Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins shivered and pulled his chair closer to the fire, sighing as he leaned his woolly Hobbit feet against the warm stone of the hearth. Winter had the Shire in its icy clutches; a mighty storm raged outside, wind howling around bare trees while snow piled against the windows and quaint, round doors, covering gardens and paddocks and paths alike. The snow cared not what it ravaged, how it choked all that was green and growing. Beauty could be found in all seasons, of course, by those who looked closely, but not even the most intricate of frost patterns could trump a Hobbit’s love of newly-budded flowers or the heady smell of ripe apples in autumn.
No, winter was not a Hobbit’s favorite season.
Still, it came every year, as it ought, and Bilbo, like all Hobbits, made the best of it. He read quite a bit, did a lot of cooking, and…well, that was about it, if he was completely honest, and in that there was no shame. Hobbit feet were tough as hobnails, but they simply didn’t agree with snow and ice. Besides, there was no reason to go outside, especially in such positively nasty weather. So it was with a clear conscience that Bilbo snuggled into his armchair and let his eyelids droop, his open book eventually slumping onto his chest as quiet snores filled the homely Hobbit-hole.
Bilbo woke with a start some time later to several loud bangs that reverberated through the air with echoing urgency. The forgotten book slid to the floor with a slap as Bilbo jumped to his feet and rushed to the front windows; as he suspected, a dark figure stood outside the door, hunched against the driving winds and snow. Night had fallen while Bilbo dozed and the fire had died down, throwing Bag End into a dim half-light that did the Hobbit no favors in identifying this mysterious – and insistent, Bilbo noted with some irritation as a great fist slammed against his poor door thrice more – stranger on his doorstep. It was against his morals to deny anyone hospitality, however, especially in such foul weather, so, perhaps against better judgement, Bilbo sighed heavily and pulled open the door.
Before he could speak, the figure hurried into the foyer, just barely regaining its balance as it tripped over the threshold. Bilbo promptly slammed the door shut behind him, for it was a him; a large, broad him draped in a heavy cloak and topped with a swath of snow-flecked black hair, dark as obsidian. He was far too stocky to be an Elf and too short to be a Man, and his face was most certainly not that of an Orc…so a Dwarf, then. He certainly fit the description, though Bilbo didn’t recall ever reading about Dwarves being so…lumpy.
“Um…good evening,” Bilbo said somewhat squeakily, tying his housecoat with a hasty flourish, his ears flushing ever so slightly at his current state of dress. Not that it really mattered; the Dwarf was staring down the hallway, apparently catching his breath as the snow slowly melted on his hair and mantle. Finally, he spoke, the deep tenor seeming to resonate through the very wood beneath their feet.
“I…apologize for barging in. I need only shelter for the night, if you will have me.”
“Of- Of course,” Bilbo stammered, a sudden suspicion dawning on him as he circled around the Dwarf, who’s eyes hadn’t moved from the hall’s end. His worries were confirmed as he finally looked upon the Dwarf’s face; his eyes, a hard, clear blue and bright as crystal, gazed sightlessly from a face lined with many woes. Bilbo’s heart sank, an aching knot of sympathy suddenly lodging itself in his breast. The Dwarf was blind, yet he stood unwavering as the mountains themselves, his jaw set resolutely.
“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” The Hobbit’s voice was small and unsure, and he winced despite himself. He could tell this was not a Dwarf to suffer pity. “I- Oh, I must stoke the fire…and- Well, would you like a cup or tea or- or some stew, I’m sure I have some left-”
“I’m fine, thank you, Master Baggins.” The Dwarf tilted his head slightly as though listening, then turned to face Bilbo, who had paused halfway to the sputtering fireplace. “A corner to lay out my bedroll is all I require.”
The Hobbit’s mouth fell open in a silent ‘O’ as the Dwarf spoke, but he soon overcame his surprise and began stoking the fire with his usual Hobbit-like vigor. “I’ll have no such thing! No guest of mine will be sleeping on the floor, no sir!” The fire crackled back to life, casting a warm glow over the Dwarf’s face. “I have plenty of rooms, all with warm beds ready for use. Ah ah!” The Dwarf’s mouth, which had opened to protest, judging by the sudden slant of its owner’s eyebrows, clamped shut once again as he nodded slowly.
“I am in your debt, then.”
Bilbo huffed and shrugged, then sighed once again before pattering off down the hallway to the largest guest bedroom. The Dwarf followed at a slower pace, apparently listening for his host’s footsteps. He occasionally made a strange clicking noise with his tongue; Bilbo made a note of it, though he didn’t have the nerve to ask.
“You owe me nothing. Rather, winter owes all of us a break from these confounded storms,” Bilbo muttered as he opened the bedroom door. Though he had placed a small coal-fed heater in each guest room that morning (as he did every morning; one never knew when one might have company), the room was much cooler than the main hall and den, though not uncomfortably so. It was dark as well, the candles on both the dresser and bedside table cold with lack of use. “I hope this will suit your needs. If, ah… Do you need…?”
The Dwarf strode by Bilbo and into the room as the Hobbit trailed off, clicking a few more times before turning back to the doorway. “I assure you, this is more than satisfactory. I am…very grateful.” Bilbo noted once again the Dwarf’s strange shape. His arms never appeared from beneath the cloak, and his front was just far too lumpy to be natural. He didn’t pry, however; the Dwarf probably just carried an armload of supplies or a pack of some sort.
“Well, I’m glad I can help, Mister…”
It was the Dwarf’s turn to grow pink around the ears as he drew himself up self-consciously. “I apologize; I seem to have forgotten my manners. I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of…” He trailed off, and his proud head tilted downward, bright eyes suddenly clouded with memory. “Well…it doesn’t matter.” He lifted his head again with apparent effort, exhaling heavily. “I will leave at first light, I do not wish to impose.”
Bilbo felt his lips quirking upwards against his will and silently wondered if all Dwarves were like this one. For some reason, he seriously doubted it. “Very well, Master Oakenshield. Though you must not feel rushed! I could hardly be called a good host if I hurried a guest out the door before he is ready.”
The Dwarf’s lips twitched, mirroring Bilbo’s small smile. “Thorin, please. I am no one’s master.”
Oh no, Bilbo thought; definitely not like most Dwarves. “Well then… Goodnight, Thorin.”
“Goodnight to you, Master Baggins, and thank you.”
Bilbo hummed his acceptance of the Dwarf’s thanks, berating his awkwardness as the guestroom door shut quietly. As if in a daze, he turned on his furry feet and marched back to the den, covering the hearth and preparing for bed with swift efficiency. Within minutes, he was tucked into bed and staring at the ceiling perplexedly.
“Well, that was certainly strange,” he mumbled to himself as his eyes slid shut for the second time that evening.
Bilbo woke late in the night to resounding silence; the blizzard had apparently calmed only momentarily, for when he rolled out of bed in the morning the wind and snow were accosting his home once again. The morning sunlight filtered dully through the snow as the Hobbit shucked off his pajamas and stepped into a fresh pair of trousers and a neatly pressed shirt, forgoing a waistcoat for the moment.
All at once, memories of the night previous flooded back to him, causing his brow to furrow severely mid-yawn. He briefly entertained the thought that the Dwarf had been a particularly vivid dream, brought about perhaps by a rotten bit of potato or this unnatural and thrice-cursed weather…
Shaking his head either in an attempt to clear it or a gesture of exasperation, Bilbo left his bedroom and shuffled to the kitchen. Deciding whether Thorin Oakenshield had been real or not could wait until after breakfast; besides, the Dwarf had said he was going to leave at first light, so, if he was real, he was probably already gone.
With this thought foremost in his mind, Bilbo started on a pot of tea, kindling both the kitchen and den fires with a practiced hand. He soon reclaimed his spot before the hearth in the den, a steaming mug clasped firmly in his chilled fingers. It would take a while for the fires to heat the rest of the-
The sound of a door opening down the hallway caused Bilbo, as buried as he was in his thoughts, to jump violently and nearly slosh tea all over his shirt; only his fast reflexes and his grandmother’s blessed saucer saved him from disaster.
So, the Dwarf was real after all.
Before the Hobbit could move from his armchair, Thorin stepped into view, and Bilbo’s eyes immediately widened to match his lucky saucer. The Dwarf’s cloak was gone, as was his stately manner of the previous night; he wore a simple, deep blue tunic and breeches and seemed worried. This barely registered to Bilbo, who was focused on the little guests he had been completely unaware he was housing. Two Dwarflings clung to Thorin’s tunic, one in the Dwarf’s arms and another peering shyly from behind his leg, golden hair mussed with sleep. The younger one, whose dark head rested beneath Thorin’s chin, coughed raggedly, his pudgy fist bunching in the cloth at the Dwarf’s neckline.
Thorin’s hand curled protectively around the little Dwarfling’s head; though his eyes weren’t focused in quite the right spot, Bilbo could see the barely-controlled fear pulling taught behind those crystalline orbs. “I know I said I would be gone by morning, but…Kíli is sick, and…I need your help, I beg of you-”
Bilbo, who had finally overcome his shock, straightened immediately, setting his now unimportant tea on the mantelpiece. “There is no need to beg, Thorin Oakenshield. I would never turn away a babe – or anyone for that matter – in need, you mark my words.” He approached the Dwarf with intentionally heavy footfalls, smiling wanly as three pairs of nearly identical blue eyes fixed on him. “Let us see what a little Hobbit care can do for this wee fellow.”
Thorin finally seemed to unwind with those words, his shoulders slumping with relief as he pressed a kiss to the Dwarfling’s downy head. “Thank you, Master Baggins,” he breathed.
Bilbo’s smile softened. “Of course.”