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Chapter Text

Bilbo is four years old the first time he touches something he really shouldn’t have.

According to his parents and various aunts, uncles, and cousins old enough to remember, Bilbo had been energetic and curious as a toddler, always reaching his hands out to grab at whatever object was in front of him. At four years old the wide world of Bag End is bright and new and ripe for his exploration. The stuffed plush creatures hand sewn by his grandmother make Bilbo coo and warble in contentment before naps. The set of intricately crafted combs and hair clasps Bungo had gifted Belladonna on the anniversary of their wedding, Bilbo traces and pets almost reverently. She later tries to use them to tame Bilbo’s own wild curls but he just wriggles and squirms around until he can hold them again. 

When Bungo takes out one of the old maps in his study to cross reference with a heavy tome and, very carefully, adds a new mark, Bilbo is perched on his father’s lap. He traces his fingers along the edge of the parchment with more care than most children would know to exhibit, his eyes wide with awe.

For the first few years of his life, Bilbo is happy to explore his world through his hands. Each new object leaves a spark of joy love wonder delight in his mind.

When he is four years old his mother comes home from the market wearing a new necklace with a small flower-shaped pendant. She greets Bungo with a kiss and shows off her new decoration. She rubs her nose against Bilbo’s as he squirms in his father’s arms and then hands over the market basket to her husband so she can pick Bilbo up. Delighted as always by his mother’s smiles, Bilbo giggles and reaches out a hand to grab onto his mother’s necklace and

a bottomless pool of sadness and grief takes over his body, welling up from what feels like a gash in his very soul, my beloved little Marly, my precious daughter, laying pale and cold against rough sheets, so small now, body wasted and frail from the sickness that ravaged her lungs and stole her strength, aching grief, gently, gently now, he pries away small fingers that have stiffened while clasped around the delicate flower pendant, she had loved that necklace, he wonders if the money it will fetch is enough to buy medicine to save his newborn son, desperation, shame, despair despair despair

and when Bilbo comes back to himself he is sitting on the floor pressed hard against the wall and wailing at the top of his lungs. After touching the necklace, he’d learned years later, he’d been unresponsive. His eyes had apparently gone unfocused for a minute or so before he’d all but flung himself from his mother’s arms trying to escape the sensation overtaking him. He screams and cries for hours and hours that day, inconsolable as his young mind fails to process a fathomless well of sadness. He finally wears himself out and cries himself into a troubled sleep that only seems to ease when surrounded by the plush toys lovingly stitched by Grandmother Took.

When he wakes the next day the tears have subsided but he spends the day quietly sitting in his bed, eating and drinking only when his parents feed him. His subdued demeanor is a far cry from the playful child of the morning before. 

By the second day after the incident he is almost back to normal, although he hesitates now before touching anything in Bag End. Over the next few days Bilbo gradually regains his regular excitement and energy and tactile exploration of the world, only really flinching when he sees the flower pendant around his mother’s neck. Just seeing the pendant threatens to fling Bilbo back into the overwhelming despair. After each flinch Bilbo retreats to his room and clutches one of the stuffed toys.

After a few weeks, Bilbo never sees his mother wear the necklace again.

He should have known that the wizard wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Bilbo is settled at home for the night, dressed down in comfortable clothes and no gloves and he’s just sitting down to dinner when there’s a knock at the door. Before he knows it a very large and gruff-looking dwarf shoulders his way through the door without so much as a by-your-leave and starts looking around the foyer with a suspicious eye. Bilbo can only stand there in deep confusion and indignation at the dwarf’s rudeness. And so he is utterly unprepared when the dwarf unstraps the two large axes from his back and unceremoniously drops them into Bilbo’s hands and then

bone-deep exhaustion but there is no rest in sight, his muscles burn with the ache of steadily chopping and slicing through orc flesh, over and over and over and over, an endless wave of horror at what his king’s obsession has wrought, I have to find him, must protect the prince, if we have any hope at all I have to find Thorin, oh Mahal where’s Balin, more orcs, another kill and another and another, how will any of us come back from this

and by the time that Bilbo comes back to himself with heaving breaths, the dwarf—Dwalin, he thinks dazedly—is already halfway through with eating Bilbo’s abandoned dinner. That impression had been stronger than any he has felt since he was a young lad and he is utterly unprepared for its impact. He drops the axes in an inelegant heap next to the door and stumbles his way toward his impromptu dinner guest in a stupor. He is sure he stammers something at Dwalin but he isn’t so sure it makes any sense at all. And then somehow he is back to answering the door for another dwarf, a more polite one this time but, by Eru, Bilbo is still too dizzy with battle fatigue to learn his name. But that doesn’t matter because the new one drops his cloak into Bilbo’s arms and he’s

tired, so tired, down to his soul, I’ve been at this for so long, since Before, tired of the road and the dust and the blood, why isn’t what we already have enough, Thorin’s a good leader but still just a boy in so many ways, exhaustion drags his whole body downward, I try to help him and guide him and I don’t know if it’s helped at all but I can’t abandon him now

Awareness returns more slowly than before. His eyes are closed and he’s slumped against the now-closed door, weighed down by Balin’s weariness. What has Balin been through that he leaves such a strong impression on mere fabric? Bilbo blinks his eyes open slowly, hoping to dispel the tiredness that has overcome him, and notices that Balin and Dwalin—brothers, Bilbo now knows—are watching him cautiously from the entrance to the dining room. Balin looks like he’s about to ask after Bilbo’s wellbeing but he is interrupted by another knock at the door. Bilbo’s whole body aches from the back-to-back sensations, but he slowly reaches over and hangs up Balin’s cloak before opening the door once more. 

Two more dwarfs, light and dark, both much younger looking than his first two guests. Their names rhyme again, Bilbo thinks. But it seems like his mind is just as tired as his muscles because he can barely pay attention when they bow and smile and walk right on into his home. Clearly Bilbo looks unwell because Balin—or maybe it’s Dwalin; his head is swimming too much to tell—says something to the lads to get them to slow down and not bowl Bilbo over. Bilbo can’t really focus on whatever is being said about him, but it clearly doesn’t work because Bilbo’s arms are once again loaded with weapons and his mind is taken over by

must excel, keep going, don’t stop, resolve, must be worthy of being Uncle’s heir, it’s an honor and a privilege and a burden, I wish Father was here to tell me what to do

who cares if it’s not a big old sword or an axe, indignation, who are they to say I’m not dwarrow enough to be an heir, bet they won’t be laughing when my arrows save their hide in battle

must be quick, must be careful, must pay attention, oh Mother why did you let Kíli come, too, wish he was back home safe, piercing fear, I have to be good enough to protect him, if he dies I don’t know how I’ll make it

I need to show Uncle Thorin he was right to bring me along, exuberance, show Fíli I can do it, confidence, this bow will protect them both and Mum won’t need to worry about me anymore

The excitement and youthful energy of the younger, Kíli, straightens Bilbo out of his slumped stance and the steadiness and determination of the elder, Fíli, clears some of the fog from his mind. Fíli is saying something about recently sharpening the blades but Bilbo’s abrupt change in posture cuts him off. The four dwarrow look at Bilbo in silence for a moment. The boys seem confused, Balin is worried, and Dwalin is suspicious. That’s fair; Bilbo knows he’s not acting in any normal sort of way. His body is simultaneously bone-weary and twitchy with youthful vigor and he needs some time to balance himself out again. Before any of them can say anything more, Bilbo cautiously places the pile of weapons in his arms on a nearby table while taking care not to touch any new surfaces. He offers a quick “Please, excuse me” to the group and disappears into his parents’ old bedroom.

Bilbo’s calm lasts only until the door closes behind him and then he gasps desperately for air. He shakes as he walks towards his mother’s old vanity. In the years since Holman had pulled him out of his sensory spiral Bilbo has hardly touched the room except to clean it, hoping to preserve their echoes for as long as possible. His mother’s vanity looks the same as it did when he was a boy. He slowly lifts his mother’s silver comb with trembling hands and he feels his mind and body gradually calm as the familiar care love laughter washes over him. 

The deep wells of emotions and memories and thoughts from the dwarrow had shocked his mind like he’d never experienced before. It’s different than when he’d spiraled after his mother’s death. Revisiting the same hollowed out echoes over and over had carved deep furrows in his mind that he’d fallen into and had had trouble climbing back out of. Right now he clings to that familiarity. It’s a comfort.

This night feels more like his emotions had been tugged back and forth too rapidly, like when two children fight over a toy they don’t want to share, pulling in opposite directions so fast that they are in danger of splitting it apart. Or maybe it’s more like that time he’d seen a wolf catch a rabbit by the head and shake it rapidly to snap its neck. Bilbo feels like the rapid sequence of impressions had lurched his emotions back and forth too fast. Both his mind and body feel bruised. 

The silver comb is soothing. His mother’s echo calms the hurt until Bilbo feels close to normal again. He hasn’t met many dwarrow in his life but the idea of them that he’d gotten from his books is that they are a cold race, insular and closed off and emotionless. Made of stone, some books call them. The picture Bilbo had had in his mind is very different from what he’d felt from his guests. They’d all felt so much, and so deeply, that they’d left powerful impressions for Bilbo to see. Balin and his weary perseverance. Dwalin and his indefatigable loyalty. Fili and his steadiness. Kili and his determination to prove himself. It was all there, indelibly marked upon their possessions.

More curious, however, is that while each of the impressions had shown Bilbo something of the person who’d left it, they’d also shown him someone else: Thorin, a prince and leader, apparently, and an uncle and role model, too. The others seem to hold him in the highest of regards, as a hero and a savior, almost. It’s quite a lot for any individual to live up to, and Bilbo would quite like to meet this Thorin person sometime to see whether he meets the mark.

Ah, well. It’s not a question he can answer tonight, and he has somewhat of a situation he needs to deal with presently. Four situations, in point of fact, and they won’t be dealt with while he hides in here. He takes one more deep breath and carefully places the comb back down. He needs to get back to his guests, but he really needs to take a minute to freshen up first. On his way to the washroom to splash some water on his face, Bilbo ducks into his bedroom and snags the closest pair of gloves.

His mother gets him his first pair of gloves when he is seven years old and after a trying few years for the residents of Bag End. Bilbo mostly remembers the months after that first terrible incident as a series of impressions. Something about the depth of grief imbued in his mother’s necklace had blown Bilbo’s perception wide open. The event had made him more sensitive to the echoes, as he later thinks of them. Whereas Bilbo only remembers a few of the impressions he’d picked up during his first years of life—and those are mostly a sense of love warmth happiness from gifts he’d received as a baby—everything he touches after that feels imbued with at least some faint leftover emotions. It’s as if the searing emotional pain of that Bree man losing his child had left a deep burn in his mind and every lick of emotion, however faint, is a renewed flare of heat on his nerves.

His parents are obviously at their wits’ end trying to figure out why Bilbo intermittently bursts into peals of laughter or screams of sadness or anger. As time goes on Bilbo is more hesitant to just reach out and grab unfamiliar objects. He sometimes still does, of course, because he is a very inquisitive child. But his hesitancy doesn’t protect his fingers when they brush against mathoms as he runs through the great smials of Tookborough, or when his family members hand him an heirloom serving bowl to put away after a holiday gathering, or when a friendly stall owner in the marketplace hands over a trinket or two for a curious faunt to play with while his mother haggles. He lacks control of his ability, has no mental discipline, and is too young to fully understand the thoughts and feelings he senses all of the time. It’s a good thing for his sanity that hobbits tend to be gentle creatures with fleeting emotions. They leave few impressions behind.

Bilbo recalls the incident that led to his first pair of gloves. He has wandered away from his mother and over to a stall run by a taciturn dwarf. He’s fascinated by the intricately shaped jewelry and sleek garden tools. They are engraved with sharp geometric patterns that are so different from any decoration he’s ever seen. He reaches out and touches one of the spades and is hit with 

bitterness so sour he could choke on it, pride cracked into a thousand shards, anger, resentment at toiling in the dirty, ungrateful, spiteful world of men, selling our life’s work for a pittance, have we really fallen so far, determined to earn enough to feed the few little ones we have left

before his mother snatches his hand away from the metal and covers his mouth. Her hand cuts off shouts of rage that are far too large for his body. The stall keeper has backed away from him, as have all of the market goers within a few feet. Belladonna apologizes to the dwarf before dragging Bilbo swiftly away through the crowd of muttering hobbits. He never sees the dwarven trader again. Much later in life he learns that the entire incident had been blamed on the dwarf running the stall and that few dwarven traders had been welcome in Hobbiton after that. To this day he is ashamed that his lack of control had cost an already struggling people a wealthy market for their goods.

His mother stops letting him roam free in the market after that. Later that week she gives him a pair of wrist-length light blue cotton gloves embroidered with tiny white flowers. They are to be worn at all times, especially outside the house. No exceptions.

When Bilbo has recovered from the shock of back to back impressions from four total strangers in short succession, he makes his way back to the dining area. To his confusion, it seems like there’s a party in full swing. He could swear that there’d only been four dwarrow when he’d escaped but now there appear to be a dozen plus one exceedingly pushy wizard. Bilbo can only watch in a sort of numb disbelief as thirteen strangers raid his pantry and make a mess of his previously orderly home. Gandalf is impossible to pin down in the chaos and he seems to be going out of his way to avoid Bilbo and his questions. In light of the nearly overwhelming reactions he’d had earlier in the evening, he decides to wait until things calm down to corner Gandalf and demand an explanation.

Bilbo’s resolve lasts until the dwarrow start tossing his plates and bowls and silverware—his mother’s dishes and silverware that still hold some of the few strong echoes of her presence. It’s, it’s...obscene! Akin to desecrating her memory! He objects with sharp anger, to no avail, and the mocking song that follows makes it all worse. He’s absolutely done with all of this nonsense and is going to tell them so, just as soon as this horrible song ends. But a deep pounding on the door interrupts his objections and the dwarrow’s cheering, too, and nearly nearly stops his heart in the bargain. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

Now he has a king as his uninvited guest, a rude and pushy dwarf king who insults him and then makes himself at home at the head of the dining table. During the discussion of maps and keys and dragons—dragons!—Bilbo tries to wrap his head around the fact that this overbearing and condescending person is the same Prince Thorin that Dwalin believes can redeem their people. The King Thorin that has held Balin’s unwavering support for more than a century. The Uncle Thorin that Fíli and Kíli look to as a father and to whom they want to prove themselves worthy heirs.

He ponders the issue through the rest of the evening, through discussions of burglaring, contracts, and, for some reason, his many-times-great grandfather the Bullroarer. How can this Thorin Oakenshield—commanding, yes, but a narrow-minded individual who comes here for Bilbo’s help and then dismisses Bilbo so readily—how can this be the same person that inspires such devotion?

Bilbo thinks he almost understands when he hears Thorin and the others singing by the fire. Later, in the dark, quiet hours of the night, the memory of that song prompts Bilbo to leave his bed and tiptoe his way back to where the contract still lays on the sitting room table. He’d taken off his gloves when he’d retired for the evening, but it’s alright, there is no one around now and so there is no one to see Bilbo pick up the contract again and feel

home, home, deep deep longing, this was my home and it will be again, I’ll make this a home for them, for my sister and my two precious boys, desperate hope, a final hope, they deserve a real home and a legacy to be proud of, I will do what I must to provide for their futures, oh Mahal please I hope that this works, please, this needs to work, it might kill me but they all deserve a home

A tear splashes on the parchment and breaks Bilbo’s unfocused stare and he is startled to realize that he’s crying. Oh. Thorin’s impression is familiar. He thinks he recognizes it from that long-ago trip to the marketplace. Thorin had felt such bitterness over his lot in life, at the life relegated to his people. Now, he seeks a better life for his people’s children. Oh, that is so much more than revenge against a dragon, a need for riches, an I-told-you-so to other dwarf leaders. Sure, that might have been what the group had spoken of earlier in the evening. But this echo, Thorin’s echo, belies his true motivation. A home. Not for himself but for his family, and he is determined to do anything necessary to secure it.

It’s enthralling and about as noble a goal as Bilbo can imagine. Yes, he thinks, looking around Bag End. His home, his parents’ home, is imbued with so much evidence seen and unseen of their life and love and family. Fading evidence, hollow echoes and dead shadows of what had been. It’s all he has left of them, but to not have even that little bit? He feels a sharp pang in his heart and misses his family more acutely than he has in years.

Yes, Bilbo can understand Thorin’s desire for home, because it’s his, too. So he signs his name at the bottom of the contract and goes to pack.

Chapter Text

The first few weeks out from the Shire are largely uneventful on the sensory front, much to Bilbo’s relief. He doesn’t know if he can handle anyone else’s pain or hunger or exhaustion on top of his own. Though he’d done his best to make provisions for the trip he is utterly unprepared for this type of excursion. He’d had almost the entire evening to write letters and close the house and pack his bag, and, initially, Bilbo thinks that he’d packed decently. Well, except for the unfortunate lack of a handkerchief. He has a bedroll and blanket, waterskins and a small knife, soap and a darning kit, a small travel journal and some charcoal to write with. He has one of his mother’s precious hair clasps to ground him if he gets trapped in an echo; a few changes of clothes, his sturdy animal hide working gloves, and his only remaining pair of stuffed woolen gloves tucked away in his pack for when they go over the mountains.

He wears the animal hide gloves at all times and the dwarrow don’t seem all that interested in his odd choice of fashion. They likely dismiss it as yet another of his hobbitty quirks. Bilbo doesn’t correct their assumption.

Nevertheless, the adequacy of his personal supplies doesn’t prepare Bilbo for the grueling monotony of their daily travel. Or the deep muscle aches from keeping his mount for hours without rest. Or the chill of being soaked through to the skin from that week of non stop rain. Or the random bruises that show up from placing his bedroll in an unfortunate spot on the ground.

Nor does it stop the itching sensation in his palms or the twitching of his fingers, deprived of impressions for the longest time he can remember. In the Shire, at least, he has the freedom of walking around Bag End barehanded, the gentle wisps of his family’s echoes so integrated into his perception of home. On the road it’s not so simple. He takes his gloves off in private when washing up in nearby streams but otherwise keeps his hands hidden away even during sleep. He is already an outsider here. He doesn’t want to risk his companions’ inevitable disgust or fear or rejection if he picks up an impression with them watching. He won’t risk Thorin telling him to leave.

When the muscle aches become too much, he recalls the exhaustion Dwalin had felt during the battle his axes had shown him and knows that, in comparison, his own aches are nothing. The sensation of Balin’s perseverance sustains him during the days and nights of wet and cold. Fíli’s and Kíli’s determination to prove themselves keep him from complaining about his bruised, tired, and often hungry state. The company starts the journey quietly, if not so secretly, poking fun at the soft gentlehobbit who’s never lived rough in his life. But as the weeks go on Bilbo earns their grudging respect for how well he adapts to their travel conditions. It’s more than he expects.

Sometimes, when his doubts threaten to get the better of him, when he truly starts wondering “What am I doing here?” and “Is this really worth it?” Bilbo closes his eyes and experiences again the ever clear sensation of Thorin’s longing for home. It makes the itching feeling in his hands flare up, his hands and mind wishing he could immerse himself in the impression anew. Despite how it makes the craving worse, Thorin’s echo is the most helpful in keeping him committed to this path, so he turns to Thorin’s echo most often. He re-feels the sensations before he goes to sleep and they follow him into his dreams.

He looks around their campsite for the evening and sees Gloín caressing a small locket, sees Orí concentrating on writing in his journal, sees Bifur quietly whittling a block of wood, sees Norí fiddling with a throwing knife. Bilbo wonders what impressions they all are leaving behind.

One night Balin tells them the story of the great Battle of Azanulbizar. It sounds absolutely dreadful and feels horribly familiar. As he's done so many times already, Bilbo closes his eyes and recalls the strain of swinging great battle axes over and over with no end in sight and without knowing it he quietly murmurs, “as if there lay before us an endless sea of darkness, churned to a froth by greed and obsession, waves of orcs steadily washing away our defenses, and our prince standing tall, our only hope of stemming the tide.”

Balin has fallen silent but Bilbo is so immersed in the memory of the echo that doesn’t notice until he opens his eyes and finds the group staring at him. Dwalin’s eyes spear through him and freeze him in place and he realizes abruptly his mistake. The words are poetic, something of Bilbo’s own creation he'd composed during the monotony of their travel, but the feelings that his words invoke—those, well, only someone who’d been there could know that sort of desperation well enough to paint such a picture. The words are his own, but Bilbo knows that he has spoken aloud feelings that Dwalin, and probably Balin, too, only ever acknowledge in the privacy of their minds.

Bilbo hastily breaks eye contact and prompts Balin to continue the tale. When he hears the ending, Thorin taking up his grandfather’s battle against Azog and emerging victorious, his looks up to find Thorin standing on the ridgetop. He studies him for a moment and, in his sharp profile and steady bearing, can see why his companions believe that Thorin holds the only hope for their people’s future. Why a warrior such as Dwalin follows Thorin through the horror of battle and beyond. 

Bilbo’s eyes wander away from Thorin and catch on the eponymous shield at his side. He wonders if the shining prince of the tale had felt worthy of the heroism bestowed on him. Or if, something whispers quietly in the back of Bilbo's mind, he’d felt like a frightened child thrust into a role he was too small for.

Bungo’s books on far away places and Ages-old magics don’t hold any stories about abilities like his. Bilbo knows because he thoroughly checks them during many long, sleepless nights in his tween years. And then checks them again, just to be sure. Strongly felt or long-held emotions leave lingering impressions in objects, that much Bilbo figures out from tactile explorations done in secret away from his parents’ attentions. Harder materials seem to retain echoes for a longer time than softer materials, and those echoes are more detailed. But where does the ability come from, and why only him?

Because it doesn’t take Bilbo long to understand that his parents don’t feel waves of foreign emotions rush through them when they touch objects with their bare hands. Nor do any of his cousins be they Bagginses, Tooks, or otherwise. But it takes Bilbo far longer to realize that even if he has these additional insights, the people around him do not particularly want to hear them.

The things he senses are not always pleasant—in fact, more often than not they are downright terrible—but when he senses something he thinks is helpful he tries to share it. The impressions are permanently etched into his mind as clearly as the first time he feels them, although their impact on him lessens with time. If he is stuck with them anyway he might as well do some good, he thinks. 

At least, he does until the strange looks and mutterings become too much, and one too many partners stands him up for an outing, and too many people give him a wide berth in public, and his parents admonish him yet again for taking his gloves off. For all that his mother is an adventuress and his father loves exploring the world through his books and maps, they are terribly incurious about Bilbo’s ability. At times they seem almost fearful. 

Bilbo resents it and eventually just keeps what he senses to himself. After all, why would anyone want to know that a birthday gift had really been given with the blush of new love? What could someone possibly gain from knowing that a bowl full of innocuous-looking mushrooms actually contained the variety that would cause severe stomach cramps and is revenge from someone who felt socially slighted?

Why would his kind mother want to know that by purchasing that necklace years ago, she’s helped a desperate father buy medicine for his children?

No, Bilbo thinks bitterly one day as he pulls on yet another pair of gloves. How could his knowledge be helpful at all?

He catches Balin watching him sometimes with an evaluating look in his eye. Usually the looks coincide with Bilbo slipping up and feeling a new impression, or getting too lost remembering an old one, or accidentally sharing information about his companions that he shouldn’t know. Bilbo would come back to the present time and notice Balin quietly observing him. Under Balin’s considering eye he smooths his facial expression back to normal from whatever the new impression had twisted it into and fights to steady his breathing. He knows he’s been less careful than he should be.  He’s been getting those looks from Balin since they’d left the Shire.

Balin’s look never holds a question for him, or a demand, or an accusation. Balin never asks about whatever it is that causes Bilbo to tense or grind his teeth or clench his fists or, one time, spasm so hard that he trips over his own feet. Balin doesn’t take Bilbo aside after the tale of Azanulbizar to ask how Bilbo had known what it had felt like to survive the slaughter. Bilbo is fairly sure he’s even seen Balin intercept a few of the others—most especially Dwalin, Thorin, and Gandalf, too, once—when Bilbo had been sure that he’d be called out after one of his episodes.

About two weeks into the journey, before he’s totally acclimated to the hardship of travel, Bilbo is just overwhelmed by the tiredness and the aches and the hunger and the cold. His patience and geniality is worn thin and he snaps at Kíli for some silliness or another. He immediately apologizes to the lad and removes himself from the center of their campsite to regain his balance. He grabs his mother’s hair clasp on his way to the edge of the clearing, takes off one of his gloves, and simply focuses on the faded echo of his mother’s light laughter love. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to regain a sense of stability, but when he opens his eyes Balin is sitting there next to him.

Unlike those other times, Balin isn’t looking at him now, though Bilbo supposes that he’d been able to look his fill while Bilbo had been lost in the past. Balin just looks up at the sky and quietly tells Bilbo that some dwarrow are gifted by Mahal with the stone sense. That they can feel the shape and eddy of the earth around them. How the stone sometimes whispers its secrets to those that can listen and how it tells of hidden gems or veins of precious metal. That, very rarely, the stone whispers of the lives of people laid to rest beneath, of others who had passed through, of those who had done great deeds within.

He’s known a few who were stone-touched, the old dwarf says, though none since Erebor of old. He can still recall what someone looks like when hearing stone whispers. Not once does Balin look at him during the soft explanation, but Bilbo feels terribly exposed nonetheless. He panics and stammers some sort of “Really? How fascinating, thank you for sharing, must be getting to sleep now” and flees to the relative safety of his bedroll.

Bilbo is scared of the possibility that Balin knows something about all of this. He’s long since given up trying to learn about the origins of his extra sense. Surely if it is something so common and normal and good then one of his books would mention it. And in his experience, no one ever reacts kindly to Bilbo’s gift if they suspect he has it. At best they do him a kindness and ignore any strange happenings. At worst...well, he’s lucky that hobbits aren’t terribly violent, but being shunned in public is nevertheless not a pleasant experience. Even his parents had preferred for him to keep his hands covered at all times so they didn’t have to think about their son’s oddity.

In any case, the stone sense that Balin had described doesn’t sound exactly the same as what Bilbo experiences—he later touches a boulder near where they’re camping and doesn’t feel anything at all and feels a bit silly afterward. But Bilbo figures it’s better to be cautious than be expelled from the group for something he can’t control. 

But the days pass and Balin doesn’t bring up stone whispers or Valar-gifted senses again. He redirects other people when they begin to get curious. Balin doesn’t demand explanations or treat Bilbo any differently than he had before and so Bilbo slowly relaxes around him. Maybe Balin doesn’t know after all. Eventually Bilbo feels comfortable enough to ask questions about dwarven culture and traditions and about the construction of Erebor and Khazad-dûm. He marvels at the great feats of engineering needed to build a thriving underground kingdom and it’s Bofur who chimes in with more information about the stone-touched, how it’s because of their gifts that dwarrow of old could safely hollow out the mountain caverns and mine the deeps for wealth. It’s Fíli who mentions that the stone-touched often hold advisory positions of great importance within the guilds and the royal court and Orí who expounds on some of the more famous examples of such. Even Thorin briefly enters the conversation by fondly mentioning that old Khifar, his grandfather’s advisor, had brought shards of folded stone and sparkling gems and had spun fantastic tales from the stone whispers that had made a young prince laugh.

Later that night, when the stars are out and Bilbo can’t sleep, he quietly gets up from his bedroll and joins Thorin on watch. In a hesitant voice, he asks Thorin what stories old Khifar would tell. Thorin, perhaps feeling more nostalgic than usual and therefore more talkative, tells of the bit of quartz that saw a dwarfling struggling with the design for her first sword who learned to swallow her pride and ask for help from her elders. A clear blue agate spoke to the advisor about young love, about two dwarrow who’d started at odds but through time and patience came to know and love each other beyond an appreciation for a fine beard. This Thorin says with a sideways look and a little smirk at Bilbo, and Bilbo struggles to contain a blush as he smiles back. A fine beard or finely combed tufts of foot hair—ah, the things that attract the youthful eye. He very studiously doesn’t think about whether Thorin’s beard might feel fine and soft and doesn’t draw a comparison to how he and Thorin started their acquaintance.

But after that bit of shared amusement Thorin looks up at the stars and continues in a more serious tone. A chipped piece of common basalt had absorbed the blood of warriors and told of the folly of glorifying battle. That one Thorin hadn’t understood until much, much later, as he’d stood alone among the fallen. A thousand-layered gneiss, Thorin recalls, had spoken of its origins deep within the roots of the mountains, its many layers shaped by the fires of Mahal and hardened under pressure. An ancient piece of dolomite from the banks of the River Running, ordinary in appearance save that had been worn entirely smooth by time, whispered of the cool rivers that carve away at stubborn stone with their persistence, persevering and succeeding where the strong but chaotic rush of floodwaters fails. 

The last one Khifar had shared, Thorin says in a hush, had been a sparkling green geode. Khifar had spoken of greed and obsession and lust and how they bring about death and ruin. How a good leader is generous with wealth, how he never hoards it or hides it away for himself, and how he uses it to improve the lives of all of his people. There’d been a world of warning in his story, Thorin recalls, and a week later the dragon had come and Khifar hadn’t escaped. 

Lessons all, Thorin says with a huff of rueful laughter, disguised as stories to keep the attention of an impatient youngling. Lessons that are based in stone-whispers, yes, but that had been tailored to guide a young and brash and, admittedly, obstinate prince along the path toward leadership.

It’s the first time they sit like this, quietly talking in the dark of night under the stars, but it’s not the last. Bilbo sits and he listens to Thorin’s stories and shares some of his own, eventually, though his adventures seem far more lonely and less grand in comparison. What Bilbo has isn’t the stone sense, not precisely, but he hears through Thorin’s tales how the stone-touched are accepted by their people and thinks, wistfully, that it must be nice.

Holman Greenhand teaches young Bilbo how to garden. The old hobbit shows him how to mix the soil and compost to feed the plants, explains how the roots need air to breathe just as much as the leaves do, instructs him in how to prune and trim to encourage flowers to grow, teaches which plants need a gentle touch and which ones he can be firmer with.

Holman gives Bilbo a pair of sturdy animal hide gloves for the job. For once, the gift of gloves has nothing to do with keeping impressions at bay, though they do that too, as much as it’s about cleanliness and protection from thorns. Holman wears them, too, and so does his young nephew Hamfast Gamgee who sometimes joins them. Everyone around him wears gloves, which makes him feel less out of place. And on the occasions he needs to take them off to feel the texture of a leaf or pinch a stem between his nails he doesn’t pick up much of anything from the plants themselves. Plants, much like people, don’t retain echoes. Another reason he’s always happy being out in the garden.

It’s a peaceful activity, something everyone can do any nearly everyone does, and Bilbo doesn’t feel quite so out of place when he’s out here. And one summer afternoon when Holman goes inside for a cold drink of lemonade, distracting his mother from her anxious watch over him through the kitchen window, if Bilbo surreptitiously slips off one of his gloves and touches the well-worn handle of Holman’s garden trowel and feels

roots as deep as the old Party Tree keeping him planted in the Shire, devotion and loyalty and quiet and firm resolve, calm and sure and steady, deep and abiding love of the earth, home home home

Well. If he’s done that against all his parents’ warnings, then he just as quietly slips his glove back on and gets back to work, content.

Chapter Text

Bilbo is honestly shocked that the first time things go wrong is after the trolls. Aside from the one slip up around the fire he thinks he’s managed to keep his companions from learning about his extraordinary ability—well, mostly; he’s still not entirely sure about Balin. And somehow he’d even gotten through the encounter with the trolls without picking up any impressions. Sweet Eru, he shudders to think about what one of the trolls’ knives or the cookpot would have shown him!

But quite without warning he finds himself on his knees on the hard ground outside the troll’s cave, arms outstretched to both sides, muscles straining to their limit, face tilted upwards to the sky. For long moments he can’t move, paralyzed and grasping at fragile wisps of consciousness before they’re blown away in a gale of emotion. Slowly, painstakingly, as he struggles to recover, he starts to piece together what happened.

He’d been cleaning his gloves, yes, that’s right. His animal hide gloves, sturdy as they are, had made it through the encounter with the trolls intact, if a bit scratched up. But everything he’s wearing is now covered in drying troll snot. He’d scrapped as much of it off as he could with his gloves and then had taken those off to try to clean them, too. He’d been in the middle of that task when Thorin had come stomping by and thrust a little sword into his bare hands and then he’d been utterly consumed by

blazing light burning her from within as she prepares for battle, Orcrist held aloft in one and Naethnast held low in the other, both radiating blue flame from within, the hosts of Gothmog arrayed before her and the soldiers of the Houses of Gondothlim arrayed at her back, shining blue emblems slicing through the air, for the honor of Gondolin we must not fall!

and he’d been lost. That echo sears his mind in a way he hasn’t felt in years, not even those first glimpses of his dwarrow. No wonder he’d lost all control of his body. He can barely stand to think back on it now. Just how long he’d been lost he doesn’t know, but he’d been stuck in the impression for long enough that what had been searing cold metal is now warm against his flesh. 

He hears the concerned voices of the dwarrow around him and a sharp shout from what has to be Thorin and then feels a cool hand on his brow. His eyes gradually refocus on Gandalf’s face. Clearly the wizard has done something to bring Bilbo back to the present. He looks worried. Bilbo just tries to blink and breath and steady himself.

When he feels more centered he meets Gandalf’s eyes and answers the question in his eyes with a small nod of his head and a pleading look. Yes, Bilbo will explain to him what happened, but he can’t do it now, not with everyone watching and listening. Gandalf tilts his head minutely, silently telling Bilbo that he’s been granted a small reprieve from interrogation. Out loud Gandalf says something vague about exhaustion and delayed shock that seems to appease most of the company.

Oín is not entirely convinced by this explanation and neither, Bilbo sees, is Thorin. While Balin distracts the healer by pointing him at a burn on one of the dwarfs who’d been on the spit, Bilbo looks at Thorin. There’s concern there, Bilbo is surprised to see, as well as suspicion, which is more expected. There will be two uncomfortable conversations in his future, he acknowledges as he stands back up, much steadier thanks to Gandalf’s magic. He scoops up his gloves from where they’d fallen on the ground and puts them back on and ties his new sword to his belt.

But Thorin’s questions will have to wait, because suddenly there are giant rabbits and more wizards and orcs now, too, and the ponies have bolted with all of their supplies and they’re running.

He is exceedingly careful not to touch anything the entire time they are in Rivendell. He doesn’t want to risk any more encounters with objects imbued with millennia of elven memories. It’s almost funny how wrong Balin is; this whole stopover would be much less awkward for Bilbo if his sword actually had been just an unbloodied letter opener.

Really, it’s a shame that this entire visit is so incredibly tense for everyone because Bilbo has always wanted to see Rivendell. With everyone all riled up there’s no time for uncomfortable conversations about why touching an old short sword—Naethnast, his mind whispers, The Biting Sting—sends Bilbo into a fit. Alright, maybe there is plenty of time between the very uncomfortable luncheon, the very uncomfortable map reading, and the very uncomfortable eavesdropping on their host. But Bilbo takes the better part of valor and escapes on his own to explore the city. Gandalf and Thorin will just have to wait. 

It’s not to be, however, because Gandalf finds him not long after he and Elrond have insulted Thorin’s entire family. Thorin, at least, has already gone back to the rest of the company, which is a minor comfort. Bilbo and Gandalf retreat to a secluded little area of the gardens and he talks, finally, about his extra sense. It’s the first time he’s ever really tried to explain it to anyone and he tries to answer Gandalf’s questions as best as he can. By request Bilbo rests his hands palm to palm with Gandalf’s and waits, tense as a bow string, as Gandalf closes his eyes and hums a little and does whatever wizards do. In the end, Gandalf is of no help really. He doesn’t know what it is or where it comes from or why Bilbo has it, and can answer none of the questions Bilbo’s had since he was old enough to know that he’s different. Gandalf eventually mumbles some vague nonsense about power and wisdom and knowing when to use it and when not to. It’s fine advice but nothing that a lifetime of sideways looks and rejection hadn’t already taught him. Bilbo walks away, disheartened.

He means to hunt down the library the next day and beg the librarian for any books on magical senses or empathic abilities in the hopes that the books here would have more information than his own. A nosy council of self-titled wise folk intervenes, instead, and the company sneaks off in the middle of the night. Thorin is far too focused on getting them away from the elves and up the mountain pass to question the strange hobbit in their midst. Bilbo isn’t terribly upset at pushing off his questions for a little while longer.

By the time Bilbo is twenty one he has built up a rather large collection of gloves to wear for any sort of occasion. It is no longer so very odd to other hobbits that the Baggins boy keeps his hands covered all of the time. Nowadays, few people ask him or his parents just why it is that he never takes his gloves off. Although incurably nosy, the hobbits of Hobbiton, by and large, prefer to speculate and gossip and spread rumors rather than ask what could be seen as a very rude question.

Eventually even the gossiping tapers off and wearing gloves is just what people expect of young Bilbo Baggins. Just like they eventually accept that Bilbo doesn’t shake hands to greet people and prefers to walk with his arms behind his back instead of swinging at his sides. People, even judgmental hobbits who look down on everything different, can get used to anything after a while.

Bilbo has been wearing gloves for so long he doesn’t really question it anymore. He barely ever sees the pale skin of his hands aside from bathing, changing into a new pair of gloves, and the occasional illicit times he deliberately takes one off to sense an impression.

As he matures and develops his own sense of fashion, he incorporates gloves into it. Bilbo has long since outgrown his first pair of blue and white ones from his mother, but similar ones of a larger size are still among his favorites. He has simple cotton ones in a multitude of shades with a variety of embroidered designs good for everyday use around Bag End, casual visits with family, and walking holidays around the Shire. He has hardy pairs for chores and gardening. Finer pairs of more delicate fabric are reserved for holidays and formal teas, and a single pair made of expensive and rare silk, a gift from his mother on her birthday, are reserved should Bilbo ever wed.

He tries lace gloves, like the ones worn by his more pretentious Baggins aunts at tea time, only once. They are useless at blocking the sense echoes, which is rather obvious in hindsight, Bilbo thinks, given that lace is, well, mostly holes. But hindsight doesn’t fix the teacup he shatters when he catches deep disdain and disappointment from the delicate piece. It is part of the set he knows his Grandmother Baggins had used during the engagement tea welcoming his mother into the Baggins family. He never tries lace again.

He browses some of the stalls from travelling textile merchants on a chilly market day not long after his twenty first birthday. Bilbo is developing a reputation as a bit of a clotheshorse with his impeccable matching waistcoats, neckerchiefs, handkerchiefs, and gloves, but he is always on the lookout for a new pair to add to his wardrobe. After all, one can never have too many options. On this particular day a stall he’s seen before but largely ignored is displaying sets of cumbersome-looking gloves of sheep’s wool. They seem to be made of two layers of knitted material and with fluffy unspun wool stuffed between the layers. He’s instantly curious; they’re so very different from anything he already has. When he tries them on over his current pair his initial instinct that they are cumbersome and clumsy is right—he can barely move his fingers! But they are exceptionally warm. He can hardly feel the crisp autumn breeze through the thick layers.

They are hardly practical but one never knows when the winter will be colder than usual. And even if it is an average winter this year these would let Bilbo explore outdoors for far longer during the cold months than his current winter gloves allow. Yes, it’s definitely a good investment, he thinks as he pays the merchant and wishes him a good day. Bilbo is a few stalls away before he turns back to the textile merchant and purchases another pair. Maybe his mother will want to explore the winter woods with him.

Bilbo has cause to praise old Holman Greenhand over and over as they make their way through the Misty Mountains. His animal hide gloves hold up better than he could have hoped for against the sharp rocks. They even provide some protection against the biting wind and stinging rain. He thinks over his collection back home and knows that none of the very fine gloves he’d left behind would have been up to the task, nor would the warm woolen ones he’d lost with the ponies—all that wool would have become completely sodden with freezing water that would have negated any warmth provided.

His spot is in the middle of the group as they climb. It’s for his own safety, he knows, but being in the middle of the group is no comfort as his companions have become taciturn and insular after the stopover with the elves. There are no teasing conversations or revelations about dwarven society or comparisons to hobbit culture as they ascend higher into the mountains.  When they stop at night the dwarrow group together by twos and threes into their family units and Bilbo is left on his own, alone in the center of a group. There are no comforting impressions to sneak a flash of here; his mother’s hair clasp had been lost with the ponies, too, and all he has left are his own things. At night he huddles and shivers on the bare rock face and, bereft even of impressions, he feels truly alone for the first time in his life.

The Bilbo Baggins who’d started this journey might have risked sneaking an echo off his friends just for a small bit of comfort. He might have slipped a glove off in the middle of the night to pick up familial warmth from Bombur or cheerful good humor from Bofur, or even that never ending perseverance from Balin again. The memory of the echoes works in a pinch, but a fresh impression would be so much better. The Bilbo Baggins who’s made it this far, however, knows better than to tempt fate like that while high in the mountains. After what had happened with the sword, Bilbo doesn’t want to risk being so disoriented by an impression that he falls thousands of feet to his death. The memory of his companions’ impressions will just have to do.

It’s a terribly long stretch of days. The stone giants are terrifying, as is the brief moment he fears that he’s actually about to fall thousands of feet to his death. Thorin’s words hurt him deeply, but he remembers the impression Thorin left on the contract—and the one from the unfortunate marketplace incident of his youth that he’s sure is Thorin’s, too—and so Bilbo understands that the words come from a place of heightened concern, worry, and fear. Thorin is responsible for every person in his care, including Bilbo, and he has a deep-seated need to protect and provide for them. It quashes Bilbo’s brief desire to turn around and leave.

Head down, Bilbo makes his way to a back corner of the cave they’re sheltering in, takes off a glove, and concentrates on his sword. Right now he really needs the escape that an echo can give him and he has nothing else he can use. What starts merely as a mental escape and an attempt to avoid eyes and conversation becomes a useful exercise in acclimating to the echo of his sword. For long moments he holds the sword in his hand, closes his eyes, and concentrates on breathing through flashes of ancient glorious battle. 

His first attempts are very useful at pulling him away from the tense silence of the cave but are, quite frankly, terrible at getting him used to the intensity. The impression locks him in for the duration, his muscles clench, and he can’t breathe until it’s over. Once he has control of his muscles again he lets go and catches his breath. He’s grateful that he’s tucked away in an unobtrusive spot as he struggles. Better he work his way through this now while they’re in relative safety than be caught unawares during a fight. His subsequent attempts get easier and easier until, hours later, he can keep his eyes open and his breathing steady as the powerful emotions rush through him. All of the company are asleep now, Bilbo sees as he looks around, save Bofur keeping watch at the mouth of the cave and Thorin, who has moved so he’s sitting across from Bilbo’s little alcove.

Their eyes meet in the dim light of the cave and Bilbo wonders how long their leader has been watching him practice with the sword. However long it’s been, Bilbo certainly hasn’t allayed any of Thorin’s suspicions or questions about his initial reaction to the sword. For that matter, his current behavior has likely inspired new ones. But before Bilbo can think to answer any of Thorin’s questions, there’s a more immediate issue he needs to address first.

“You were out of line earlier,” Bilbo says into the quiet space between them.

Thorin, thankfully, doesn’t feign ignorance. “How so?” Thorin asks, more curious than angry at the assertion.

“It was a stone giant, Thorin,” Bilbo says with a flat tone. “A gargantuan creature made of the very mountain itself and with a mind of its own. None of us had a handle on the situation. Everyone almost fell at one point or another, yourself included, and half of the company would have been crushed if not for a quirk of fate.” His voice is climbing in agitation and he tries to steady it. “You’re our leader, and this is a dangerous journey, and I know that you fear for all our safety. But you cannot single any one of us out for a reprimand when it’s not deserved, no matter how scared you are. It could have been any one of us hanging off the side of the cliff. This time, it happened to have been me. There will be more things like this that are out of all our control, but a leader must be a river, not a flood, remember?”

Thorin sucks in a harsh breath at the reminder. “Aye. Dolomite, I remember,” he says roughly. He hangs his head for a moment accepting the rebuke and then lifts it again to look Bilbo in the face. “You are right, Bilbo, and I am sorry. I let my fear get the better of me and lashed out at one who did not deserve it. I know not why you joined us, nor why you have chosen to stay, but I should not have said that you have no place among us. It is far from the truth. You do belong with us.”

Now it’s Bilbo’s turn to gasp in a breath as he’s struck by the intensity of Thorin’s gaze. He tries to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat and tells himself that Thorin means belongs with the group or belongs on the quest and not...something more personal. Bilbo’s long since given up on the hope of belonging with someone and not just some place. Or at least, he’d thought he had. His sudden inability to breathe steadily suggests otherwise.

Bilbo is quite suddenly terrified that his interest is transparent to the other man, so he breaks Thorin’s stare and busies himself putting his glove back on. That’s enough practice with the sword, he tells himself. He needs calm now more than escape. His nervous fiddling with the gloves is a mistake, however, as it draws Thorin’s attention to the other issue at hand, so to speak. 

He sees Thorin’s interest sharpen on the gloves and the sword, but before the dwarf has a chance to ask any of the questions burning behind his eyes they widen with alarm. Thorin barks out an order to wake up mere seconds before the floor drops out from under them.

Bilbo remembers the next few hours as a series of terrifying flashes. The normal kind of memory flashes, thankfully, the kind that results from stress, fatigue, and shock and not the kind that would permanently damage his mind. His nervous gesture back up in the cave is his saving grace. Because he’d put his gloves back on before they’d all fallen, he manages to escape the mountains without picking up any new impressions. Bilbo has now felt echoes of hobbits, men, high elves, and dwarrow and he is not eager to add orcs or goblins to that list. Bilbo hopes that he can get through the rest of the journey without picking up the horrible echoes of Morgoth’s creatures.

The fall into Goblin town, the fall from Goblin Town into an unknown abyss, shuffling his way through dark, dank caves, the terrifying game of riddles with a terrifyingly mad creature, the desperate dash into sunlight...it’s all a blur now. Standing here outside the mountains in the fading light and reunited with his companions, Bilbo feels extraordinarily lucky that he got through the entire experience without picking up any impressions at all, and thanks his parents’ old gardener once again for his gift. The goblins, the stone, that horrible Gollum creature had all grabbed at him, but living creatures and the stone and earth have always been free of echoes. The goblins’ weapons had scraped at his gloves but hadn’t pierced through, and the odd little trinket he’d picked up had fit on his finger over the animal hide. It had clearly been made with someone larger than him in mind but its invisibility trick had been useful in a pinch.

Back in the here and now, after Bilbo’s unlikely escape from the bowels of a goblin-infested mountain, Thorin demands to know why Bilbo came back instead of turning back toward his home. Bilbo gives him a reprimanding look, he’d thought they’d been over this, and Thorin gentles his question.

“Please, Bilbo. For once, speak plainly and tell me. Why are you here?” Thorin pleads.

The question is kinder but reveals something Thorin probably wishes no one else to see. Their leader, the uncrowned king of their people, has been rejected and scorned by nearly everyone he’d gone to for aid. Bilbo knows that Thorin’s quest, his need, Thorin himself, had been deemed not important enough, not trustworthy enough, not sure enough, by even some of his closest kin. The answer to this question means a great deal to him, and Bilbo doesn’t even need to think about it. He’s known all along. 

“Bag End has been my home for my whole life. At one time, long ago now, it was alive. It was full of happiness and love and laughter, my parents and me and the life we all built together. Now, though, it is made of memories and full of ghosts that linger in too-empty halls. Memories are all well and good, for a time, but for a chance to have everything back? I’d do anything. And I would do the same to give that to all of you,” he says, looking around the group before turning back to Thorin once more. “A real home for your families, a future and a legacy to be proud of. Even if we all may die in the attempt.” It’s the same reason he’s had all along, since he first believed in Thorin’s true purpose, and it’s been affirmed over and over as he’s gotten to know each of them over the course of the journey. Despite all of the pain and danger, Bilbo doesn’t regret pledging himself to this cause. 

He sees the moment when Thorin believes his sincerity, and, a beat later, the moment when he recognizes why Bilbo’s words sound so familiar. An awed sort of light enters Thorin’s eyes and it’s absolutely captivating. Suddenly Bilbo knows that if he’d ever wanted to protect his heart from this astounding person, it is far, far too late.

Howling wargs and screeching orcs interrupt—Bilbo wonders how dark creatures always know there’s a moment to interrupt—and then they’re running again. He manages to kill one warg by complete accident and he knows that his untrained sword skills won’t be enough to save them. It’s with no little desperation that Bilbo yanks off both his gloves with his teeth, spits them onto the ground, and regrips Naethnast’s hilt. 

Bilbo’s practice from before pays off. He fights and kills and climbs and charges all without losing his wits. He channels the courage and strength imbued in the sword and borrows no small bit of muscle memory from a long-dead warrior of Gondolin. It bolsters his own determination to protect Thorin’s life and grants him the skill to do so. He plants himself between Thorin and Azog and says firmly, “You cannot have him!” and protects the fallen warrior at his feet. Bilbo is distantly aware that his stance should not be as steady as it is when he deflects Azog’s mace-hand and his arms and torso shouldn’t know how to contort like that to block an orc’s sword. The bite of his sword into orc flesh on the riposte shouldn’t feel so familiar. He shouldn’t know how to coordinate his attacks with another warrior, but Dwalin’s battle rhythm is familiar to him. He stands firm at Dwalin’s back and the two of them move together with the ease of experience to protect their king. Bilbo is too grateful that he can do these things to care that he shouldn’t be able to because it buys them enough time for a miraculous rescue.

The eagles begin casually plucking orcs and wargs alike and dropping them off the side of the cliff and he really hopes that each of the birds ate recently. One of them could probably swallow him down for lunch and still be hungry for more. Now they’re scooping all his dwarrow up in their talons and dropping each onto the back of another eagle and Bilbo knows he has larger problems ahead. He frantically looks around the now mostly bare clearing for his dropped gloves but doesn’t see them among the churned up earth. Instead he catches as an eagle gently lifts up Thorin’s beaten and bloody form. He watches Thorin’s shield fall from his limp grasp and scrambles to pick it up before it’s lost forever. 

Talons close around Bilbo just as Bilbo’s hand closes around the Oakenshield and

denial, shock, no no no no not Grandfather, not Father, not Frerin, black black grief, oh Mahal, little Frerin, our little golden prince, why was he here, why are any of us here in this hellhole, how could this happen, no no, NO, rage, curse Grandfather for bringing us here, curse that pale beast for taking him from us, despair, haven’t we lost enough, haven’t I lost enough, oh Mahal, how do I tell Dís, how can I lead our people, I have to, there’s no one else, I’m still so young, too young, bone deep fear, I’m not strong enough for this, I don’t know enough to do this, it was supposed to be Father, couldn’t save him either, can’t save any of them, how could I let this happen, it’s only Dís and I left now, I’m so alone

The strain on his mind is too much and Bilbo passes out with Thorin’s voice echoing in his head.

Bilbo regains consciousness with his body curled around the Oakenshield, Thorin’s worried face leaning over him, and Thorin’s voice, Thorin’s soul,Thorin, written in permanent ink across his heart and mind. He sits up and lets someone take the shield from him, lets Thorin pull him into an embrace, and lets himself breathe Thorin in.

Chapter Text

At the bottom of the Carrock the group spends a few hours slowly trudging along before they find a river in which to wash up. As the young ones bound off into the water with happy yells and loud splashes, Bilbo quietly removes himself to a more secluded area downstream. His feet are torn and filthy from the mountains, his clothes are smeared with grey ash from the fires, and the rest of him is liberally splattered with black gore and red blood.

His hands, too, display traces of the battle, covered in scrapes and cuts and bruises, dirt and blood and ash from burnt brush. They’re in far better shape than the rest of him, but without his hide gloves he wonders how long that can last. He feels an irrational sense of loss for one of the few pieces of home he’d had left with him, now lost on blood-soaked soil. He tries to shove the emotions away as he kneels at the riverbank to wash the blood and ash off of them.

The impressions are changing. When he thinks back to the impressions he’s carried since childhood and even those few Shire ones he’s collected as an adult, they’re mostly just feelings he’s picked up. Big feelings, few good and mostly bad, but very few thoughts or images had been left behind. Certainty he’s never picked up skills from an object, but that’s undoubtedly what had happened during the fight.

Maybe it comes from all the time he’d spent attuning himself to his sword’s echo. Back up in the mountains he’d gone over the impression repeatedly until it had felt familiar, like stepping into a place visited long ago but never forgotten. During the fight He’d fallen into the echo so easily and had fallen deeper than he ever had before. He has no idea why.

And when he’d held Thorin’s shield....Thorin feels everything intensely. Bilbo knows this, has known it since the Shire, but this is different. He puts the heartbreak and loss and loneliness aside for a moment to try and analyze what he’d felt. He’s chilled to realize that the echo is practically a stream of consciousness. His mind and Thorin’s mind had been one. Everything Thorin had thought, they’d both thought, everything through his, their, desperate last-ditch confrontation against the pale orc who’d killed the king.

He shivers at how deep he’d been lost in that impression, too. It isn’t just the sword and his familiarity with it. It can’t be, not with how blended his mind had felt with the impression of Thorin’s shield. Do the sword and shield pull at him more, do they echo more intensely, because they were imbued during a time of great change? He knows that he’s certainly changed and perhaps that’s why the echoes resonate with him.

Or, he grasps at a stray thought, or, perhaps it’s not that the objects pulled him in. After all, something else did happen while he was deep in the mountains. He remembers the shadowy world of invisibility brought on by the ring, the wind and whispers that had buffeted his mind. How strained he’d felt after taking it off, as if the shadows hadn’t wanted to let him go. Maybe, he wonders very, very nervously, he hadn’t gone so deep because he’d been pulled into the echoes of the sword and shield, but pushed.

A twig snaps behind him. Bilbo whirls around in a crouch and reaches towards the sword on his belt with hands that still drip with river water. Thorin holds up his hands in surrender, or maybe apology, and Bilbo releases his tension more with a small smile.

“Your reflexes have improved, Master Baggins,” Thorin says with a relaxed grin.

Bilbo shifts his hands away from his sword and settles back into a more comfortable position. “Well, it had to happen sometime,” he says with a small shrug and a rueful tilt to his lips. “Besides, I’m hardly the same untried hobbit you met in the Shire.”

Thorin’s smile fades at that. He looks regretful, like Bilbo has lost something precious without knowing it. Thorin opens his mouth to reply, maybe to apologize for leading Bilbo into danger, but then his eyes shift down to where Bilbo’s hands fidget with the frayed hem of his jacket. “I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen you without your gloves.”

Bilbo forces his hands into stillness. Drat. “Oh,” he says, “I suppose not.” He aims for casual and fails miserably. He silently wills Thorin not to press farther.

Thorin, stubborn dwarf that he is, doesn’t let it go. His eyes remain on Bilbo’s hands. “I’ve seen a few hobbits before I met you, in Bree and in the northern Shire provinces. I don’t recall that such attire is common among your people.”

Bilbo curses in his head. Why would Thorin pay attention to hobbit fashion? “You’re...right,” he admits. “It’s not terribly common. Or, well, not common at all, really. Just me, I suppose,” he adds, rambling, “I’ve worn them since I was a child and I’ve just...gotten used to them. I hardly notice them anymore.” What a lie that is.

Thorin stays silent for a long moment and just looks at Bilbo. He seems to be weighing something in his mind. “What did you say to him, back there?” Bilbo is confused and it must show on his face. “Azog. When I was just lying there. When you stood before him, protecting me, you said something to him.”

“Oh!” Bilbo scrunches his nose in thought. “Right, yes, I remember. I told him that he couldn’t have you, I think.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rise. “In Sindarin,” he said after a beat.

“What?” Bilbo asks, startled.

“You said it in Sindarin. I may have been mostly unconscious but I can recognize the elven language when I hear it. You never told us you could speak it,” Thorin prompts.

Bilbo is very confused and more than a little worried. He doesn’t speak Sindarin. He’s never spoken Sindarin. Except apparently he had. He knows that he had, somehow, drawn on the echo imbued in his sword to help him fight, but had he really been in it so deep that he’d spoken another language without knowing? He doesn’t know. None of this has ever happened to him before and it’s very disturbing. He tries to school his face back to nonchalant and cobble together a believable explanation. “I don’t, not really. I must have, um, read it in a book,” Bilbo offers up, hoping Thorin will buy it.

Thorin is clearly not convinced but for once he doesn’t seem suspicious. He looks like something has been settled in his mind. He waits silently as if hoping Bilbo will explain more, but Bilbo knows he’d only be digging himself deeper into a hole, so he says nothing. Finally Thorin walks forward to where Bilbo is still kneeling at the river’s edge and settles right in front of him. Thorin extends a hand out to him. “May I?”

“What?” Bilbo asks, thrown off kilter again by the non sequitur. This is becoming far too common when he talks with Thorin and he doesn’t know if he likes it. Another lie, but he clings to it fiercely.

“Your hands,” Thorin clarifies. “May I see them?” His expression is open and very earnest. It’s a good look for him, but Bilbo stamps down on that thought.

Bilbo must have hit his head during the fight because the question makes no sense to him at all. He stares at Thorin’s outstretched hand in confusion. Thorin wants to hold his hand? When is the last time that anyone had touched his hands when he wasn’t wearing his gloves? He can’t recall a time as an adult and thinks that it must have been sometime decades ago during his childhood. Thorin’s request is so odd, and surely that’s the only reason Bilbo places his hand into Thorin’s.

Thorin’s hand is warm. It’s mostly clean and still slightly reddened from what must have been a rough scrubbing with silt and sand, but it’s warm against Bilbo’s river-chilled skin. Bilbo watches, mesmerized, as Thorin swipes his thumb across Bilbo’s knuckles once, twice, three times, and then reaches with his free hand to catch Bilbo’s other one. Now both of Bilbo’s hands are trapped and Thorin is peering at them intensely, seeming to catalog each scrape and bruise, torn nails and swollen blisters, the deep tan lines on each of his wrists.

Bilbo shivers. His palms, never seen, never touched, are sensitive to every callus on Thorin’s hands, every patch worn rough by sword and hammer. Like with all living creatures, Bilbo picks up no impressions from touching Thorin himself but he does feel the occasional echo of Thorin’s strength loyalty honor duty from the rings on his fingers. One is imbued with a faded impression of a father’s pride and has since been colored by a son’s love.

Thorin seems transfixed with this new undiscovered part of Bilbo. He’s no longer content simply holding Bilbo’s hands but is exploring, softly rubbing across his knuckles, tracing the fine bones along the backs, rubbing rough fingertips across his palms and all of it steals Bilbo’s breath. “So soft,” Thorin murmurs, “so smooth. I had thought, perhaps, that there had been an accident, some disfigurement or scarring, or perhaps a medical condition that afflicts only your hands. But no,” he continues with soft wonder, “you keep them covered for a very different reason, don’t you? A remarkable reason, and yet they are untouched. Unmarred. A dwarf’s life is written on his hands. Every scar and mark and callus and line tells the tale of his journey. And yours...yours can tell so much more. Why keep this part of yourself hidden away?”

Bilbo fights his way through the haze of sensation and focuses on Thorin’s words. Thorin thinks he knows. He’s seen Bilbo struggling, reacting, throughout the journey and, like Balin had, he interprets Bilbo through the lens of dwarven history. But it’s not… he’s not…it’s not what he thinks it is. 

Bilbo wants to tell him, longs to tell him. He needs Thorin to understand and to believe him and accept him, oddity and all. But he can’t bear the idea that Thorin might look at him differently if he knows that what Bilbo has is not that lauded gift of Aulë’s. Bilbo can’t bear the thought that he might lose Thorin’s respect and admiration and what he dares to label affection that, despite its newness, he already craves more of.

So Bilbo won’t tell him, not yet. He twists his hands and weaves their fingers together and meets Thorin’s surprised gaze. “Ask me again when this is all over,” Bilbo says, squeezing Thorin’s hands once and releasing them. “Ask me at the end of this journey and I will tell you.”

Bilbo doesn’t talk about his strange additional sense. No one in the Shire talks about it, but Bilbo is sure that at least some people must know. His parents know, of course, but they never ever bring it up to him. They like to pretend that Bilbo is just intuitive, observant, emotional. Perceptive, they say to assuage curious neighbors. Sensitive.

He’s sure that Hamfast suspects there’s something out of the ordinary about him, but Bilbo is equally sure that Hamfast will never ask him about it or spread gossip or treat Bilbo any different than before. It earns him Bilbo’s everlasting appreciation.

Most of what Bilbo sees is centered around pain anger grief darkness. So few strong impressions of light happiness love that he treasures each and every one. He thinks, he hopes, that it’s not a reflection on himself, that it’s not some innate darkness within his soul responding to similar darkness in the world.

He chooses to believe that negative emotions are more easily imbued than positive emotions. That the mind remembers pain fear sadness out of an instinctive desire to protect itself from harm. That so few people open themselves up to transcendent joy and unconditional love that those impressions are, on the whole, rare.

He never feels his own impressions, only those of others. He chooses to believe that’s just how it works, that the gift doesn’t let him pick up echoes of himself. That if someone else has a gift like his they could feel Bilbo’s echo like he would feel theirs. That years of feeling other people’s emotions haven’t scraped out all of his own and left him hollow.

On the coldest nights during that terrible winter when sleep refuses to claim him and dark echoes replay with perfect clarity over and over and over in his mind, he fears that his beliefs are built on a lie.

Beorn’s home offers a welcome chance to rest and recover, if only for a few days. Bilbo sleeps and eats and walks through the gardens. Through a lot of effort he finds a sheep willing to bring him a spare pillowcase from which he can make some simple gloves. After what happened with the sword and shield he’s not taking any more risks than he has to. Especially if it is the ring pushing him deeper into an echo than he means to go.

Somehow Dorí has kept hold of a few needles and spools of thread and lends Bilbo the supplies before excusing himself to deal with...something. Dorí doesn’t specify, but based on the resignation on his face it’s probably some nonsense or another of Norí’s. Bilbo leaves him to it, happy for the privacy to take care of this task without anyone asking him just why it is that he needs the gloves. Dorí’s needles are well-used and well-loved and they send Bilbo gentle waves of 

steady steady through and pull, through and pull, don’t rush, keep it even, this is a good commission, his majesty is generous, through and pull, through and pull, this might be enough for Orí’s apprenticeship, steady, Norí won’t need to take another job this month, calm, focus, just keep moving forward, an honor to have his majesty support my craft, through and pull, through and pull

as he sews up two very crude, but serviceable, gloves. These gloves won’t last nearly as long as the ones he’d left the Shire with, but they’ll work well enough to do some actual sword training with Thorin this afternoon.

Dorí has been an enigma to Bilbo throughout the journey: one part protective brother, one part refined manners, one part ferocious warrior, one part lower class striving for more. This calm and steady and quiet dignity shows Bilbo the truest sense of Dorí’s character he’s had so far, of the pure strength and perseverance at his core. And woven in the background of his life had been Thorin and his quiet, unobtrusive generosity toward a struggling family. It’s a softer side of Thorin than he’s seen before and it’s quite enticing. Bilbo suspects he will need to draw on the memory of this echo in the weeks to come.

Bilbo’s life would be so much easier if he didn’t have his extra sense. There are certainly times that he laments knowing more than he should and times that his mind feels strained by the foreign emotions he’s gathered over the years. Without a doubt this journey across the world would be easier if he could be open and honest with his companions.

But in the deepest dark of Mirkwood he slips off his gloves on a whim and takes the offered locket from Gloín’s hands and feels

his wee lad’s laughter and excitement at getting to try out his da’s axe for the first time, still so tiny, a shining star, the best thing he and his wife have ever crafted together, his wife and son, his two greatest loves, his precious son, the bright hope of the future

wash through his mind. Yes, his life would certainly be easier if his hands didn’t bring him flashes of sadness and pain and grief and despair, glimpses of a person’s darkest innermost feelings. But then he gets impressions like this and Bilbo thinks, perhaps, he’s better for having it.

Death, Bilbo comes to learn, changes how an echo feels. In the years following the Fell Winter of his twenty-first year, Bilbo becomes well-practiced at recognizing the hollow hollow gone far away feeling left behind by a person who has died. He often grieves during those years that he hadn’t thought to buy three pairs of woolen gloves that autumn instead of just the two. The Fell Winter is hard on all the residents of Bag End, but most especially on his father. 

They’ve all been chilled and hungry and wasted thin, but Bungo develops a deep rattling cough in the final two months of the winter. Bilbo gives his father his woolen gloves to try to keep him warm enough that the sickness won’t take him. But it is too little and too late. 

Bilbo knows that the woolen gloves had brought Bungo some small comfort at the time, but now he selfishly wishes that he hadn’t given them up at all. Not because he’d been cold, though his other gloves are practically useless for keeping warm. But the three of them had been trapped in Bag End without outside contact anyway, so Bilbo had simply done without gloves for the most part. For those two cold months Bilbo had re-familiarized himself with the impressions that his father had left all over Bag End. Now his home is filled with ghosts.

Bungo had built the smial with his own two hands as a gift to his beloved Belladonna. His love and dedication is imbued in every panel of wood, every window pane, every candleholder. The kitchen and dining room hold his father’s dreams of raising a passel of faunts with his wild-spirited wife. His favorite pipe carries the deep contentment of a comfortable settled life, of the happiness at holding his son on his knees in front of a warm fire while his wife weaves for them an old hobbit folktale. And Bungo’s study, one of the first places that Bilbo remembers sensing with his hands, feels the same now as it did then, with a far-reaching love of exploration moored by the safety of home.

Bilbo, without gloves for the first time in nearly two decades, had soaked up every impression of his father that he could and had relished the deeper understanding of his more reserved parent. As a child, people had said that he was most like adventurous Belladonna, but that winter had given Bilbo the understanding that he is more like his father than he’d previously thought. A wellspring of emotion and feeling hidden beneath a placid surface.

Which makes it all the more heartbreaking when, a few months after the frost brakes for good, every impression of his father turns hollow and cold and begins fading away.

His mother is a shell of herself after his father dies. Bilbo isn’t much better but he tries to be, for his mother’s sake. When his mother is in the sitting room or kitchen Bilbo sneaks into his parents’ bedroom and drags his fingers along the waistcoats still hanging in his father’s wardrobe, so similar to Bilbo’s own style but with a more refined sense of propriety. Although not ostentatious like some relatives, Bungo had been proud to be a Baggins and able to provide for his wife and son. When the hollow impressions on Bungo’s clothing fade mere months after his death, Belladonna finds Bilbo frantically rifling through piles of jackets and shirts and trousers without his gloves on, desperately searching for the lost feelings. His mother rushes to him after he collapses in defeat and holds him as he sobs in renewed grief.

When he finally recovers enough to go around and touch the maps, the pipe, his father’s chair at the dining table, he is relieved that his father isn’t completely gone yet. Bilbo cries again when he can no longer feel his father in maps and books. He develops the habit of sitting in his father’s armchair, bare hands on the armrests. He keeps the habit even after he can’t feel anything remaining.

Belladonna doesn’t get better over the following few years. Her spirit fades along with Bungo’s echoes. Those years are the only time Bilbo recalls his mother openly asking about his gift. As she ghosts around Bag End in the evenings, she hands him something of his father’s and asks Bilbo what he feels. He is as gentle as he can be, and sometimes he has to lie when he feels little or nothing of Bungo left in whatever his mother picks. Bilbo never can tell if his words help or hurt.

Bag End feels like a motley mixture of Belladonna’s light and laughter—nothing fresh, all leftover from years past—and Bungo’s hollowed out love. The sensory contrast begins to make Bilbo feel sick. The one time he tries to sense his mother’s beloved comb set again, his favorite impression of her, the

bright blush of new love, pleasurable feeling of her husband combing out her curls after a long day, bubbling joy of holding her giggling son in her lap using the same comb on his fine hair

that he’d always felt is now shaded with 

never again, he’ll never hold me again, never make me laugh again, never, oh by the stars how I miss him

He starts wearing gloves full time around the house.

The hardest part of sneaking around the Elvenking’s palace isn’t the lack of sleep or the hunger or even the ever-mounting despair at finding his companions an escape route. It’s the ring.

The shadow world of the ring is just as horrible as he remembers. He’s constantly battered by icy wind and terrifying whispers. Invisibility leeches the color and softness and warmth out of his world and replaces it with cold, hard, gray. It’s useful, no doubt, but he hates it. 

He uses the ring for a week straight before he can’t take it any longer. He wedges himself into a dark corner of a rarely patrolled area and rips the ring off of his gloved hand. Color instantly returns and he sucks in a few greedy gasps of air. Warmth is slower to follow. It’s nighttime and the palace is quiet so he thinks he can risk sneaking around without the ring on for a few hours.

His palms itch fiercely. He’s been protected from impressions for the whole week and now his hands crave the additional stimulus. It makes no sense to him. In his younger years he’d gone for months sometimes without a new impression, and even at the start of this quest he’d gone for longer than a single week. He’s never had this problem before, never needed to feel an impression like this. But the itchy, crawling sensation grows stronger until he just gives in and takes his gloves off. As he feels his way around the empty corridors he realizes that it’s a very good thing that there is no one around because oh, the impressions slam into him with force. He’d suspected before, after the fight with Azog, that the ring somehow pushes him far deeper into echoes than he normally goes. His instinct had been correct. 

It’s as if being immersed in the shadow world of the ring scrapes all his psychic nerve endings raw and every echo after that grates across his senses. It reminds him of how he’d felt in the aftermath of that first horrible impression when he was young, his perception blown wide open. He’s picking up faint echoes from nearly everything he touches, from the walls and floors and doors and doorknobs, objects that, ordinarily, shouldn’t carry an impression for very long. With the ring’s shadow not far removed from his mind, Bilbo senses them all. And all of it carries a faint note of death even though he’s sure that most of the elves who’d left the impressions are alive. The itching, at least, has subsided, but the sensations weigh him down even farther. Nevertheless, he trudges along. He needs to make the most of the little time he can spare being visible to the world.

In those few hours he manages to sneak into a store room and finds many of the dwarrow’s personal effects: beads and hair clasps and Gloín’s locket and Orí’s journal Fíli’s knives and the little figurine Bifur had been working on. He takes a precious moment to soak up the familiar impressions of his friends, not knowing when he might next get the chance. He folds up as much of it as he can in a cloth sack and when he turns to leave he sees a smaller pile, separate from the rest, with two very familiar hair beads sitting on top. Thorin. Thorin is here, thank Eru! He hadn’t been caught by the spiders with the rest of them and no one had been sure what had happened to him. If his personal effects are here then he must be here somewhere, too.

Bilbo’s been careful, oh so careful since he’d realized that he’s given his heart away, not to learn any more about Thorin than Thorin is ready to share. He feels like it is cheating somehow, for all that Bilbo can’t generally help it, to know all of these intimate details of Thorin’s life without Thorin’s permission, But he’s just so alone right now, so weary and disheartened at the indignities heaped upon his friends, and the potential for this tiny bit of comfort is too much temptation to resist. His hand is shaking just a little bit as he carefully grabs Thorin’s beads and

thrum thrum, thrum thrum, thrum thrum, thrum thrum

pulses through him. A deep, powerful, unrelenting wave, the heartbeat of the line of Durin. An indomitable force driving ever-onward, generations of kings culminating with Thorin son of Thraín. He tears up, he misses Thorin so much , but after a moment of letting himself feel it he squares his shoulders. All’s not lost yet. Thorin is here, and the rest of his dwarrow are, too. They may not know it but they’re counting on Bilbo to get them out of here. He carefully tucks Thorin’s beads away in a separate pocket, puts his gloves back on, and braces to enter the shadow world of the ring once more. He’s got work to do.

Chapter Text

Bard’s children are sweet and kind to him despite the clear difficulty of their living situation. Thorin on the other hand, for all that he’d been very happy to see Bilbo during the escape and had been grateful for the return of his personal effects, is now far too busy to pay Bilbo any mind. Bilbo thinks back at how Thorin had woven their fingers together after Bilbo had unlocked his cell and how he’d pressed their foreheads carefully together and he tries not to be disheartened by Thorin’s current behavior. They are on a deadline after all and, Valar willing, there will be time enough for all the rest of it later. 

While Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin argue with Bard about weapons and sneaking and the Master of Laketown, Bilbo quietly pulls Sigrid aside and asks if, perhaps, one of her younger siblings has an old pair of gloves they are willing to lend him. The ones he’d made at Beorn’s haven’t survived the rough barrel ride and he really doesn’t want to enter the mountain without any. 

All of their money had gone to buy them discrete passage into town so he has nothing with which to pay her, but he promises that he’ll give them back when the mountain is reclaimed. Sigrid looks at the tattered fabric clinging to his hands. They’re dirty, soaked with icy lake water, and shredded from their turbulent ride down the river. She gives him a soft, understanding smile, and goes to look.

Later, as they leave town with much fanfare but without four of their companions, Bilbo finds Sigrid in the crowd of people. He smiles at her and presses one hand, gloved in worn rough-spun wool, over his heart in gratitude.

His borrowed gloves are a blessing once he enters the mountain. He’s dreaded wearing the ring again but it’s the only way, and the gloves offer some measure of protection at least. The world fades once more into gray and shadow. The wind and whispers are even louder than before. When he reaches the treasure chamber and starts sifting through the endless sea of relics, he’s even more grateful that the gloves spare him whatever impressions have been left by untold generations of dwarven craftsmen and royals and, he thinks with dread, by the dragon.

He finds the Arkenstone relatively quickly—Thorin hasn’t exaggerated; it shines like nothing he has envisioned—and it feels warm in the palm of his shielded hand. He slips it into his pocket and turns to leave and that’s when everything goes wrong.

To be honest, Bilbo had tried to forget that the dragon was inevitable but it is so much worse than he could have imagined. The whole ordeal is more than a little terrifying and he won’t be glad to recall the tale later. There’s roaring and running and scrambling over shifting mounds of gold. There’s Thorin threatening him with a sword over a shiny rock and Bilbo’s heart breaks a little. There’s the entire company entering the mountain to try to save him from the dragon, which is loyal of them, but terribly stupid. There’s the frankly ridiculous plan with the forges and the molten gold. There’s the gaping hole in the wall where Smaug charges out to seek revenge on Laketown. And, at the end, there’s the horror of watching Laketown burn and the devastatingly quiet aftermath of Smaug’s fall.

He collapses against a pile of rubble in shock and finally registers the pain all over his body from the various falls and scrapes in the treasure chamber. His head aches where he’d slammed against a gem-encrusted shield trying to hide. His feet and his hands are both red with burns from fire-hot stone and a few of his nails are torn clear off. His mind feels stuffed with wool. A distant part of him wonders at what point his gloves had been burned away because all that’s left of them are a few charred scraps hanging loosely around his wrists. Oh, he thinks numbly, unconsciousness closing in. He’ll have to apologize to Sigrid for ruining them.

He’s only unconscious for a short while before Thorin’s shouting wakes him and everyone is ordered back to the treasure chamber for a fruitless search. For days Bilbo stays well clear of Thorin. He wants to help him, can see Thorin falling deeper and deeper into obsession but...Thorin had drawn his sword on him. Thorin had threatened his life and had looked at him with greed and suspicion and had ignored the looming danger until it was breathing fire in his face. Bilbo worries for Thorin, of course he does, but even at the start of this whole mad adventure, when Thorin had looked on him with disdain, Bilbo had never felt threatened by him. 

The Thorin that stomps about now bears no resemblance to the one who’d looked at him with wonder at the riverbank and so carefully caressed his hands, or the one Dwalin had followed into hell and back, or the one Balin had faithfully served for more than a century. This Thorin is certainly not the one that Fíli and Kíli strive to emulate, or the one who had laughed at old Khifar’s stone tales, or the one who only came here to provide for them all a home. The Arkenstone is a heavy weight in his pocket, but he fears who Thorin would become if he had it.

Oín, Bofur, and the boys join them in the mountain a few days later, blessedly spared from the dragon’s wrath. The four of them haven’t been pressed into searching for the Arkenstone yet, so it’s easy to pull Oín aside and get some burn cream for his untreated hands. He’d tried his best to wrap his hands in scraps of salvaged cloth, more to keep impressions at bay than anything else, but rifling through piles of gold for days has only made the pain worse. The healer rubs a soothing mixture over his raw skin with a gentleness at odds with his gruff disposition. Thankfully the burns aren’t deep and they’re not infected. The best thing is to let them rest and breathe, Oín says. That means no gloves or wraps or anything, Oín asserts no matter how much Bilbo objects, unless he wants to irritate the skin further, risk infection, and keep them from healing for twice as long. Bilbo relents with a huff and determines that he’ll just have to keep his hands clasped behind his back or his arms across his chest like he used to do in the Shire. He wonders when along the journey he’d dropped the habit.

Oín argues with Thorin on Bilbo’s behalf and so he’s exempt from the continuing search. Bilbo brushes the back of one burned hand across Thorin’s cheek in gratitude and Thorin’s gaze softens. Thorin turns his head just a little to brush a soft kiss against the inside of Bilbo’s wrist and for a brief, beautiful moment, everything seems alright. But it’s just a moment, just the space of a couple breaths, and then the gold pulls Thorin away from him again. Bilbo turns away, too disheartened to watch.

Later that week he stands on a balcony overlooking the treasury and watches with a sinking heart as Thorin, as all his dwarrow become consumed in the search for the Arkenstone. Nothing Bilbo has tried can draw Thorin from the treasure hoard. He anxiously fiddles with his jacket pockets, one that holds a tiny gold ring and the other a glowing fist-sized gem, and wonders what he should do, because he knows that they’ll never find it down there. He equally knows that he can’t hide the stone from them forever and that the time to make a choice is rapidly approaching.

Bilbo loses his chance to decide when he absentmindedly slips his bare hands into his pockets and touches both the ring and Arkenstone and his mind is overcome by white hot AGONY and everything that he is BURNS.

Chapter Text

Bilbo is on his knees and he’s screaming and

he is death and destruction and despair, he is burnt and he is burning and he will BURN THEM and his fire will consume all and

he’s both in his body and somewhere far away. He’s trapped in his mind and very painfully present in the great hall of treasure and he is

all colors and no colors and transcending light that hides a core of never ending darkness and he is darkness that slithers and grasps and rends and

he’s both lost in the abyss and aware that his thirteen beloved companions are rushing to his side and tears are streaming down his face and

he towers over the pitiful creatures below, he is all-powerful, all-knowing, worthless ants scurry around his boots and hope to avoid his wrath and

his scream cuts off as he runs out of air and he can’t breathe, can’t draw a breath even when Balin grabs the hand holding the ring and Thorin grabs the hand holding the Arkenstone and

he is loved, he is revered, he is terrible and greedy and beautiful, he creates kings and worshipers and enslaves them all, he is the heart and he eats the hearts of those who gaze upon him and

they pry the ring and the Arkenstone from his hands and cast them to the ground. Two pieces of his soul and they consume his mind and no one but Bilbo watches them fall. They hit the ground and Bilbo suddenly gasps in a breath. And then he takes another breath and another until he’s breathing too fast and yet still can’t get enough air. And he’s distantly aware that he’s still on his knees and his body is trying to thrash but his two friends are holding his arms so he can’t hurt himself and he’s still crying and his mind is spiraling around

blinding brightness and grasping claws and molten fire and blood of the conquered and ensorcelling light glittering in craven eyes and

and then someone is screaming and it’s not him for a change. Thorin is yelling at Balin about what to do and Balin, unflappable, steady tired loyal Balin is panicking and unsure and says something Bilbo can’t hear through the roaring fires in his mind. But suddenly he’s off the ground and enfolded in strong kind bitter weary steadfast arms and Thorin is rushing through abandoned stone halls. Thorin cradles him to his chest as he runs through Erebor and Bilbo curls his arms up to his chest and tries to make himself smaller. He’s still crying and he can’t even think about the mess he’s making and his mind is still overwhelmed and he’s babbling about horror and terrible beauty and war and death when something hard knocks against the back of his exposed hand and

thrum thrum, thrum thrum, thrum thrum, thrum thrum

pulses through the darkness in steady waves. It’s steady, a blessedly familiar anchor in a never ending sea of blackest night. He grasps the bead at the end of Thorin’s braid by reflex. It doesn’t drown out the ring or the Arkenstone or the overpowering combination of both at once—not even the thrumming heartbeat of the mighty line of Durin can do that. But the echo beats back the darkness enough to let him control his voice.

“Joy,” Bilbo croaks.

Thorin glances down with wide eyes but doesn’t slow his pace. He can, and has, run through these halls blindfolded, Bilbo knows. “Bilbo?” he gasps. “What can I do? What do you need? Tell me, please!”

“Joy. Happiness,” he grits through the pain in his head, fighting the impressions that threaten to subsume his mind again. “Things you love. Made with love. I need—” he manages before he’s sinking once more and he

conquers by fist and sword, by warping heart and mind, he will drown them in a sea of blood, how dare they try to defy him! he is irresistible, he is temptation and lust and greed and wrath, he is terrible horrible splendor, he is the burning core of the sun, he is inescapable, he is inevitable, he is

too small for this, but Grandmother must know that I’ll be bigger and stronger one day, the strings make my fingers feel funny, Grandmother’s laugh is so pretty, as pretty as her music, I’ll play for her on her birthday and she’ll be so proud at how well I listened to her and learned her songs

“—ndmother would sit me in her lap and hold my hands to the strings and help me strum because I was too small to reach the farthest ones. We’d play simple little melodies you teach a child, nothing like what she could do. I was so small when she gave it to me and I was impatient and wanted to go run and play with swords. But the music made her so happy and I loved making her smile and laugh. I have so few memories of her but I know that she played so beautifully. She died when I was very young and I never got to play for her birthday, but I kept learning and practicing and it helped me remember her even when it was the harp that was too small and not me.” 

The cadence of Thorin’s voice blends with the impression of bright innocent childhood love and dispels some of the darkness. When Bilbo’s eyes refocus he finds that Thorin is sitting on the floor of a rather dusty room and he is sitting across Thorin’s outstretched legs. One of Thorin’s hands supports Bilbo’s back and another holds their entwined hands to a silver harp. He has no idea how long they’ve been there.

Bilbo is still dazed and is leaning all his weight against Thorin but he murmurs, “And the strings made your fingers feel funny.”

Thorin cuts himself off with a huff of laughter. “Yes, they did, at least before I developed the calluses.” He feels Thorin glance down, though Bilbo’s head is tucked against Thorin’s chest. “Are you alright? Did it help?”

He hums in response and tries to focus on the bubbly impression left by child-Thorin. The darkness looms in the back of his mind and starts to swell. ”Yes. But not enough yet.” He still feels dizzy. “I need more.”

“Ah.” Thorin presses his cheek against the top of Bilbo’s head. “Can you stand?” Bilbo shakes his head and clutches at both the harp and Thorin’s shirt and prays that he doesn’t have to move. He distantly feels pain in his burned hands but he’s desperate to not lose what little of his mind he’s regained so far.

“Shh, shh,” Thorin soothes, placing a kiss in his hair. “It’s alright, we won’t move.” He pauses and then gently disentangles Bilbo’s grip on the harp. Bilbo whimpers in distress and feels the darkness close in again. “It’s alright,” he repeats with a kiss on his palm this time, “it’s alright. Here,” Thorin says as he brings their joined hand up to his face and slides Bilbo’s palm toward the back of his skull. Bilbo feels Thorin’s hair on his fingers—a little rougher than Bilbo’s own, matted and slightly oily with sweat and ash—and then Thorin moves Bilbo’s hand a little higher into the dark waves of hair. Three beads, hidden thus far, meet Bilbo’s palm and he closes his hand around them and

strong arms grab his waist and lift him up into the air with a triumphant shout, Thorin always cheats when we race! admiration, one day I’ll be strong enough to lift him, hah! then we’ll see who wins, high-pitched giggles chasing deeper laughter down stone halls, happiness and levity and brotherly love, the two of them side by side forever

the darkness recedes a little in the face of Frerin’s adoration of his older brother and Bilbo feels

hope, one bead for each of her beautiful children, clever Dís and gentle Frerin and compassionate Thorin, three bright lights to lead our kingdom, pride, mother’s love, three beads to connect them no matter where they are, hope for the future, they’ll stay together and support each other even after I’m gone

a gift from Thorin’s mother that encapsulates her hope for her children’s futures and dispels more of the shadow and  

happiness, laughter, look at how small they are! His two precious boys, his little nephews, I’m not their father, no, but I will do my best by them and hope it’s enough, he holds the world in his arms, two little bundles of joy, lights of his life, the sun and moon, they giggle when I tickles them, he’s never been so happy

the token Thorin had made to rejoice in the sons of his heart. 

Frerin, beloved brother lost too soon. Frís, fierce mother who had bound their family together. Tiny Fíli and baby Kíli, who bring their uncle transcendent joy. Love, family, joy. The essence of their people imbued in tokens that Thorin always keeps close, Bilbo knows, hidden and protected and shielded from the cruelty of the world. Bilbo releases his grasp and gently strokes the tips of his fingers over the beads, feeling love family joy love family joy echo through his mind and his heart, over and over until the darkness is drowned and washed away. He realizes he’s humming a gentle lullaby he knows Thorin had sung to his nephews when they were babes. Thorin has fallen silent, listening.

When he feels the last traces of those cursed impressions disappear Bilbo stops humming and stills his hand. He rests it at the base of Thorin’s skull and tangles his fingers in dark hair. At some point Thorin had moved the harp off of Bilbo’s lap, though still within reach if needed, and wrapped both of his arms around Bilbo’s waist. 

Bilbo sighs, content. This, all of this, giggling child-Thorin and brother-Thorin and father-Thorin and leader-Thorin and even bitter blacksmith-Thorin. Every bit of this beautiful person, right here, is what Bilbo needs. And he thinks, probably, that Thorin needs him, too.

He tilts his head upwards and Thorin tilts his head downwards and they meet in the middle in a soft kiss. They linger for only a moment before Thorin breaks it off. Thorin presses their foreheads together and breathes shakily, still recovering from what must have been a terrible thing to witness, still weak from endless days without rest or food or water.

“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly into the space between them.

“Always,” Thorin promises, and Bilbo is tucked back into his embrace and held just a little bit tighter.

A few years after his father passes on, his mother follows. Bilbo, who has spent years avoiding his mother’s darkened impressions, is now desperate to hold onto any lingering trace of her, darkened and death-hollow though they are.

In his grief after Belladonna’s passing he trails his hands over as much of Bag End as he can reach. He barely pauses between each echo of his mother or his father. He walks and walks and walks the winding halls. The silence is only broken by his own gasps or sobs or choked off laughter. He walks and feels and remembers until his own feet won’t carry him any more or the sensations overwhelm his mind and he collapses wherever he is. And then he does it again the next day. And the next. And the next.

It takes a few weeks but kind old Holman eventually rescues Bilbo from his sensory spiral, forcibly dragging Bilbo out of Bag End and into the sunlight and fragrant air of summer. The shock of it knocks Bilbo out of the past and back into the present. He never lets himself spiral that badly again.

Eventually, Bilbo finds balance. He still wears gloves when out in public. It is habitual by that point, as much so as picking out a matching pocket handkerchief. More so, Bilbo is sick of knowing more about his neighbors and family than he ought to. He’s able to live a fairly normal and respectable life by Shire standards. 

When he arrives home from his errands or visits or walking holidays—alone now, for the well of prospective partners has long-since dried up—he takes off his gloves and just lets himself be while at home. Of course, he dons gloves if he has visitors so that he doesn’t get lost in an impression where others can see. But with that exception Bilbo enjoys the luxury of feeling his parents’ presences while the impressions linger. Hollow though they may be now, they are all he has left of them.

All but the strongest of echoes fade after a few years, anyway, so in time Bilbo lets his guard down even at home. Occasionally he is struck anew by Bungo’s steady love for his family or Belladonna’s fierce protectiveness. Her set of silver spoons, which she had polished every week without fail, retain a particularly strong echo that he goes back to frequently. He treasures the reminders of his long-departed parents as he gets older.

When he is at home Bilbo no longer fears touching an object he shouldn’t. Bag End and all of its echoes of his family are his home and he has grown comfortable with it all. So when he brushes off a meddlesome figure from his mother’s stories in his garden one day, he doesn’t think one jot about it later that evening. He goes to market, comes home and sheds his gloves in his bedroom as usual. He prepares dinner barehanded while enjoying the now-faint sense of his mother’s contentment at doing the same years before.

And he’s too startled at the interruption of his dinner to protect his hands before answering the heavy knock at the door.

One day a few months after the battle, Bilbo and Thorin are alone in their private quarters inside Erebor. The stone halls are quiet as Bilbo unwraps and cleans Thorin’s remaining battle wounds. They’ve been chatting quietly about their days, catching each other up after hours working apart doing the work of the kingdom. It’s been a long few months of grueling but very fulfilling work. They’re grateful to each of their former travel companions for their leadership in rebuilding Erebor, and to their nephews in particular who have stepped up to shoulder some of Bilbo’s and Thorin’s responsibilities as they all recuperate. Fíli has turned into a surprisingly good mediator between the guilds and Kíli has emerged as an effective coordinator for the engineering teams. Their work gives Bilbo and Thorin room to enjoy some measure of peace and privacy at the end of yet another long day. 

Their conversation tapers off. Thorin stays silent for a few minutes and when Bilbo looks at him he sees his partner is lost in thought. Bilbo continues wrapping the bandage around Thorin’s chest and waits for whatever Thorin is figuring out how to say. “How does it work?” he finally asks plain as can be, and Bilbo’s breath hitches. He’s been waiting for this question since before the battle, since impressions from the Arkenstone and the ring had nearly killed him. Both accursed things are locked away now, hidden by Balin, Norí, and Bifur somewhere unknown. Everyone is relieved to have the things far away from anywhere they can do more harm. Now only the memories can haunt him, and he and Thorin are starting to create new memories together, good ones, that keep the shadows away. 

Now it’s time to fulfil the promise he made so long ago at a distant riverbank. He’d thought he’d have more time to prepare, but it’s not to be. Bilbo tries to explain his ability in as clear words as possible, but he fears that he’s made a hash of it. In some ways it’s harder to explain this to Thorin that it had been to Gandalf; Thorin has seen something similar in the past with the stone-touched but this isn’t that, not really, and so Bilbo trips over a lot of Thorin’s preconceptions.

He answers Thorin’s follow up questions as best he can. Yes, it’s only his hands. No, it’s not every item and usually not stone at all. No, no other hobbits, only him. Yes, he remembers each impression forever. Yes, oftentimes it hurts. No, he mostly doesn’t mind wearing gloves all the time, not any more.

Thorin nods at each of his answers—Bilbo suspects he’s pieced most of this together over time—but then he pauses. He’s building up the courage for what he really wants to know and eventually, hesitantly asks “And me? Have you felt anything from me? Aside from what I showed you, that is.” His eyes betray his nervousness.

Bilbo hears what is left unsaid out of fear that the act of speaking it aloud will bring it forth once more: do you see the darkness within me? He can’t get this wrong; it’s too important to prevaricate or be anything less than totally honest. He stops playing with the wrappings on Thorin’s chest and rests his palms on his love’s shoulders.

“Yes,” he says, holding Thorin’s gaze, “I have felt many impressions you’ve left behind. The first was when I was a child and you were a bitter, angry blacksmith working in the towns of men. Since I’ve known you...the contract. Your shield. Rings. Hair beads. Glimpses of you seen through the eyes of our companions.” Thorin ducks his head in an attempt to hide from Bilbo’s knowing gaze, fearing, assuming that whatever Bilbo's seen must condemn him. 

But Bilbo won’t let him hide, won’t let him assume the worst. Not with this. He ducks his own head to keep his eyes on Thorin’s, brings both his hands up to caress the sides of his face and just gently strokes over Thorin’s cheekbones. Slowly, finally, Thorin raises his eyes again, and Bilbo continues. “I’ve felt your wounded pride, your harsh anger, your deep-seated resentment at all the loss your life has held. The paralyzing realization that a broken kingdom looks to you for salvation and the fear that you are not enough.” Thorin gives a sob here closes his eyes once more. After his slide into gold sickness, Thorin is still afraid of that. “But just as clearly as all of that, I’ve felt your strength, your courage, your deep and abiding sense of purpose and connection to your people. I knew your drive and determination and concern for each of us long before you looked at me with kindness,” Bilbo continues in a gentle voice. “Your yearning for a home, this home, drove me out my front door. And I knew before we left the Shire that I could love you until the end of my days.”

Now Bilbo hesitates, not because of any impression of Thorin’s but at the reminder of his own weakness. He wants to leave it there, wants to shy away from the truth. But he’s gotten this far and he can’t stop now. “And when I was lost,” he says in a choked off voice, and Thorin looks up at the change in tone, at the reminder of that terrifying time. “When the ring and the stone tried to tear me apart and cast me into permanent darkness, it was you who saved me. Your fierce devotion to your family, to the people you love, was stronger than any spell gold could weave over your thoughts. When I was on my knees and screaming in agony at what I had brought upon myself in my own foolishness—my own, Thorin, no one else’s, no matter what you tell yourself—When I needed you the most, you pulled yourself from madness to save me. You did that, Thorin.”

Bilbo uses the hands he still has on Thorin’s face to draw him closer and presses their foreheads firmly together. He wishes he could impress this point on Thorin’s mind just as easily. “I know you. I see you. I feel who you are beneath the mantle of leader and king. You are good, Thorin,” he says fiercely. He won’t let Thorin hide from this truth, needs to make sure Thorin understands. “Not perfect, no one is, but good. So, so good. You are a good son, a good brother, a good father. A good man. You are enough, Thorin. You’ve always been enough.”

Thorin looks wrecked. He sobs again and buries his head in Bilbo’s neck, and Bilbo lets him this time. He’s said what he needs to, but it will take time for Thorin to believe it. To believe that he’s more than what he became at his lowest point. To believe that who he is is already enough for his family and his people. For Bilbo.

And, Bilbo acknowledges, he himself needs some time, too, to learn to accept that his sense, his strangeness, is an inextricable part of what makes him, him. When he left his home behind he’d been resentful toward it, he’d hidden it from view as much as possible and made himself smaller so he could fit others’ expectations. Since then he’s come to a tentative sort of peace with it. It’s brought him plenty of pain and sorrow over his life, but it has given him so many wonderful and precious gifts, too, including the man in his arms. Regardless of where it comes from or what it shows him, his gift is neither good nor bad, it just is. He accepts that it is what he chooses to make it, rather than being resigned to what it tries to make of him. Bilbo, too, needs time to accept this part of himself fully. And he’s grateful that he and Thorin can take that time, together, and start to heal.