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Chapter Text

All dwarves had a calling to stone, they were born from it and would be buried beneath it when their ancestors called for them. Thorin remembered the day his parents were buried in the tombs; he had Dis’s tiny hand clasped so tightly in his that it must have been painful, neither of them said a word as they watched the stone coffin being lowered into the hall of ancestors. She said nothing when he carried her home and tucked her in, nothing as he whispered the stories of the halls of Mahal, of the mountain, of stone, nothing as he tried to comfort her with the stories of their people, of life, and of death. He told her how the mountains and caves had been there long before Mahal created dwarves and would be there long after the dwarves vanished from middle earth, and one day they too would be buried beneath the stone alongside their parents and drink with them in Mahal’s halls.

Eventually she slept, wrapped in blankets holding her little dwarven doll. It looked just like Dis so small and innocent wrapped her in tiny arms. Thorin didn’t sleep, he stood by her bed and he prayed. He had never put much stock in faith, he loved the stories of history and religion his parents told him, and he would spend hours staring at the stone carvings in the cathedral but he never really believed that Mahal was truly watching them or that anything waited after death expect a burial beneath the cold stone, but in that moment Thorin stood and he prayed. He stood vigil all night watching his sister, hoping beyond anything that he could do this. Just as the sun was starting to rise he decided that it wasn’t a matter of if he could or couldn’t he had to do it for there was no other way. Dwarves were carved to endure and so he would, he would endure and he would give Dis the life his parents wanted for her and Mahal save him it would be a good life.
There is nothing more important to a dwarf than family and craft. When a dwarf is young, the stone calls to them, pulling their soul to a craft, a fate. Mahal had carved the dwarves from these stones, and as life was breathed into the stone, the dwarves would carve their livelihood from it. It was their greatest pride to follow the path Mahal had set before them.
A dwarf started their craft when they were not much more than a teen, and from then on it is intertwined in the entirety of dwarven culture, friendships, courting, and coming of age; almost every aspect of life had to do with the relationship between dwarves and their craft.

They had been so excited when he had come racing home to tell them. Fuzz on the chin that couldn’t even be called a beard. He raced home tripping over his own feet in a gangly awkward mess of limbs that he hadn’t fully grown into.

He burst into the sitting room tripping over himself and somersaulting onto the rug in the middle of the room “ I can feel it, I can hear it singing to me” he choked out trying to breathe. His mother who had been sharpening an axe by the fire looked up startled at the abrupt intrusion. His father who had been in the middle of throwing his giggling sister into the air was so startled he almost didn’t catch her as they all turned to look at him.
“I can hear it, the metal, it's singing to me asking me to form it to create. I know what it wants to be” His parents laugh in delight and they both race over to hug Thorin. His not sure Dis really understood what was happening but the young girl giggles and jumps into the pile of her family.

It's only a few years later that he's walking his sister home, holding tight to one hand, and the other feeling along the wall leading him home in a daze the stone sings to him. Slowly it began telling him how and when to strike for his hammer to ring true, what angles he needed to cut a gem, and whether the iron was hot enough to shape with hammer and anvil. Two days after the funeral Thorin began his apprenticeship in the forges of Erebor, his beard still hasn’t grown in and he is barely even old enough to start but even the money his parents had saved up wasn’t enough to put food on the table, and Thorin swore on the mountain itself that he would care for Dis, that nothing would happen to her so long as he still breathed.

He took up his apprenticeship with a serious determination rarely seen in a dwarf still shy of 70 years. He was a fast learner and every night, long after the masters and other apprentices had banked their forges and stowed their tools, Thorin remained crafting horse shoes, nails, and other simple metal works to sell in markets and to the men of Dale. He hated going into town and selling to the men, they treated him even more like a child than the other dwarves, and he was sure they were short changing him but he needed the money and he had no other way to provide for Dis.

Naturally, some of this money was used to spoil Dis rotten. The child had Thorin wrapped firmly around her finger and he could hardly deny her whatever toy or bobble had caught her fancy. The other dwarves seemed to find it amusing watching her wander around the market dragging Thorin behind her. He had grown somber and stern in the years after his parents death but the minute the young girl turned her gaze to him he melted like ice. He seemed completely unaware of the endearing effect this had on the other dwarves, but everyone in Erebor knew Thorin would do anything for that girl.

Anything that wasn’t spent on food or presents for Dis he saved, he knew he would have to leave one day and he wouldn’t leave her to work the way he had. Soon Dis would feel her calling and, at the pace he was going, Thorin would be required to leave for his journeyman. A daunting thought that often loomed over him when he had the rare moment of rest to actually consider it.

Against Thorin’s greatest effort Dis did of course grow, and with each passing day she began to look more and more like their mother. Her hair was as black as a raven and every morning Thorin wove silver beads into her hair until it sparkled like stars in the night, and as her beard had started to sprout she began to resemble the picture over their mantle. He would find her staring at it some nights with a wistful look on her face, he knew her memories of them were hazy, they weren’t solid memories for her. Just hazy moments and feelings from her childhood, It pained him to know that without the painting she would hardly remember what they looked like or how their love showed evidently on their faces. He tried to tell her stories, tried to convey how much they loved her and how much they cared for her. That they would be proud of the young dwarf she was becoming. He didn’t think he did it justice, it's hard to convey that two people she could hardly remember even knowing loved her more than life itself. Would always be proud of her no matter her decisions; but he did his best and hoped that it was enough. That seemed to be the common thread of his life, doing his best for Dis and hoping it was enough. Hoping that it was right and what they would’ve wanted.

It wasn't long before she heard her calling, he came back from the forge exhausted and covered in soot. He opened the front door and stood there in shock watching her swinging a warhammer almost as if she were born with one in her hand. He watched her wielding his hammer in the living room, he wished he could turn around and pretend he never saw it, a feeling began to rise, over all the pride, he felt a fear grip him. It was cold and violent as it gripped him, panic began to rise choking in his throat. He could not protect her now, she would venture into battle and she would be glorious. He knew she would, the grace of their mother, the righteous fury of their father. When she was younger he liked to think he could stop it, lead her to the arts, to knowledge, anything, anything but battle. It was no use she never liked the book he brought home or the art supplies or the instruments. It was never going to work; this was always the path he could not change it. There had never been a dwarf who could protect one from their calling— it was destiny and not even Mahal himself could keep a dwarf from their destiny. As his heart tightened and throat burned, he bumped her forehead, held her as long as he really could and congratulated her on her noble calling, already talking plans of who she should ask to apprentice with.

That night after she had fallen asleep with a large smile on her face and dreams of a glorious future in her mind, Thorin stood. He stood and he prayed, his second vigil was so similar to his first the same fear gripped his heart the same prayers cross his mind. Mahal protect her, because he couldn’t, there was nothing he could do. As the sun began to rise on his second vigil he opened her door and looked and the portriat above the mantel and prayed once more that they would forgive him. Please, forgive him for what he could not change.

He stood and stared at the portraits over the mantel, trying to commit it to memory. Dis was still asleep in the room across the hall and wouldn’t rise until long after Thorin left the mountain, and when she did rise, she'd find the bag of gold left on the counter along with the calling bead of their mother. He could feel the missing weight against his temple, he left lopsided without leaning to far to oneside and completely off balance. No one would ever accuse Thorin Oakensheild of being good at saying goodbye; he spoke so little to begin with and saying goodbye to her feels to much like like when he said goodbye to them, he can’t do it. He rarley considers himself a coward but in this moment he knows he is one. It matters little he doesn’t have the strength to do it he would never leave if he tried besides, she understands, at least that's what he tells himself as the stone door shuts behind him with an air of finality that seemed more foreboding than he wanted.

The forges of the mountain will always be where Thorin feels the most at peace. The sound of metal crashing against metal, the heat of the fires, and the smell of smoke will always be a comfort. He can hear work songs echoing threw the forges in time to pounding hammers, a strong rythimc beat that he can feel in his ribs as he steps into the forge. The tension melts from his shoulders flowing off like water from stone. Thorin takes a breath, closing his eyes, soaking up what small comfort he can from the familiar place. The warm stone under his hand.

Master Bothor Ragnur is there when his eyes open again, speaking to a group of ornately dressed smiths and the weight suddenly comes crashing back down on him. He hesitates a moment longer, knowing this could be one of the last times he is in the forge for years,he suddenly feels purpsolely like a boat left out at sea. He feels like he is leaving his port behind and he doesn’t know when he’ll ever be back. He breathes in deep and then suddenly he steps forward, straightening his shoulders and hoping his beard makes him look older than he really is.

"Young Thorin," Ragnur calls and Thorin automatically falls into an anxious bow, its stiff and he tries to relax, greeting his master and the rest of the guild heads. They reply with curt bows. The eldest dwarf Bolmin, who has managed to still look imposing at his advancing age, looks deep into Thorin. The sheer amount of wisdom bearing down at him from those eyes adds to the pressure on Thorins shoulds and he feels like he may buckle under the weight at any moment. He locks his knees and tries not to tremble and suddenly its over his gaze shifts slightly and the he begins the speech that Thorin has been fighting and striving for since he was a pebble, no matter how much it may weigh on him, it was of course his destiny.

"Thorin, today begins the next part of your journey to becoming a master smith," he tried to keep his face blank as Bolmin continued, "You will be expected to forge your craft, your brand, you must listen and follow the stone as it guides you. When you return it shall be as a new dwarf. Set out to earn your braids and prove your mountain proud," Bolmin finishes his speech,Thorin is to nervous to be sure but he almost looks proud.

Thorin bows once more as deep as he can without falling over. "I will return with my craft and earn my braids in the name of my mountain and family," he manages to get the words out without stuttering or choking, he’s not sure how he manages it but its done. The guild masters nod and begin to move away heading to their own appretencies and work.
Just as Thorin is turning to head to the mountain's gate, he feels a hand settle on his shoulder, he turns to face his mentor,

"Thorin, you are one of the youngest dwarves to ever head out on his journeyman, I've seen few as skilled as you, and never someone so determined to head out to the world"
Thorin tries not to think of a long-gone father. Ragnur’s hand is still on his shoulder and the warm weight is such a comfort after the mercless press of expectations he felt before.
"I know you will succeed Thorin, listen to the stone, but more importantly listen to your heart. It will lead you better than any stone ever has or will." he pauses for a moment Thorin stars to think he’s finished shifting his weight to back up when he grips Thorin’s shoulder tighter, “I’m proud of you Thorin, youre the best I’ve ever trained. I’ll check on her make sure she’s doing alright you don’t have to worry”

It takes Thorin a moment to choke back his tears and clear the clog in his throat before he can speak and even then it comes out horse a broken “Thank you Ragnur, for everything.” he reaches out squeezing his shoulder and offering him a reluctant smile.

Ragnur nods and moves away, going back to his anvil and forge. With a start, Thorin realized he will never again stand next to him, feel the heat against his skin, never hear the pound of his hammer on metal in a rhythm grander than even the songs of elves. It adds to the sinking feeling in his stomach the growing horror that once he leaves nothing will ever be the same, even after he returns to his moutian things will never quite be the same as they where when he left. Dis will have grown and he will have missed it, he will have grown too become a master in his craft be expected to forge on his own and eventually take an apprentice of his own. He turns away and walks with determined steps to the gates of the mountain afraid that if turns around again he wont be able to move forward and down the steps.

The moment Thorin stepped foot across the gates, something shifts in himself and in his connection to the stone, it almost feels like a path appears before him. The stone tugs at him and although he can still feel the gripping urge to turn around and walk right back inside, he takes comfort in the sudden knowledge that he at least has a direction to start. A path he is destined to walk. He begins, each step ringing threw the stone below his boot even as the ringing of hammers on steel fades behind him.

Chapter Text

In a valley in middle earth, there lived the Hobbits. It was a beautiful valley of course it was green year almost round with beautiful streams and forests. In the spring, when the strawberries grow, the whole valley is filled with the fruit’s alluring smell and laughing children running from bush to bush, sticky and happy. It the kind of place anyone could feel at peace. It came with picnics and big round bellies. Summer parties in warm evenings little by glow bugs and winters in cozy homes with large fires and good mead.

Hobbits are creatures of habit to be sure, living in a place like the Shire made one content happy with their ways. They loved their valley and rarely left, content with the fruitful bounty Yavan had given them. They of course loved food and ate a healthy seven times a day, they loved to be merry and party, they lived in big sprawling homes dug within the mountain, and, most importantly, they loved families. What better way to celebrate Yavan’s bounty than to revel in it to live well and prosper and so the hobbits did. Hobbits took great pride in their family, any Hobbit would tell you, hobbits live in smials, large and fairly bursting with hobbits at any time. From a young age hobbits could recite their entire family tree from direct relatives to the most distance cousins. But then of course their always had to be an expetion to any sort of standered and every hobbit knew what their expection was. You could ask any hobbit and they would look a little anxious, or maybe high and mighty, in Lobelia’s case, and they will tell you "of course except Mister Baggins, you know, all alone up there" as they glanced up to the tallest hill.

On that hill in Hobbiton there was the most beautiful smial, a gift from a loving husband to an adventurous wife and now inhabited by their only son.The house was spralling and looked like it could hold all but the largest of hobbit families. Of course that was the intent, Bungo Baggins had loved his wife to an extent not many in this world will ever feel, and Belladonna loved Bungo with all the wildness of her soul. He gave up the Baggins respectability, and in an effort to prove himself he bought the largest hill despite his family's protests and he built the most beautiful house in all the Shire. He knelt before her, telling her that he and their home would always be there when her wandering feet returned from adventures. Belladonna took one look and swore never to leave the shire again, because what adventure could ever compare to the adventure of love? At least that's the way they told it to Bilbo, and he liked to believe them.

Of course, Bungo and Belladonna wanted a family. Parents with that much love to give, what child could ask for more? Bungo had built bedroom after bedroom and they intended to fill that hall bursting with children and laughter. It took them almost five years to get pregnant with Bilbo an unheard of stretch in the shire, they had started to think they never would that Yahvanah had not blessed them. The couple had never been happier that when Bella had gotten pregnant, but the birth had been long and difficult. The rumors around the shire whispered that eventually a wizard had shown up at her door and after Bilbos cries where finally heard. After his birth they knew he would be the only one.

Bilbo didn’t notice much as a child, that sort of innocence is a beautiful thing. He would run around the shire laughing, playing games, eating wild strawberries just like all faunts with naut a care in the world; but as the years passed it become more and more obvious not only to Bilbo but the other faunts too. Belladonna was never going to be able to have children again after Bilbo, something almost unheard of in the valley of Yavvana. Children, even hobbit children, can be cruel and spurred on by the adults around them, Bilbo was made very aware of just how out of place he was. His looks currently didn’t help in the matter. Tookish, that’s what was whispered when he walked through town, at parties without a single ribbon in his hair. He had always looked more Tookish than like a proper Baggins. Tall, taller than any of his neighbors to be sure and thin; not in the way of the men, but he was certainly a lot less round than the other hobbits. He had spent a good part of his teens in a desperate attempt to gain weight, hoping if he could just be a little more round then maybe someone, anyone—

But it was a fool's wish, and after the Fell Winter, well he didn’t see much point in trying, if anything he seemed to get almost thinner if that was even possible for a hobbit. After the Fell winter he gave up on a lot of things, alone in Bag End. It became easy to lock himself away with dusty ledgers and old memories, especially when the only people who came to visit were greedy relatives, pocketing spoons and making concered inquires about him living hear all alone. As if he would ever allow them within Bag End ever allow them to have their home their love. Especially after they tried to take over after that winter, they triedto convince the Thain that Bilbo was incapable of caring for Bag End that it should go to a larger more dervering family.

Somepeople of course liked Bilbo despiste his unhobbitly ways, the Thain had always had a soft spot for his favorite daughter and this had extended to her only son, he was the only reason Bilbo managed to keep Bag End. Of course there was the Gamgeesor Drogo and Primula would stop by, concerned for his health and wanting to make sure he was eating enough, but they all had families and lives of their own. It wasn’t long until Bilbo was only leaving to go to the market or Brie for business.

Today was one of those days, he had been avoiding it all week but he could’nt put it off much longer. The cold box and pantry were almost bare, which meant it was time to go into town. Bilbo pulled on one of his more respectable outfits, he liked to believe that he had grown out of his need to impress the town, to be liked by his neighbors, but that was a lie, everyone needed companionship. No matter what he told himself he still had the yearning to be accepted to be seen as a respectable hobbit. So he made sure the brass buttons gleamed on his vest and that his shirt was neatly pressed. He combed the curls on his feet and braced himself, stepping out of the green door he ran his hand reverently over the scratches and the worn brass knob and began the walk to the town center.

It started fine, well, as fine as any trip to the town center ever went for Bilbo, people stared and whispered. “Was he thinner than last month? Oh certainly not! no one could possibly get any thinner for certain” He carried on shopping, and maybe the produce was a little bruised, and the meat was a lesser cut than what he payed for, but who would waste the good stuff on someone obviously so separated from Yavvanas blessing? He clearly wasn’t putting the food to good use if his waist coat was any indication why would they waste the better produce on him. Just as Bilbo turned from buying eggs, adding them to his meager basket, there stood Lobelia, the person Bilbo had been avoiding for the better part of three months. He turned back quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed him, deciding on the spot that his shopping trip was done.

“Oh Bilbo” her shrill voice rang out in the market, Bilbo sighed and turned. “If it isn't Lobelia, I hope your shopping is going well,” He smiles but it comes across more of a grimace. He never really did master the fake facial expressions the other hobbits used to well. “Oh fine, fine. Bilbo, dear how are you up in the house all by yourself? I've barely seen you in months," She smirks, smug as if her statement proves something that all of Hobbiton doesn’t already know. As if he hadn’t been written off by the whole of Hobbiton as a recluse years ago.

"Oh just fine Lobelia, it's so kind of you to ask," Bilbo smiles innocently and feels a flash of victory as she seems to falter a moment. “Well no one can blame you for being such a recluse, Bilbo. I mean, with your parents leaving you all alone, to handle Bag End… it’s too much of a strain for anyone alone,” Bilbo grimaces and braces himself. He knows what's coming, after all, she’s been saying the same things since his mother’s funeral, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. “I mean what was Belladonna thinking? Giving the house to you? No offense, dear, but even your mother could tell that no one was going to be offering you a quilt, let alone a piercing,” No matter how many times she’s said it, it still hits like a rock against him and he fights the hot angry tears welling up, glancing to the haughty earring swinging from her pointed ear.

When Bilbo was much younger he used to cuddle up in the sitting room under their quilt and beg to here the story of how his parents had fallen in love. He would ask how his mother had made the quilt why she chose specific patterns what the emybrodery meant. He dreamed of finding his his true love of sowing his own quilt and getting married. His parents always told him he would one day they where certain for he was a charming and lovely boy and one day he would find his true love. He hoped they couldn’t see him now.

“Bag End would be much better off with another Baggins. Someone with a family to fill its halls,” Bilbo can’t help the anger that wells inside him glancing down to her round belly, child number three if he's remembering correctly. He pulls himself up to his full height.

“Lobelia, it's so nice of you to be concerned about my mother's estate,” he gave her the most sickeningly sweet smile he could manage. “And don’t you worry, if I am not able to handle Bag End I’ll be giving it to cousin Drogo and Primula. They are having a son soon, you know, and I am sure before long they could fill the halls of bag end,” This has the benefit of both being true and horrifying Lobillia. He had already named Drogo as his heir should anything happen to him. Her shocked face satisfies him as he turns and heads back to the waiting green door. He's still not certain if it’s a dreaded sight or a welcome one.

Once the door shuts behind him and he is home again, the pressing weight of silence falls upon him, some days it was difficult to tell if the weight was oppressive or comforting, many days it felt like both. The echoing laughter of his childhood seems to whisper to him from the empty cold rooms. He begins to unpack the groceries and make a quick luncheon, he walks into his father’s office. It is very much still his father’s office, even a decade later, for almost nothing has changed. The books where organized in exactly the same way they had always been, bilbo kept the same decorations and although their where new quills and ink they where stored in the same place his father had kept them. Bilbo balances the ledger and writes responses to a few letters from business in Brie. He’ll have to take a trip there soon. He realizes suddenly it’s been almost 5 months since his last trip to Brie. He pulls out fresh paper and begins to write a letter to the Prancing Pony, arranging for his stay in a few weeks time.

With the work for the day done, he makes a small supper. It was only his third meal, and he tries not to think too much on it as he begins to start on the chores. Lobelia was right, of course, she always seemed to be in these matters. Bag End was a monumental task to care for by oneself, and one day he does plan on gifting it to Drogo and his future children, the halls where built to be filled by family and laughter. He cleans the bedrooms, dusting, and sweeping; really,but really it doesn’t matter how busy he is, he can feel the loneliness creeping in on himself, bearing down on his shoulders as Bilbo's movements begin to slow. Eventually he simply can't find the energy and falls into the armchair in front of the fire.

Bilbo stares into the flames watching them dance and spark. Eventually, they fade into coals and the sun dips below the horizon. He rises for a moment adding another log and stoking the fire before falling back into the chair. He pulls out a sewing project, a coat to be precise. It was a cast-off from an apprentice tailor, too broad for a hobbit, but perfect for embroidery practice. While looking into the flames, he decided to embroider a mountain scene with a bright green dragon, gold detailing on the deep navy coat. An image from one of the many books his mother had collected before she settled into Bag End. She used to read them to him when he was faunt, wild tales of far away lands, of elves and dwarves and men. Bilbo tucks in for the night, staring at the coat, hoping above anything to not be lonely tomorrow, even if it’s a fool's hope. He knows no one will be coming, and he won't be venturing out. Yavvan above, he wished he had his mothers courage.

Chapter Text

Laying on the ground staring up at the trees, bruised and bloody Thorin comes to the realization that following stone maybe wasn’t the best idea.

Up until a few days ago things were going fine for Thorin, at least as well as one can expect journeying so far from home and from dwarves. Thorin refused to set foot in Mirkwood, the blasted forest and its pointed ear inhabitants would choke on their leaves before they had access to dwarven steel if he had anything to say about it. That, however, left him with very few traveling options, the stone was urging him west and the fastest way west was through the woods.

Well, as it was, Mahall was just going to have to accept the long way, he headed east to the Iron Hills. He spent a few weeks there talking with the local Smithing guild, making a few war hammers, and learning about their local tempering technique, and although overall uninspiring it was also Peaceful and Thorin could always be grateful of that. The Iron Hills were comfortable, the stone felt familiar, and he did not have to deal with unusual customs or the general reserve that often greeted dwarves in foreign lands, and so for a while he made himself comfortable in the local inn. After a while though, the stone begins to pull on him. He found himself wandering westward whenever he tried to relax; and after walking up one night outside of the inn apparently sleepwalking west he decided it was time to move along.

He buys passage on a boat going south along the River Carnen that morning and by afternoon he is well on his way. The boat trip is miserable, Thorin is used to the solid comfort of stone and the ever present walls of a mountain. The ever shifting deck of the boat makes his stomach churn and the vast openness of the water leaves him ever anxious and yearning for land. He disembarks the minute the boat hits the River Running, and his pride is the only thing that keeps him from kissing the earth under his boots. He spends a few days at the nearest town doing simple blacksmithing work until he could afford a pony. The stone seemed determined to drag him all the way across middle earth until he reached the western coach and Mahal be damned if he was walking the entire way there.

The ride to Rohan is better than the river boat, but only just, and after long days of riding, sleeping in the dirt the walls of Rohan were a blessing straight from Mahal himself. He set himself up at the local inn, introduced himself to the local blacksmiths; and the process repeated itself in a sort of odd routine. He spent most of his days learning the metal crafting of Rohan, most of which centered around their horses, bridles, bits, special types of horseshoes. At night he would sit and try to fill his sketchbook, anything, anything at all to take home for a mastery but it was infuriating, most of the sketchbook was filled with the new things he learned but nothing so inspired or original that he could take home to claim for his mastery. He could only hope that whatever awaited him west would cure this horrible creative block. Thorin tore out the blindingly white page and threw it in the fireplace, watching it burn.

The next morning the stone began to pull at him again so he saddled up Stybba. He had never intended to name her, but the children who seemed to follow him around the town at a distance had taken a shine to the pony, and the name seemed to stick. By the time the sun set, Endoras was far behind him and the Gap of Rohan in the far distances.

He spent months on the road, riding during the day and staring into an empty sketchbook by dying firelight. When he came across settlements, he worked as he could, spending a few days repairing and taking orders before purchasing supplies and moving on. Traveling alone was no safe task, even for a Dwarf, but Thorin was smart. He never flashed his money, he kept his eyes on the people around him and he tried his best not to start fights with locals, even when he heard them whispering under their breath. It seemed to work well enough, at least until he hit Bree.

He had already traveled hundreds of miles, he was travel weary, he’d never looked more haggard. All he wanted was to settle, to be somewhere where the earth surrounded him and he could feel the stone, but that incessant pressure to move west was crushing him. The further west he went, the harder it seemed to pull. He was begging to think it would pull him straight into the sea. Thorin, however, was low on supplies, so he grit his teeth and bought a room in the inn of the next town he came across.

He started at the local smithie the next morning, and the men followed suit shortly after. They were either incredibly inexperienced or cocky either way Thorin could spot them everyday watching him from alleyways, tavern windows, and other stalls in the town square. At first he thought it was simply the wariness that is afforded to all dwarves as they travel, but he soon realized they were a group. They took shifts watching him, always the same three and he never seemed to be without his new shadows.

Thorin didn’t know what they were planning, but he sure as Mahal wasn’t going to wait around to find out. He saved up as much as he could and secretly arranged for supplies with the Inn master. His remaining coin he sowed into hidden pockets throughout his clothes and packs, trying to reduce the odds they would find it if they caught up to him. That night he sharpened his daggers and made sure the straps that secured his hammer to his belt were tight before turning in early.

Thorin woke a few hours before dawn, Mahal be damned he hated mornings. He’d sold Stybba earlier in his stay at Bree, it cost too much to house her and he couldn’t maintain the expense, he was regretting it now though. He snuck out the back door and started down the east road, hopefully he could make enough progress the group of men would be too discouraged to follow him.

He hadn’t expected the fourth man, it was a fool's mistake really, none of the men were smart enough to have put this together really, there always had to be a leader. He was waiting for Thorin in the middle of the road after the first bend, leaning against a broad sword.

“Hand over the gold dwarf,” as the man spoke, Thorin glanced around and spotted the other 3 men around him in the woods. He had the sneaking suspicion that this was not going to end well.

“I spent the last of it on supplies, and room and board,” He stared straight into the thief's face as he said it and hoped he was intimidating even if he had to look straight up at the man.

“Bullshit. We saw how much you made, if you don’t want to hand it over we will take it,” He nods his head and one of the goons steps forward. With a flick Thorin snapped the clasps off his long hammer and spun to the side, taking the man stepping forward out straight at the knees. He screamed and fell over, the other three blinked in shock before rushing at Thorin all together.

He held his own, honestly lasting as long as he did 1-4 was no easy feat. Not a single man walked away uninjured, and Thorin was pretty sure that one of the slower goons would die from the gut stab he’d landed, while the one he’d gotten in the knees would never walk right again. Eventually, however, they knocked the hammer from his hands and his knives were gone and they began to beat on him.

They searched his belongings but only found a few coppers that he’d left in his pocket before they got frustrated. The leader gave him a few kicks for good measure, spitting before he had the goons roll him off the side of the road and into the bushes.

Thorin layed there vision blurry, he could feel the stab wounds like burning fire within his gut, and he cursed himself for following the damned stone to his death as he slipped unconscious.

Chapter Text

The town of Brie always had always made Bilbo’s skin crawl, no matter how many times he’d gone to do business in the town it never really felt safe. There were always men watching and leering waiting to rob an unsuspecting traveler, even if you could avoid the thieves and scammers lurking in the streets the business was less than savory, and the town's mayor was about as corrupt as a mayor could be, all of it put his teeth on edge but it was the closest town to the shire and his only real place to do business. Unless he wanted a month of hard riding, and he certainly was not built for that.

With how many times he’d done business in this filthy town he had learned the best way to get in and out with my money and person intact, it also helped that most big people never even noticed us hobbits making it easy to slip through the crowds without drawing too many leering gazes. On this particular trip, Bilbo took the main road into Brie using the morning crowd as a good distraction. He was quick to talk to the few traders and businesses that helped transport what he produced within the shire. Produce, tobacco, jams, and other good where often a delicacy among the eleves of Rivendale and other manish towns. Bilbo picked up the payment from the lastest shipment of smoke weed and cloth he had sent out about a month ago. With a now much heavier coin purse he take the smaller path home, it's safer, too small for a cart and pony, a person is much less likely to happen among thieves, and the dense brush surrounding it makes an easy hiding spot.

It was going well, at least as well as a trip to Brie can be expected to go, Bilbo’s about halfway back when he smells it. That metallic scent is a smell that only has one source and can only mean one thing. He darts into the bush without a second thought, visions of cold and fur, crisp pure white stained in red fill his vision. He takes a moment to breathe and center himself before he can regain control of his mind and remember where he is. He begins to repeat a familiar mantra in his head as he begin to remember himself. He is on the road to Brie in the middle of spring, winter is long gone, the warm spring breeze and the smell of flowers final brings him back to the present. When his breathing is back to a normal rhythm Bilbo begins to quietly creep forward through the bush following the copper scent until he see him. Laying in a pool of blood he can’t tell if he’s alive or dead, but he’s a dwarf too small to be a human and no hobbit had a beard or hair like that. His hair is long and dark fanning out in grass, and although he was smaller than any adult man he must’ve been taller than Bilbo and he looked so broad> He certainly didn’t have the round belly of a hobbit but he certainly weighed almost as much as one. Yes he was certainly a dwarf if his mothers stories where at all accurate. He take a moment to see if the culprits are still lurking around, as much as he wants to help the poor fellow Bilbo certainly doesn’t want to end up in this dwarfs position. When he senses no movement and hears nothing in the surrounding woods, he quickly darts from the brush and runs-up to the dwarf, as Bilbo kneels next to him, barest rise and fall of his chest becomes evident, and he feels a rush of relief when its apparent the dwarf is alive if only just. A plan begins to form in front of the hobbit and he jumps into action.

Bilbo pulls what few healing things are always within his pack and quickly treats what is possible with the supplies on hand, applying roughly made bandages to his wounds and making sure nothing appears to be deadly. After he completes the necessary first aid he manages to slowly drag the heavy dwarf into the bush along the road and cover him the best he can under leaves and brush. With him well hidden and holding the pack next to him Bilbo dashs as fast as his legs will carry him to the nearest hobbit burrow. There he borrows a pony and cart from the Wulfram family and ride as fast as the poor thing can carry him. The road wasn’t big enough for man made carts or full grown horses but this cart was much smaller and drawn by a pony it would just barely fit. He had filled the back of the cart with hay and a few blankets he could borrow from the Wulfram, pulling the cart to a stop where he had hidden the dwarf and quickly pulled the brush away, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the dwarf was still there and breathing. He still looks like Yavvan could take him at any moment but he was there and still alive. It takes all his strength to pull him up into the cart and its more using a length of rope and a ramp to drag him but when he has him safely cradled into the hay and blankets Bilbo heads back to Bag End as fast as he can ride.

Bilbo waved down Hamfast in the fading dusk as he hurries up the hill to bag end, Hamfast rushes to him confused as Bilbo halts the cart and pulls him intp the other seat of the cart before starting back up the hill. “ Master Baggins, what’s the rush, where are we going?” “ I am sorry for pulling you away at this hour Hamfest but I found someone on the road back to Hobbiton, he’s gravely injured and I need help getting him into bag end and I trust no one else to keep quiet about this.” “ ey, I’ll help you sir you know I won't go spreading your business about don’t you worry.”

He nods and smiles you could always trust Hamfest to have your back and keep your confidences “good man hamfast, help me get him from the cart.” Bilbo pulls up around the back of Bag End and jumps from the cart, he ties up the pony before going around to the back and with the help of hamfast, they pull the dwarf from the cart and carry him into the guest room closest to Bilbo’s room. Hamfast stays a while longer fetching hot water and clean rags so they can tend to the man and clean him up, Bilbo begins by washing away the blood, and when he can finally see the damage he begins stitching up the larger wounds, he thanks Yavvanh for all the practice he has in neat careful stitches, just the way his mother taught him, one of his legs is badly sprained if not fractured and he begins to wrap it tightly in the correct position so that it will heal straight. Lastly, Bilbo covers his bruises in a healing paste that will hopefully speed up recovery though he knows very little of dwarves. Bilbo sighs, grabbing another rag and whipping his hands before tossing it into the pink water of the basin. This is the first time his body relaxes since he saw the dwarf and he slumps into a chair before turning to Hamfast “ I think that’s all that can be done for the poor man tonight Hamfast, you should return home to your family now” he nods and as quiet as he always is slips out the door.

Hamfast had always been quiet, just as he had always been loyal. He was a good friend, probably Bilbo’s only friend if he were, to be honest, sure Drogo and his new wife came to visit from time to time but with the baby on the way they didn’t have time for mad old Baggins and he wouldn’t blame them for that.

Shaking away his thoughts Bilbo took out his pipe, as he began the rhythmic motions of cleaning, packing, and lighting the bowl, he thought about what to do with his newly found dwarf. Any respectable hobbit would have quickly turned him over to the local rangers and called it a day but Bilbo had long since given up the notion of being respectable and the idea of Bag End not being empty filled him with a sort of warmth. Bilbo was also aware of the unsavory reputation outsiders tended to get in this area dwarves especially, whether it was warranted or not. It was settled then, he would take care of the dwarf until the poor man woke up and then Bilbo could ask him some questions and decide what to do from there. With that decision made he promptly finished his pipe tapping it out into the fireplace before falling asleep in the armchair next to the bed.

When the sun rose the next morning Bilbo rose with it, he was awfully sore and still very tired but the thought of another person in Bag End seemed to invigorate him. First, he checked on the dwarf, upon seeming no worsening in his condition and no sign of infection he moved into the kitchen. Humming to himself he looked around trying to think of what to make.He had never entertained a dwarf of course and therefore had little notion on what sort of food would be best. He decided on porridge knowing he would probably be hand-feeding his guest this morning and it was a good hearty breakfast. As the food simmered on his stove he began to clean, he would be a terrible host if his guest woke to a dusty disorganized house. It had been ages since anyone had been in Bag End but Bilbo and he was suddenly nervous of what this strange dwarf would think of him and his home. It was of course ridiculous the dwarf was half dead and probably cared very little about silly hobbits and their customs, but he cleaned anyway. By the time the porridge was ready the smiall had been properly tidied, he served up two bowls on a tray, with a cup of tea for himself and a pitcher of water and a glass for the dwarf.

He fumbled the tray a bit as he entered the room, almost dropped it when he realized the dwarf had rolled over, a sign he was surely going to wake up soon, something Bilbo hadn't expected to happen for several days. His mother had told him the dwarves were a hardy race but he hadn’t figured they where this durible. After recovering from the shock he moved further into the room setting the tray down on the bedside table. He then begins to check the stitches and change the bandages. He works his way down from his arms and chest to a nasty stab wound on his thigh and as he is reapplying the cream and bandages. The Dwarf breathes in sharply and sits up at a speed Bilbo hadn’t expecting let alone thought possible. He gasps and looks up as the hobbit feels an iron grip around his wrist. Bilbo tries to remain calm, although his grip is incredibly tight all he sees is fear in the dwarfs eyes as he looks at him and suddenly Bilbo realizes just how frightening this situation must be for him, waking up beaten and bruised in a strangers home certainly far away from most other dwarves. His voice is incredibly rough but he manages, all the same, looking around confused asking “ who are you, where am I, How did I get here?” Bilbo tries for a reassuring smile, “ Hello it's nice to make our acquaintance, Bilbo Baggins at your service. You're currently in my smial and I brought you here in a cart after I found you collapsed on the road from Brie.” He seems to absorb this information with shock and confusion staring into the wall above my head still with an iron grip on the hobbits wrist, after a few minutes of this, Bilbo smiles awkwardly, “ I uh I made porridge if your hungry” he seems to snap back to himself dropping my wrist, this lets Bilbo pick up the bowls and hand one to him, “ I didn’t know what dwarves would eat but I hope this is okay” He nods and grunts out what must be a thank you and they both awkwardly begin to eat the food in comfortable silence. As they are finishing the bowls the hobbit suddenly remembers he seems to have forgotten to ask his name. “ I am so sorry but I forgot to ask your name” He glances at me swallowing the last bite of his poridge before answering. “ Thorin, Thorin Oakensheild at your service.”

Chapter Text

EDIT :So I have compeltly rewritten this work and started over again the previous 4 chapters have been updated and hopefully chapter 5 will be out later this week, thank you all for your patience and let me know what you think.