bedroll and sleep for a few hours before returning to her duties to the Shire. Her thoughts are meandering in no particular direction (though they certainly find their way to Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin often enough), and so she is greatly surprised when a large shadow crosses her, blocking the sun; she looks up sharply to see a mass of white, and she realizes in vague distaste who has sought her out in her rare moment of solitude.

"Lord Dís," he says, and she nearly raises an eyebrow—wondering whether he is keeping up appearances for the men and hobbits, or whether wizards truly cannot tell the difference between male and female dwarves. "I would like a word, if you wouldn't mind."

"By all means," she says, gesturing to the stoop beside her. The height difference is striking either way, but she has been on her feet much of the night and all of the morning; she'd like to remain seated for as long as possible. "What do you wish to discuss?"

"I met your brother on the road," he says, considering her for several seconds before remaining standing. "Thorin, I believe his name was. You say he is traveling to the Iron Hills?"

"Aye," she says, not hiding her frown as she sets down her pipe, looking up at Saruman.

"I just thought it strange that visiting kin would require the company of a wizard and a halfling," Saruman says, ostensibly surprised, and Dís' eyes narrow. "Gandalf's reasoning is often nonsensical, but this seems beyond his scope, even to me."

Thorin would be on his feet by now, attempting to lessen the height difference, attempting to prove his superiority against this presumptuous creature. But Dís is not her brother, and so she stays seated, flexes her toes in her woolen socks, and swallows down her rage that this wizard is pressing so insistently into dwarven affairs. "I wasn't aware you were so interested in dwarven politics," she says lightly, her eyebrows rising as if in surprise. "Gandalf offered to travel with Thorin—I know nothing more of their decision."

"The king's brother is not privy to the details of his quest?" Saruman asks, sounding just as surprised, and Dís swallows down her sudden rage. Thorin, she knows, would never have told a strange wizard of their true purpose—and if he is suggesting that their journey is not simply to visit Dáin, then either Gandalf told him, or he has gone digging into business that does not concern him.

"I know nothing of a quest," she says, sharp. "Thorin wished to visit Dáin, who he has not seen in many decades. Our friends and cousins who have kin in the Iron Hills asked to accompany him. I decided to stay behind and ensure the mountain was governed properly. And I'm still not sure why a wizard is so interested in my brother's travels."

"When I came upon them, they were losing a fight against three mountain trolls," Saruman says, and something has shifted in his tone even as Dís' heart freezes in her chest. "Had I not intervened, they certainly would have perished."

Is this a threat? "I'm sure they thanked you for saving them," she bites out, standing abruptly and turning toward the door. "And I would thank you for keeping your nose out of business that does not concern you."

"The reclamation of Erebor concerns all of Middle Earth," he says sharply, and she freezes, glad her face is away from him as she makes an effort to school it into something blank and reasonable. "Unleashing Smaug upon the rest of us could have terrifying consequences—or have you forgotten how quickly he took down an entire mountain?"

She is silent for several moments more, working over the implications of this. Saruman, at least as powerful as Gandalf—Thorin's trump card—knows and is clearly displeased at the thought of the mountain reclaimed; his thinly veiled threats resonate in his head, and she wonders what he plans to do to stop them. Claim the mountain for himself? Kill Thorin and all the others to stop them?

The possibilities spin endlessly, and she knows she may never know enough to realize them herself—and so only bites back a snarl, stepping through the door and slamming it behind her.

He does not follow—likely, received the reaction he was looking for (that Dís was dearly hoping she would not give to him), and she finds her hands shaking long minutes later; she finds her way to sleeping quarters she could borrow for a few hours to calm her mind, maybe sleep if she is lucky. But Saruman's threats are clear and obvious in her mind, and Thorin is too far away for her to do anything about it.

She trusts her brother, certainly, to protect himself and all his companions, but if Saruman follows through on his threats, decides he will stop at nothing to keep them from Erebor, what could a dwarf—even a dwarven king—do against such a powerful wizard?

She sleeps, for she has not slept in days and she is exhausted, but her slumber is not restful—and when she wakes, Saruman is gone.

Chapter Text

Primula does not know how long it takes them to reach Rivendell—only that when they do, she is more exhausted than she has been in her life. She has not slept well, since they left the Shire behind—and their days are spent in long hours in the saddle, Halbarad holding her close so as not to let her fall. Paladin’s and Esmeralda’s safety have been left largely to her—and, as the novelty of being so high up on the horse wore off on them quickly, she had to entertain them as well as she could, for the weeks they spend on the road.

She is not angry about it (grateful, even, because their games tend to distract her from her wandering thoughts), but it is exhausting, and when Halbarad finally announces that they should reach Rivendell late that afternoon, she finds herself sagging in relief. She has heard precious few things about elves, from books she has read and from the Tooks and Brandybucks who have traveled, infrequently, this far east, and she knows them to be kind and generous creatures. Surely, they will take care of two small hobbit children and a tween not yet of age. Hopefully, even, they will help them in traveling home.

When will they be allowed home? Primula isn’t sure—doesn’t know whether their homes still stand—but she has been thinking, when things are quiet, and she knows she must return there. She needs to know whether her father is alive, and whether the Shire has been overrun by orcs. She is petrified of the answers but she thinks the not knowing must be worse, and she has been working up the courage to ask Halbarad on the morning he announces their imminent arrival.

“How long will we need to stay there?” she asks him after they have been on the road for some time; he has pointed out the place that the land falls away, several miles ahead, and if she squints, she thinks she can make out the landmarks he refers to. But it will be hours more until they arrive—until Halbarad will likely need to leave her in the safety of strange elves—and she tries to swallow down her discomfort at the thought.

Halbarad hums, behind her, and pushes the horse a little faster. “Until the Shire is safe for your return, certainly,” he says after a moment, and Primula swallows. “A month, perhaps less—elven steeds can travel even faster than ours, especially their messengers. And I would be surprised if my comrades have not begun to contain the situation already.”

“But—the orcs…” she trails off, panic still rising in her gut at the thought of those awful creatures, and Halbarad grips her a little tighter.

“There are only so many of them—and more than enough dwarves and men to subdue them. I swear to you, Primula, your lands will be kept safe.”

“But Drogo is dead,” she says, trying not to let it choke off into a sob—and the weight of his knife weighs heavily on her hip. Halbarad says nothing, though she thinks she can feel his breath hitch in his belly—and he only drives the horse ever onward.

She dozes, she thinks, because very soon she sees the land drop away before them into a great valley. She cannot yet see what lies at its bottom, but Halbarad seems greatly relieved—and Primula realizes easily that this must be Rivendell.

He guides the horse down a narrow path on the valley wall, and when Primula looks down, just the once, she feels an awful rush of vertigo at how far below the city is. Hobbits were never made for high places, after all (and riding atop a horse has been shock enough for her, who has not once mounted even a pony), and though she thinks she trusts Halbarad to keep her and the children safe, it is still a terrifying prospect, that her feet are so far from the safety of the earth below.

They reach the bottom of the valley quickly and cross into the city proper, where enormously tall creatures stand at attention, weapons held at their sides as they stare at Primula and the others. Their faces are utterly unreadable, and Primula feels discomfort settling in her stomach as Halbarad stops several feet from them, dropping the horse’s reins and getting out of the saddle before assisting Primula and the children with the same. “I must speak with Lord Elrond,” he says, and his voice is rather breathless. Primula notices this only dimly, staring at the cobblestone beneath her feet, holding Esmeralda’s smaller hand in her own as they wait to see what the elves will say.

“What brings you here with such company?” one of them says, though when Primula glances up, she cannot tell which of them has spoken.

“The Shire has been invaded by orcs,” Halbarad says, his voice ticking up a notch in impatience. “I would request your aid in helping the hobbits—”

“Who are these?” the same elvish voice asks, and when she looks up again, this time she is able to detect some amount of shock and concern in their features, so high above her own.

“They’re children,” Halbarad says, leaving Primula to wonder how such creatures could mistake them for anything but. “They would have died had I not brought them with me!”

The elves are silent for a moment longer before one turns swiftly, disappearing up the steps in a matter of moments. The other stands at attention, though Primula can feel his eyes on her, wondering, probing—puzzling out whatever elves might wish to know about her kind. “Are you an elf?” Paladin asks abruptly, and Primula looks over in a bit of alarm as he takes a small step forward.

The elf turns to him, something like surprise blinking across his features though it is gone just as quickly. “I am,” he says simply, staring down at Paladin as if not sure what to make of him.

“I’m a hobbit,” Paladin says, as if he had asked in return. “My name’s Paladin, and this’s my sister Esmeralda. An’ our cousin Primula,” he says, as if as an afterthought, gesturing to the two of them. The elf’s eyes flicker to the two of them, appraising, though he says nothing else.

Not long after, though, the second guard returns, an even taller elf hurrying behind him, his face creased in worry. As Primula looks between the three of them, they all appear to be the same age: right around their prime, and they move with a fluidity that she has never seen before. “The Shire has been attacked?” this new elf says, his voice deep and troubled as his gaze sweeps the hobbits before honing in on Halbarad.

“A few hundred orcs at least, and a quarter that many Uruks, according to those on the front lines,” Halbarad nods, his jaw clenching as Primula looks up at him. “The dwarves of Ered Luin have already come to help drive them off, and the men of Bree as well—but if you have any relief supplies to offer, they will be accepted gladly. Soldiers, as well, in case…”

In case her home has not been secured, though he does not say this aloud—and the elf’s face grows grimmer still. “I will send them out at dawn,” he says, and Halbarad lets out a heavy breath beside her. “Would you have us keep the children here?”

“If you can,” Halbarad says, a hand falling on Primula’s shoulder. “They—they need a safe place to stay, until they can return home.”

“You are welcome,” the elf says instantly, and though Primula had not allowed herself to think anything else, she finds herself relieved nonetheless. “We have spare quarters for all of you—you can stay for as long as you need.” A small but warm smile grows on his face as he looks between the three of them, and Primula finds herself smiling tremulously back. “You said Uruks were there?” the elf says then, turning back to Halbarad, and the man grunts an assent, his grip on Primula’s shoulder tightening.

“We’ve not the slightest idea why they’ve come so far west,” he says, his voice low, “but we’ve dealt with them as best we can. Erebor’s dwarves are mighty warriors, and they’ve been a great help—when we left, they were confident the threat would be contained.”

The elf’s frown grows considering, at the mention of the dwarves, but he says nothing—only gesturing for the four of them to follow him up the stairs. “I have someone here who may wish to speak with you,” he says to Halbarad, who is walking at a slower pace to allow the hobbits to keep up—and after a moment of apparent confusion, the elf slows to match them. “I am Elrond,” he says to Primula as they walk, and she can hear kindness behind his voice—a desire to put her at ease in such a strange place. “These are my lands—I can assure you, no harm will come to you or the little ones while you are here.”

“Thank you,” she says, hates the way her voice wavers—and realizes, after a moment, that she has forgotten her manners. “I’m Primula Brandybuck,” she says, “and these are Paladin and Esmeralda Took, my cousins.”

“We are well met,” Elrond says kindly, his eyes creasing a bit. “If I’m not terribly mistaken, there is someone here you may wish to meet, as well.”

Primula blinks, unsure of who in an elven city she would like to meet—but decides not to question it for now, as the exhaustion of their journey is beginning to set in in earnest. “If you would like to eat, dinner is in an hour,” he continues, then turns to Esmeralda as she yawns widely. “Or, if you prefer, we can show you to our guest quarters and bring you food later, after you’ve rested.”

Primula hesitates, not wanting to be rude, but…Paladin looks just as tired as his sister, and even she feels her muscles ache and her eyelids droop. They have been on the road for not quite two weeks, but it has been a hard ride, and she really would like to rest in a bed. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she hedges, and Elrond’s smile broadens, at that.

“Not at all,” he says immediately, and she finds herself smiling back.

.

.

.

.

Bilbo knows these dwarves, and so he knows that after a week in Rivendell, each and every one of them is desperate to be on the road again.

Their manners have been—well, not impeccable, but certainly an improvement over the last time. There has been no bathing in the ancient fountains, or furniture repurposed for kindling, or even many foul words directed toward the elves. Those most unhappy with their current lodgings have kept it largely to themselves (likely at Thorin’s behest), and anyhow, they are planning to leave early the next morning. Though Bilbo will miss his old home dearly, he knows they must press on toward the mountains before much longer.

Gandalf has been tied up in meetings with Elrond—and, Bilbo suspects, Galadriel—but has insisted they wait for him to finish before they continue on through the mountains; this has relieved some of the Company and irritated more. “He can catch up with us later,” Dwalin grumbles at dinner one night, and Glóin mumbles what might be an agreement—but none can argue against the filling food, the restful sleep, and the hospitable hosts they have encountered here. Though Bilbo does not doubt that the older dwarves will cling to their prejudices, he hopes that perhaps some of the younger ones will see and learn.

Dinner this last night is just as crowded as usual, though Elrond comes in rather late (trailing a grey-faced Gandalf behind) and more of the chatter than usual seems to be directed toward the dwarves’ table. It’s all in Sindarin, of course, but that only heightens the dwarves’ paranoia; more than once, Dwalin has glanced to Bilbo with deeply furrowed brows, asking silently what they’re saying.

He can’t hear full conversations, of course, and the elves closest to them seem to be making an effort not to say anything—so he can catch nothing but scattered words and phrases. He can’t deny, however, that the elves seem to be looking toward their table—his half in particular—more often than normal, especially after they have been here a full week. And the words he can pick out—Shire, orcs, hobbits—have his stomach sinking low enough that he knows he needs answers, now.

“I need a word with Gandalf,” he says suddenly, not so hungry anymore at the thought of what might have happened to his homeland. Ori and Fíli, nearest him, smile their encouragement as he stands up.

“If they’re planning to stop us—“ Dori starts, from his brother’s side, his scowl deep, but Bilbo waves him off impatiently, the stone in his gut sinking lower.

“I’m sure it’s nothing of the sort—I’ll tell you what he says.”

Gandalf and Elrond are in deep, serious discussion at the high table (Thorin has taken to sitting with his Company during meals except when he needs to speak with either of them, and Bilbo can feel all of the dwarves’ sharp eyes on his back as he approaches). Gandalf looks up abruptly when he comes upon them, and his jaw clenches even tighter; Elrond’s face falls as well, and Bilbo assumes the worst even before they open their mouths.

“The dwarves won’t stand to be here any longer,” he says, hoping that perhaps he’s misunderstood. “If you’re going to try and keep us here—“

“I’m afraid the dwarves may not have much of a say in it,” Gandalf says, and Bilbo’s stomach sinks. “There is someone here…that I think you may like to meet.”

“What do you mean?” he asks sharply. “I’m not stupid, Gandalf, I heard the elves talking—was the Shire attacked?”

Both of them look surprised, at this—and Bilbo realizes faintly that there is no reason for him to speak Sindarin—but he does not have the patience for this now. “Gandalf,” he says again, louder, and Elrond sighs.

“As we understand it, the situation is under control,” he says, and Bilbo feels like he may be sick—“but yes, there were hostile forces in the Shire.”

“A Dúnedain Ranger arrived this morning,” Gandalf says, when Bilbo does not reply. “He requested relief and precautionary defenses, and said that the men and dwarves have everything in hand. Your people have nothing further to worry about.”

But they have everything to worry about; who would think to attack the Shire now, in these times? No hobbit has done anything appreciable in the outside world in living memory, nor have they attracted any sort of attention from the other races. This never happened, the last time; this was not even a distant concern until they met the Ranger in Bree, that the Shire might be attacked while they are gone.

Everything tilts, for a moment, and Bilbo finds himself grasping at the table before him to stay upright; Gandalf looks toward him in even more concern, but Bilbo, he—why has this happened? He’s sure the Shire wasn’t untouched in the great War, but—Frodo isn’t even alive yet, let alone any of his younger friends, and no hobbit (except him, he realizes) is any sort of danger to the world at large. The Shire has always kept to itself, but now—now—

“The Ranger brought three children with him,” Elrond says, his voice gentle but cutting through Bilbo’s thoughts easily, and Bilbo looks up through rather blurring eyes. “Two Tooks and a Brandybuck, as they introduced themselves. I don’t know if you know them personally, but it might be good for them to see someone of their own race when they are so far from home.”

Bilbo finds himself nodding, wondering who these children are (because both families have many) and why they accompanied the Ranger all the way to Rivendell. Gandalf levers himself to his feet, and Elrond’s face is creased in sorrow as he stays seated at the high table. Bilbo’s wandering gaze finds the dwarves for a fleeting moment, all of whom are staring after him with increasing alarm on their faces, but he can’t find anything reassuring to tell them before he leaves. He only looks away, down the dining hall, and tries to keep his knees from collapsing beneath him.

It’s only a few moments before Thorin has abandoned the table and fallen into step beside him, worry in his brow as he looks between Bilbo and Gandalf. “What has happened?” he asks urgently, but does not press when neither of them answer.

Bilbo should know where they’re going—he lived here for twenty years, after all—but he is blind and deaf to wherever they are walking, and more than once, Thorin has had to correct his path before he walks into a wall or off a bridge. The light is failing, and several elves are busying themselves lighting the lanterns throughout the city—and the darkness about them suddenly feels full of danger, of orcs eager to destroy them all, of—of Uruks, invading the Shire for reasons beyond even the brightest minds of the Age.

Thorin’s hand finds his shoulder, briefly, a warm and steadying presence as the silence stretches longer. Thorin, who has ever been averse to unnecessary physical contact; Thorin, who cares for him, here, as a member of his Company.

Thorin, who has seen his own home ravaged and burned and stolen by an evil creature—and he realizes all of a sudden that the dwarven king may understand what is going on even better than he.

They keep the silence, though, until Gandalf stops before a door in what may be the guest quarters; he knocks gently, asking whether he might come in, and a voice that Bilbo thinks is familiar agrees. The wizard pushes the door open slowly, quietly, and gestures for Bilbo to enter before him. Dread growing from the ends of his ears to the tips of his toes, Bilbo steps inside.

A hobbit lass is sitting up on one of the too-large beds, her hair all awry and tied back thoughtlessly—dressed in what must be rarely used clothes for elven children. She looks utterly exhausted, but looks surprised to see Bilbo—and after another moment of blank staring, Bilbo realizes that he recognizes this girl, as well.

Primula Brandybuck—Frodo’s long-dead mother—stands from the bed quickly, her eyes widening as she glances to Gandalf and Thorin, stepping into the room behind him. “Uncle Bilbo?” she asks, and her voice is hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

The answer is simple—he’s on an adventure; he’s helping out some old friends; he’s traveling to the east, for a time. But they all choke him, stop in his throat and refuse to emerge, and he only steps forward, crossing the distance quickly and pulling her into a crushing hug.

He’s not sure which of them starts crying first, but Primula’s hands are balled tightly into the back of his jacket, and he is holding her head reassuringly against his shoulder even as tears fall down his own cheeks. He can’t promise that everything is all right—even that everything will be all right, because he knows nothing of the casualties in their homeland or even, perhaps, in their families. But this embrace is something he can provide to her now, and so he will. If it will help her, even a small amount, he will do it gladly.

“There were orcs,” she says after several moments, very quietly, and Bilbo hears Thorin swear softly behind him. “They—they attacked the Hall, and…”

She trails off, only gripping at him tighter, and Bilbo threads his fingers into her hair in return. “You’re safe now,” he says quietly, because this much he can promise her. “And—and Gandalf said everything is under control, in the Shire.”

“Drogo is dead,” she sobs into his shoulder, “and Da was outside when—“

She chokes off again, her entire body trembling in Bilbo’s arms, but Bilbo freezes—because Drogo had traveled from Hobbiton to Brandy Hall to visit Primula, it’s true, and Bilbo gave him his mother’s prized knife for protection. But such a knife—no matter how elaborately carved or sharp—will do nothing in the hands of an untrained hobbit against the likes of orcs, and—

And if Drogo is dead (he feels his knees weaken at the thought) then Frodo—Frodo—

He thinks something might pass his lips; perhaps it is the name of his nephew, or of his cousin, or an inarticulate sound without meaning, but it does not matter because no one questions it; Gandalf is silent, moving across the room to guide the two of them to the bed before they collapse. “Thorin’s kin will defend your people to the death, Miss Brandybuck,” he says, and perhaps it is meant as comfort, but Primula only sobs all the louder, turning to lie down on the too-large bed and bury her face in the pillow.

Thorin is yet silent, obviously wary of offering empty platitudes to a child who has watched her home invaded and her friend killed. But he hovers like a watchful guardian, moving closer to the bed, his presence large and quiet and more comforting than Bilbo is expecting. “Elrond said you were traveling with two Tooks?” Bilbo asks carefully after several seconds of silence. “Are they all right?”

Primula hiccoughs but nods, sitting up enough to pull the covers down a bit. A mound that Bilbo had taken as rumples in the sheets turns into children—far too small, too young, and sound asleep, hugging each other tight, as if in comfort. It takes Bilbo a moment to place them, but Primula answers for him: “It’s Paladin and Esmeralda. Their—their parents, they were killed by…”

Bilbo swallows, watching their tiny chests rise and fall in measured slumber, trying to reconcile them with the adult hobbits he has long known, in that other life. Paladin is to be Thain, is to father Peregrin, a member of the Fellowship—but now he has not yet finished his first decade of life.

Pippin—and Esmeralda’s son, Merry—were ever close friends of Frodo’s, but now—now Frodo will never—

The sob escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Gandalf sighs heavily, seating himself on the bed beside them. “We will find out why this has happened,” he says gravely, looking between the two of them, looking to the children, deep in slumber. “Orcs do not mobilize in such a way without great cause. And I think you can rest assured that the dwarves and Rangers will not leave your lands undefended.”

He trusts Thorin’s sister and their armies, of course, to protect the Shire (something he never would have even considered, before this journey); he trusts that the Rangers will put their lives on the line for all of his neighbors and kin. But he does not know why orcs would descend on his homeland at all, why such an attack would come out of nowhere, with no provocation, with no cause—

Thorin has moved to inspect something on the bedside table, a crease in his brow, and Bilbo, in this moment, is so incredibly grateful that Thorin understands enough of the situation to realize exactly how alarming this is. Here is someone with whom he can discuss the situation, to an extent; here is someone who understands that the Shire was never attacked, in that last life, and that neither of them have done anything to provoke such a large change in Middle Earth.

It’s something the two of them will have to discuss at a later time, but right now Bilbo needs to be exactly where he is right now: offering comfort to Primula, who is trembling and obviously traumatized though she is doing an admirable job of being brave about it—and Paladin and Esmeralda, whose youth may either help or hinder their recovery. But if their parents were murdered…

“Miss Brandybuck,” Thorin says, his voice nothing approaching dangerous or even imperious, but she jumps badly nonetheless, turning to him with wide eyes just as Bilbo does the same. “Is this your knife?”

He points to the end table, where a knife does indeed lie in its sheath, and Bilbo recognizes it instantly—it’s his mother’s, the knife he gave Drogo. He blinks at it stupidly for a moment, wondering how it could have possibly traveled to Rivendell.

“It’s Drogo’s,” she says, something desperate in her tone as she reaches for the knife, snatching it out of Thorin’s reach—though he had made no indication of wishing to touch it. “He—he told me to be safe, and gave me his knife.”

Bilbo sees no reason to correct her—does not want her to think he might be asking for it back—and only turns back to Thorin, who has a rather odd expression on his face. “It will serve you well,” he says eventually, bowing his head as Primula looks on. “That was smithied by dwarven hands—treat it with care, and it will live to protect your children and grandchildren, as well.”

His mother carried a dwarven knife? Even Bilbo didn’t know that; he only knew that she had prized it for the intricate ivy curling round the hilt and the sheath, the fact that it was a memorial of her travels, in her younger years, before she married his father. But now, of course, is not the time to question Thorin about it, and it’s clear that Primula is rather attached to the knife. He has no qualms about leaving it to her, especially now that he has Sting—but he may ask to borrow it, if only to bring it to one of the dwarves and ask if they might know where it came from.

“Thank you,” Primula says to Thorin, a little unsure, and a ghost of a smile appears on his face.

“We have some toymakers among us,” he says, nodding to Paladin and Esmeralda, who in their sleep have moved slightly toward Bilbo, grabbing at his pants and shirt with tiny hands. “If you think they would enjoy something to play with, I’m sure neither of them would mind crafting a few things for them.”

Primula blinks, glancing to Bilbo, and he realizes suddenly that she still has no idea of who Thorin is. “This is Thorin,” he says hastily. “We’re—ah, we’re traveling together for a while, with several other dwarves. Gandalf wanted to speak with Lord Elrond—that’s why we’re here.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice falling a bit. “So you’re not staying?”

“We’ll be here for a few more days,” Thorin says immediately, and Bilbo sees Gandalf turn, appraising, “but—yes, we will need to move on.”

Primula swallows back on a sob, grasping for Bilbo’s hand, and Thorin looks to him, then. “Master Baggins, I would have a word later, if you are available,” he says eventually, and Bilbo blinks, nods.

“I’ll—well, I’ll come find you in our quarters later.”

Thorin stares between the two of them for a moment longer before nodding, bowing slightly again to Primula before letting himself out. Gandalf follows soon after, promising her again that no harm will come to them here.

Bilbo almost wishes his friends had stayed—Thorin, certainly, has experienced such grief as Primula saw and felt in the Shire, that even Bilbo—reeling from the news—cannot understand. And Gandalf—well, he is certainly frustrating, and not always entirely helpful, but Bilbo thinks the little ones would love to be distracted by some small magic tricks, given the opportunity.

But they have left him alone with the children; Primula is not comfortable with their presence. He watches the closed door for a moment before turning back to her, pulling her again into an embrace.

Drogo is dead—Frodo, his beloved nephew whom he would do anything for, is now nothing but a ghost, known only to him. And this is crushing, devastating, one of the worst things he can imagine—but Primula is here, gripping at his shirt and dampening his shoulder again though she’s obviously trying to control herself. Frodo is gone but Primula is here and desperate for comfort—and after what has happened, he must do what he can, and grieve later.

.

.

.

.

She came to Ered Luin nearly sixty years ago.

Thorin remembers her clearly; after all, how often have hobbits ever left their plush and safe lands to the south? The rumors spread first from the guards at the gate, who let her in after a spirited discussion; then, from the pub. There, she entered, ordered a drink, and asked where she might find a place to sleep for the next several days.

Many dwarves had never seen a hobbit before, but there was nothing else she could have been. She was smaller than even the smallest of adult dwarves, utterly clean-shaven, and did not wear boots, even though the summer was burning hot and the outer city’s cobblestone must have been scorching on her soles.

She was taken in by a family with a room to spare for the week that she stayed, because what need would Ered Luin have for an inn? She didn’t seem to spend much time there, though, but for the three meals dwarves eat as a family, when they can manage it; she relished mealtime and took to the dwarves’ version of it with a hearty enthusiasm. Many noted, though, that when she was out in the streets, admiring the stonework of the underground tunnels or staring up at the sky, she nearly always had a snack in hand.

Thorin was wary when she first arrived (their colony was barely four decades established, and she could have been more than she claimed to be), but even he, by the end, rather grudgingly admitted that she was akin to a small hurricane, full of enthusiasm for life and learning whatever they would give her about their culture. “I’ve never met a dwarf before,” she said every time someone asked. “I just came of age, and eventually I’m probably going to settle down—but I’d like to see a bit more of the world before then.”

She found her way into the forge a couple of days after she arrived, and Dwalin had nearly been too surprised to be gruff when he asked her what she could possibly need in such a place. “I’d like to order a knife,” she said, smiling charmingly at the two of them and the apprentices on duty (including Fíli, a few years too young, yet, for a true apprenticeship). “I know dwarven craftsmanship is beyond compare, and if nothing else, I’d like something to remember this place by.”

.

.

Thorin has created hundreds of knives in his life, but he recognizes his own craftsmanship when he sees it, even decades later—even in lands where he would never expect to see dwarven handiwork. He never saw Belladonna Took after she left Ered Luin for the east, laden down with hearty food and several gifts for her family and a new knife. Though he hasn’t fully forgotten about her, she has not so much as entered his mind, after so many decades, after everything that’s happened. But that knife—very few dwarves would ever order such embellishments, and seeing it again (even so unexpectedly) reminds him instantly of who commissioned him for it.

He supposes it’s not unreasonable that Belladonna is related to this Drogo, who gave Primula the knife (whose death Bilbo seems to be taking particularly hard). But it’s still rather a surprise—something that he finds himself lost in in these few moments before he returns to the Company, leaving Bilbo alone with his kin. Primula was small and exhausted and obviously wary of him despite Bilbo’s reassurances; the other two—the children—were barely larger than dwarven babes, small and fragile and curled around each other for protection and comfort.

Survivors of an attack on their country—Thorin saw himself, a century and more ago, in Primula’s traumatized eyes, and wishes he could do anything at all to take that away. But he knows he cannot—knows that even Bilbo cannot, because her friend has been killed and her family was attacked, and her life has been forever altered.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose and parts with Gandalf at the Company’s rooms, letting himself in and bracing himself for the barrage of questions. And it’s true—everyone looks up expectantly when he enters, but they must see something on his face, because none of them say anything. Dwalin stands quickly, his face draining of color as he only stares at Thorin’s face.

“Thorin?” Kíli asks, breaking the silence. He turns toward his nephews, and their faces are grave in a way he only rarely sees.

“The Shire was attacked,” he says, to swears and barely-contained violence against the surrounding furniture. “Three children—Bilbo’s kin—came here with a Dúnedain Ranger, who asked Elrond for aid.”

“How bad is it?” Bofur asks, his eyes wide, as he twists his hat between his fingers.

“The Ranger said it is likely under control,” he says. “Dís mobilized a portion of our army in their defense. However…”

He finds that he doesn’t know what else to say, here, and nobody else seems to, either. As he glances among the Company, Thorin sees Ori wiping at his eyes; Glóin holding his face in his hands—Fíli’s face is a frightening, chalky white as he sits heavily on the bed.

“Do the children need anything?” Bombur asks suddenly. “If they’re—injured, or—“

“They seemed unharmed physically,” Thorin reassures them. “The two younger ones, however, likely don’t realize what’s happened. I will defer to Bilbo and Gandalf on this, but if we can do anything to help them, I would request we do it, to the best of our abilities.”

“Of course,” Bofur says instantly. “How old are they? I’m sure we could—find some good wood ‘round here, carve them up some toys—“

Bifur nods instantly, his eyes lighting up a bit at the thought of making toys. “Barely out of toddlerhood,” Thorin says, estimates, because he has no experience in dealing with young hobbits. “The elder, Primula, seems near her majority, but also understands the situation much better.”

“Aye,” Óin says gravely, his lips pressed thin. “We’ll be here several more days, then?”

“If Bilbo wants us to stay,” Balin says suddenly, and many in the Company turn to him in surprise. “I would not be surprised, Thorin, if our burglar wishes to return to his home.”

He has thought of this—he considered this the moment he realized what had happened. And he would not blame Bilbo for it—not for a moment—but from what they discussed earlier in the week, he doubts it will happen. Bilbo had seemed hell-bent on finishing this quest of his, whatever it may be; he’s determined that he’s the only one to do it, even, and has told no one else its details.

Bilbo is distraught, but Thorin knows his friend—and he thinks that he will not abandon them now. Even beyond his own quest, he had seemed sincere in his promises to help them retake Erebor and keep Fíli and Kíli alive. Thorin knows Bilbo enough, at the very least, to think that he will continue on. It may not be in a hobbit’s nature to exact revenge, but he’s sure he would try to honor his friend’s memory—to prove to the world that he isn’t going to give up.

If Bilbo wishes to return to the Shire, Thorin will respect his decision—but he dearly hopes that it will not be the case.

.

.

Bilbo seeks them out several hours later, when Thorin has long assumed he will spend the night with his kin. His eyes are exhausted and shot through with red, but many of the Company look heartened to see him as he closes the door quietly behind him.

“What can we do, lad?” Balin asks after a few moments, and his desire to help is echoed in the rest of the dwarves’ faces as they look to Bilbo.

“I think—your offer of toys is very kind,” Bilbo says, blinking before turning to Bofur. “Paladin and Esmeralda are very small; they don’t need anything intricate. Just something to play with and occupy their time until they can go home. Gandalf thinks they will be here for a couple of weeks.”

“And the elder? Primula?” Balin asks, his face growing a bit grimmer. Bilbo looks away.

“She’s very scared, and she misses her family. I don’t think any of you will be able to help, unfortunately—but if you can, I’ll certainly let you know.”

Everyone seems a bit disheartened by this, but Thorin knows that these are Bilbo’s relatives—they need to defer to his judgment. “Might I have a word, Bilbo?” he asks after another beat of silence.

Bilbo looks to him, staring for a moment before nodding slowly. He turns and walks silently out the door, and as Thorin looks at his hunched back, it looks as if he’s aged decades in the last several hours. He breathes deeply, claps Balin on the shoulder as he stands, and follows Bilbo into the hall.

“We—have been discussing,” Thorin says haltingly, not entirely sure of how to approach this but determined to give Bilbo the option nonetheless. “If you wish to stay here with your kin, or return to the Shire, none among us would hold it against you. Do not feel obligated to our quest—every one of us understands losing a home.”

Bilbo sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and hugging himself, rocking back on his heels. “It’s crossed my mind,” he says quietly. “I’ve got decades before…” he trails off, swallows. “But I promised you my help, and no Baggins ever goes back on his word. After all, there’s nothing I can do at home, but if I can help ensure you reclaim Erebor…”

“We can manage,” he says immediately, frowning just a bit. “I know the particulars of the quest—likely more than you, if it has been so long. And I refuse to make the same mistakes as the last time.”

Bilbo looks up to him, then, weighing his response. “Why was the Shire attacked?” he asks, and something in his voice reminds Thorin a little too much of himself, asking Thrór the same question of their own home. “What could we have changed so much that…?”

He doesn’t seem able to finish the thought, but Thorin understands him anyway. With what small things they have done so far, the world has changed so much; what will happen once they survive the battle, once—?

“Drogo was—“ Bilbo chokes, here, and wipes quickly at his eyes. “He was my cousin, you see. And—he and Primula had a son, before. Who was very dear to me.” He swallows. “I never had any children myself, never really settled down after I returned from Erebor. But Primula and Drogo, they…they died in a boating accident, when Frodo was small. And I took him in as my heir.”

Thorin thinks, tries to imagine losing the possibility of Fíli and Kíli ever being born—and finds that the immediate, wrenching horror swooping through his gut is telling enough. “If you want to stay with Primula, none of us will blame you,” he says again, stronger this time, but Bilbo shakes his head sharply, suddenly, and looks up, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“If Frodo is dead then I have to—I have to do this. There’s truly no one else who can.”

His quest—and Thorin bites back a question, again, as to what it entails. Now is not the time, and anyhow, if Frodo was somehow involved in that, the last time, he absolutely understands Bilbo’s need to do it now. “We will help you in any way we can,” he says, reaching briefly to lay a hand on his shoulder. “All you need to do is ask.”

Bilbo exhales heavily, reaching up to wipe at his face, and does not answer. “I should go back,” he says. “The little ones woke a while ago—and Primula…”

“Aye,” Thorin says immediately, “you should.”

Bilbo stares up at him a moment longer before nodding, walking away down the hall with tightly clenched fists and trembling hands.

.

.

The next morning, there’s a quiet knock on the Company’s door that makes many of them jump in surprise. Most of them slept restlessly, and late into the night Thorin saw Bofur and Bifur up by candlelight, fiddling with tools and bits of wood they scrounged from the elves.

Thorin calls for their visitor to come in, unsure of who it is (Bilbo, after all, would just let himself in). But to his confusion, it is their burglar in the doorway, a nearly sheepish look on his face as he holds two smaller creatures by the hand. He recognizes them after a moment as the hobbit babes he saw sleeping last night—and their eyes are wide as they look around at the dwarves.

Fíli, next to Thorin, has stilled, staring at the two of them with his mouth slightly open. The others seem to have similar reactions; Kíli is staring with a wonder usually reserved for a new bow or the opportunity to travel; even Dwalin has sat up a little straighter, his hands still from where they have been oiling one of his axes. “Um,” Bilbo opens with, “When I said I was traveling with dwarves, Paladin insisted he come to meet you. And Esmeralda wasn’t about to be left behind.”

None of them seem to know how to respond to this immediately—not until Glóin chuckles, deep and throaty, and Paladin’s head snaps toward him. “I thought you said all hobbits were wary of outsiders,” he says, smiling kindly at the children. “Suppose the babes are less so?”

Paladin draws himself up, puffing out his tiny chest in a way that makes Kíli’s face split into an adoring grin. “Da always says Tooks need to be brave! And I’ve never seen a dwarf before!”

“Well, what do you think?” Glóin asks, a gently teasing grin on his face that reminds Thorin of how he once talked to a younger Gimli. Paladin does a slow scan of the lot of them, considering, before nodding decisively.

“You’re really hairy,” he says, as if personally affronted, and Fíli bursts into laughter, at that.

“You’ve got more hair on your feet,” he points out, when Paladin turns to him, pouting. “You’re not allowed to point fingers!”

Paladin pauses, glancing between Bilbo’s feet to the boots covering the dwarves’, and seems not to know how to reply to this. “Hey,” Bofur says suddenly, and both children turn as he holds something up for them to see. “I don’t know what kinda toys the elves have given you, but I reckon me and my cousin could make better ones! You want to test them out?”

Esmeralda’s face lights up, and she disentangles her hand from Bilbo’s as she hurries forward. Paladin squawks at being left behind, rushing to catch up with her. Thorin watches to make sure the two of them have the children well in hand before turning back to Bilbo, who looks utterly exhausted as he walks further into the room, only to collapse onto Thorin’s bed. “Are you all right?” Balin asks, concerned, and he nods, rubbing at his eyes before looking up to him—and Thorin, who steps closer.

“Esmeralda woke up in the middle of the night crying for her parents,” he says, quietly, so neither of the children hear. “And I doubt Primula slept much at all. There’s…not much I can do for them, I know, but I feel like I should, and…”

He cuts himself off, his voice cracking, and Balin’s face falls; he puts a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, but he doesn’t look at him, rubbing at his face again, glancing to the children when Esmeralda shrieks over a toy boat. “You’re giving them stability,” Balin says quietly, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder. “And familiarity—and right now, that’s the most important thing for them to have.”

“But we’re leaving,” Bilbo says, and Balin sighs.

“Thorin told me of your decision,” he says, and Bilbo’s eyes flicker to Thorin briefly. “And don’t mistake me, Bilbo, we appreciate it—more than you know—but if you think your cousins need you here…”

Bilbo is silent for several moments, thinking, before his opposite hand comes to rest on Balin’s, on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, “but I think I may be more needed on the road. I’ll be home soon enough to help where I can, but I’ve already promised you my help.”

Balin grimaces, looking up to Thorin in something like confusion, but he must shake his head. Bilbo does not want anyone to know of the truth of his quest, and after all, this is his decision to make. “If you’re sure,” Balin says, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder before letting his hand fall away.

Bilbo smiles, then, and nods to Balin. “I am.”

“Uncle Bilbo!” Paladin says suddenly, excited, and Bilbo’s smile grows a little wider, turning to his little cousin. “Mister Boofur made you!”

“Boofur” looks particularly pleased with himself as Bilbo glances incredulously to him, but takes the figurine Paladin shoves at him, inspecting it. As Thorin looks as well, he can tell that it is indeed a decent likeness of their burglar—right down to the waistcoat and furry feet. “When did you have time to make this?” he asks Bofur incredulously over Paladin’s head, and the dwarf’s face splits into a weary grin.

“Don’t think either of us got more than two hours’ sleep last night, but it’s worth it—we’ve never had the chance to make toys for hobbit babes before!”

“We’re not babies,” Esmeralda butts in, a little indignant, though she’s busy trying to balance three dwarven figures on the boat. “Paladin’s almost a tween!”

Thorin is skeptical—he’s unsure of what a tween is, but referring to Bilbo’s bemused face, he can assume they’re a little older than these two. “Primula’s a tween. You and Paladin have a ways to go, yet,” Bilbo corrects gently, and Esmeralda scowls adorably up at him for a moment before turning back to her toys.

“Bifur here’s got another surprise for you two, if you’d like,” Bofur says suddenly, and Paladin’s eyes light up, snatching the figurine back from Bilbo’s hands before returning to his sister. “If you’d like to see?”

“Please?” Paladin says, loudly, and Thorin can see several of the other dwarves looking on in curiosity as Bifur rummages around under a blanket, soon emerging with two stuffed toys—bears, by the looks of them. Thorin’s not sure where they found the materials for such things, but Esmeralda’s shriek approaches ear-shattering levels as she reaches for the nearer one.

“Don’t be rude,” Bilbo says to her, as if on reflex, and Esmeralda only looks slightly chastised, straining for the bear before Bifur relents with a huff and sets it gently in her lap. Thorin is a little amazed how instinctive Bilbo seems to be with the children, when he—who helped rear Dís’ sons—still feels rather awkward around them. But, he supposes, with large families common in the Shire, Bilbo must have plenty of experience with them—even though he’s never sired one himself.

Paladin looks equally excited—though they squabble briefly over who gets which bear, despite the fact that they seem largely equal, they eventually settle down, and Paladin hugs his bear to his chest as Esmeralda continues stacking figurines onto the boat. Soon, Bilbo is dozing on the bed, leaning against Balin’s shoulder before he gently redirects him to a pillow; Thorin feels himself relaxing, strangely enough, amid the noise from Bofur’s corner. He and Bifur are encouraging Esmeralda’s quest to fit all of the figurines onto the boat at the same time, which seems a lost cause, considering the sheer number of hobbits and dwarves they managed to carve in one night. Paladin’s attention seems to be wandering (though his grip on the Bilbo figurine and the bear have not loosened), and he’s staring around at the rest of the dwarves curiously as they, largely, do the same.

Esmeralda eventually abandons her boat after everything has toppled over a dozen times; she looks around for a moment before her eyes land on Ori, who’s working in his little notebook—drawing the children, Thorin would hazard a guess, though he cannot see the sheet from his angle. She wanders over, her eyes bright, and asks him loudly whether he likes to draw.

Ori jumps badly, glancing to a still snoring Bilbo before nodding tentatively to her. “I haven’t met very many hobbits before,” he explains to her. “I’m drawing you and your brother so I can remember you—if that’s all right, of course,” he adds hastily.

But Esmeralda’s face lights up, and she cranes her neck to look at the page he’s working on. “You’re really good!” she gasps, reaching for the notebook, and Ori hands it to her carefully.

“Thank you,” he says, and his face grows a bit pink; Thorin catches a quick, approving look from Nori as Esmeralda carefully turns the pages of the notebook, looking through it with progressively wider eyes. “That’s Uncle Bilbo!” she says suddenly, and when Thorin looks over again, there is indeed an impressive likeness of Bilbo on an earlier page.

“Of course,” Ori says instantly. “He’s—he’s traveling with us, and has been so kind since we left. I thought it was only right that I draw him, too.”

Esmeralda makes an approving noise, looking quickly through the rest of the pictures before handing it back to him, though she looks a little wistful. “Do…you like to draw, too?” Ori asks, obviously unsure of where to go from here, and she perks up.

“Mama says I’m really good, too!” she says. “Do you have another pen? Could I draw with you?”

Ori blinks but nods gamely, digging through his pack at his side before emerging with a pen and a stack of loose paper. She looks utterly elated, and sets her bear down carefully beside her before putting the paper on the ground, setting to it with a vengeance.

He glances back over to Bofur and Paladin, who—in these few moments—have somehow recruited Fíli and Kíli to some indecipherable game involving the dozen figurines and Paladin’s bear. Fíli and Kíli are lying on their bellies on the floor with Paladin, moving the toys around with a vengeance as Bifur looks on and laughs. As Thorin watches, Paladin throws himself across Fíli’s back, knocking the breath from him—but Kíli only laughs harder, and Fíli doesn’t seem particularly chagrined about it, himself.

Thorin frowns as he thinks, suddenly, of Primula—but he supposes Bilbo wouldn’t have left her alone if he thought she wouldn’t be all right. Perhaps that was his plan: get the children distracted and give her a few hours of peace and quiet. It’s obvious enough that the Company is more than willing to do this—as Dori leans over to Esmeralda and compliments her near-unintelligible art, as Dwalin wanders toward Paladin and asks whether he’d like a more dangerous dragon to fight than his bear. (How he figured out the point of their game, Thorin will never know.) The children—they’re innocent, still, and apparently have no idea of what has happened to their home and kin. But Primula—he worries for her, remembers the dark place many of his relatives fell into, after Erebor’s fall—and though he thinks he should not seek her out himself, he wishes that they could do something.

Balin’s face is creased in amusement as he watches his brother roar and stomp after a shrieking Paladin, but Thorin can see worry behind his old friend’s eyes as well—and as he looks on, Balin hums quietly. “Our burglar is certainly something,” he says, his gaze sliding to Bilbo for a moment before he looks up to Thorin. “Has he said anything to you? It’s obvious he cares for these children; I’m surprised he’s not returning to the Shire.”

Thorin hesitates; telling Balin just enough likely won’t hurt anything, and may even help, to have someone else at least a little more understanding of what he needs to do. “He hasn’t told me any details,” he says, and Balin’s brows rise, “but it sounds like there’s something he needs to do to the east, as well. He swears it won’t interfere with our quest,” he adds quickly, and Balin looks more skeptical still, “but he seems very intent on completing it. I have promised him our help, should he ever need it.”

Balin nods a bit, peering up into Thorin’s face for a moment before sighing. “We can spare a few days here,” he says, “but soon we will have to leave.”

“I know,” Thorin says, and glances to Bilbo as he begins to stir. “I have told Gandalf as much—and Master Baggins.”

Balin nods again, but says nothing more when Bilbo sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes before glancing between the two of them, jumping a bit as Dwalin roars again. “How long have I been asleep?” he asks, slurring a bit, and Balin smiles gently.

“Perhaps half an hour,” he says, reassuring. “Your cousins have been well-occupied—you have nothing to worry about here.”

Bilbo looks about, a little bemused, at Paladin now piggy-backing on Fíli—at Esmeralda head-to-head with Ori, comparing drawings. “I suppose so,” he says, a relieved little smile on his face. “Thank you—all of you. I was hoping they could be distracted for a while before we have to leave.”

Balin’s smile grows a bit wider. “Right now, I’m wondering who are truly the children, here.”

Bilbo snorts, then glances to the door. “I should check on Primula,” he says, a bit more sober. “She wanted to sleep, promised me she’d be all right for a while—but I didn’t mean to leave her alone for so long.”

“We’ll keep Paladin and Esmeralda occupied,” Balin promises, and Thorin nods; Bilbo’s smile grows a bit warmer, and he nods to them, waving at the others as he stands, quickly leaving the room.