Chapter Text
The mountain town of Erebor was old news. Lost in a fire some many decades ago, the small mining city had crumbled to nothing but dark ash. The houses and small brick structures that withstood the flames had grown desolate, black markings signifying the past destruction. Ivy grew over the rubble and the animals and birds were still cautious to make their homes in the debris, fear of seeing the glowing flames still fresh in their minds. It was here that the city became known as the Fallen; it was forgotten and abandoned, never to be lived in again by the natives of the Misty Mountains or the neighboring kingdom of Ered Luin.
The deer were becoming more curious by the day, however, and a small family of does and a single buck toed their way through the rubble. Snouts coated in ash snorted and sniffed at the green growing through concrete and stone, looking for signs of seed. It would be a century before these lands decayed, the stone crushed into dirt and earth. Forgotten relics stood the passing of time in Erebor; the buck noted a porcelain doll baby resting up against a tree stump, as black as night, and a brown leather jacket under the kindling, its inner fur burned.
Somewhere in between the old marketplace and a mansion, a doe cried out for mercy. The deer were stunned and ran to her aid, but missed the arrow which pierced the young deer's throat. Down she tumbled into the rolling hills on the side of the mountain, blood staining the heather.
A hunter stood some yards away, a pleased grin on his face. He had been watching the deer since they arrived days ago, keen eyes bringing them closer until he docked his bow and shot. The others disappeared quickly into the woods, but the archer knew they would be back. Erebor may have been long overlooked by humans, but the animals were meddlesome fellows; he admired them for their determination, but more-so wished to have a hearty stew for dinner.
The hunter tied the doe up in a tree and slit down her middle, the blood dripping out onto his boots. Satisfied, he hung around and watched the fallen city as gentle drops fell from the creature's gullet, a reminder that life and death were close friends; here he stood in a dead city, alive, a dead animal that had been killed by his own hands joining the bodies of Ereboreon residents from days ago.
Once the deer was cleaned, he took out his blade and skinned it, salting the meat as he tucked it in a few pieces of cloth. Throwing the animal over his shoulder, the hunter began his journey up the mountain, humming an old tune that he forgot the words to. It was an Ered Luin lullaby about the fire; he remembered it from the manor family that used to live above the city when years ago he had traveled with them and promised to take care of the old man who lived to serve Erebor, and never wished to leave.
The old man had died thirty years ago, but the hunter spared no excuse to not keep the manor home lively. He worked as a groundskeeper, living off of the land. He hunted and cooked for himself, tended to the growing grasses, and hacked the trees to keep the house warm. Some day, he knew that the house would be sold, and he would be off the payroll that the current owner, the granddaughter of the old, was sending him monthly. But for now, he enjoyed the fresh air around him, his warm bed in the mansion, his three dogs (puppies of those who had done the same as the deer and wandered into the lost city, and thus poisoned themselves with the idea that spilled gasoline was water), and his solitude.
The house stood like a star in a black night sky as the hunter approached it. The old estate, stone three-stories high with a grand staircase, was built into the hill, its basement built with access to a little mountain cave where the man remembers children playing in. It had withstood the fire because of its fine craftsmanships, and the hunter had washed its outer walls of the ash, discovering that the mansion he cherished so much was in immaculate condition, save for a few trees and bushes that were lost in the spreading flames. It was a fine house with ivy on its walls, as a fantasy castle. Even more grand were the rooms inside, warm and comfortable with magnificent fireplaces, century-old furniture, and all the comforts of home. Security was an unnecessary part of the man's job; the home had never been looted or subject to vandalism, and remained stuck in time, the aromas the same as they had been when the hunter served.
The hunter started cooking when he heard footsteps above and glanced up at the stairs to find a young boy, a teenager, possibly, sauntering down with curious eyelids, possibly frightened, as his steps were so light even the dogs did not wake.
The hunter paused his cooking and turned to face him, his face empty of all reactions save for a gentle smile that he passed to the boy. " Hello. No need to be afraid. My name is Beorn, I am merely the groundskeeper. "
The boy, his brown curls falling in front of his face, seemed to calm, stitching his lips together as he made no move from the stairs. Seemingly unsure if he should run up or down them, he sat and stared at Beorn, who was wearing a checkered flannel shirt and a funny-looking haircut, like a werewolf caught in the flesh.
" Gentle bunny, do you not speak the language? " He raised an eyebrow, pointing to the wall with an old wood sign reading, in Khuzdul, Khiluz Faern. The boy shook his head, still confused. The hunter sighed; Dis had told her that his guests were kind and enjoyed the comforts of home, or so she had heard. She had not informed him that they did not speak the language of the native people, as most of his guests over the decade knew. He cleared his throat. "My name is Beorn."
Instantly, the boy's ear flicked and he muttered a quiet greeting. "I'm Frodo. Where are we? What happened? Why are me and my uncle here? I want to go home."
"I do not know... a lot of English," He explained, brushing a hand through his nest of hair. "I am sorry. I will try to explain what I can about what is going on. But, ah, deraz... eat."
"I don't know..." Frodo mumbled, one hand on the railing in case he needed to make a run for it. He remembered that Thorin's security guard had a gun and that Bilbo had advised him to run home... but besides that, nothing about arriving here, in this unfamiliar house, or why his uncle was sleeping so hard upstairs, in a bed not his own. "You work for him, don't you?"
"I am a friend of Uz-Dis ," He explained, waving his hands around to represent the short stature of the youngest Durin sibling. "Master Dis ordered you here, it is safe house."
"A safe house..." Standing on his feet, Frodo slowly made his way down the stairs, admiring the paintings adorning the walls, which were all a matching purple-red, with stone flooring and high ceilings. The house really was beautiful, at least the bit he had seen of it, and he wondered if they were somewhere just as beautiful. But how exactly did they get here? "So, like, we're being protected... from what, exactly?"
"The Uzbad did not say. She simply spoke."
"And you're sure you don't know anything about what I'm talking about? You know, the guns in the Shire, Bilbo getting tied up, Thorin getting escorted out-"
"Oh! Uz-Thorin !" Beorn seemed to light up at the mention of the same, bringing Frodo's heart to drop. So he did know about all of this... dangerous business going on, whatever it was. "I do not know. I have not seen him for a time... he was very young."
Well, at least that meant Mister Durin was halfway respectable as a child if he had caused the groundskeeper's eyes to light up like the fireworks Bilbo's friend Gandalf used to bring during the summer. Frodo made a mental reminder to ask his uncle about Gandalf; he missed the old chap, no matter how strangely suspicious he had been about the Baggins family. "Thorin is a dangerous man."
Beorn cackled in his broken tone, turning a pan off on the stove. He began to set the table for three, with tea whistling in the kitchen. "He has had a lot of sadness. He is not dangerous, just spirited. Come eat."
Bilbo was not awake by the time Frodo finished a strange, silent breakfast of fried venison, eggs, and glass goats of milk. Beorn had eaten most of the food but saved enough for a second helping of the eggs for his uncle, which he gave to Frodo to deliver. He did so after discovering Mister Beorn had three massive dogs, gray and tan wolfhounds, and proceeded to sneak a bite off to them from under the table.
Facing an angry, lightheaded uncle was not his chosen activity for the day, but he supposed Bilbo would be a tad more afraid than his nephew. Since he was raised in the big city, Frodo was familiar with strangers. Bilbo had known the same forty-some people his entire life, and that was all. The brunette stirred in a bed much-too-large for his lithe frame, poking an eye open as he awoke from a nightmare, clutching his forehead.
"What time is it?" He crooned, wanting to stab whoever had decided the sun to shine so brightly this morning.
Frodo bit his lip, sitting at the end of the mattress and handing over the eggs and some tea. "I'm not too sure. Here, Uncle Bilbo, you should eat something."
Bilbo seemed to gravitate to drinking first, perhaps dull his headache, nursing the tea in his hands as he rubbed an eye and looked around; the bedroom was unfamiliar, and a chill ran down his spine, reminding him at once what had occurred the evening before. "Do I know this place? This is still the Shire, right? I need to get home."
"I don't think we can, Uncle," He explained, motioning to the window which showed mountains laced with white clouds in the distance. Bilbo furrowed a brow, crawling out of the mattress to stand on his toes, peering out. He squeaked, the height making him dizzy as he fell back onto his bottom. Frodo reached to help him up, steadying him with a hand on the small of his back. "It's okay. The owner of the house is nice. He says he knows Thorin."
"Oh, goody," Rolling his eyes, the older man made a beeline for his shoes, tucked halfway under the oak bed frame. "Is he here too? The son of a motherfucker needs a bit of spanking. He near got us killed!"
"Uncle, language," Frodo chuckled, the plate of breakfast in tow. He had already discovered that the groundskeeper did not like to waste, seeing as the house was in the wilderness. "This is his sister's house, or that's what I gathered from Beorn."
"Beorn? Who- you know what, I'd rather not know." Zipping up his jacket, Bilbo scowled and cursed, digging his feet into the oak floors until he realized their age. As stubborn as he was, there was no way in hell he would ruin such a gorgeous artifact as this flooring. "I will not be Thorin's hostage! I know he probably meant well, but I told him I was staying. Perhaps his clientele missed that point. Regardless, we're leaving, now."
"I would not suggest, Mister Bunny," Beorn, poking his head into the door, smiled wide. Bilbo fell back in wild humiliation, covering his face, while Frodo passed him the teacup. "There is not a main road for many miles."
"That's just the point, then, isn't it? Caging your lover in like a lab rat, who would have guessed? Thorin will be hearing from my lawyers. Oh, for god's sake, I have an inn to run!" Tears running down his cheeks, Bilbo fell into Frodo's arms, shaking with a frightened tremor. Frodo stroked back his uncle's curls, trying to appear stronger.
Beorn's face fell, and he set down the cup, coming over to touch the innkeeper's shoulder before it was brushed away in stressed agony. God, Bilbo would kill whoever did this to him and his nephew! It was obvious that getting with Thorin was a bad idea, but he had just expected to be dumped, not held hostage in the middle of nowhere!
Sniffling, Bilbo ran his hand under his nose and peered up with teary eyes, glowering like Beorn had washed his mouth out with soap. "Pardon my tone, mister, but fuck you. Fuck the whole lot of you."
Beorn illuminated at the man's colorful demeanor and chuckled, crossing his arms. "I am afraid I do not understand, Bunny."
"Where exactly are we, then? Care to tell, even if you're the ringleader in all of this?" Motioning to the mess in his face, Bilbo tried to appear pissed off, but he was more sincerely heartbroken than anything."
"You are in Erebor, Master Baggins. This is the personal home of Thorin Durin. You are his honored guest."