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Chapter Text

When the world was young, and the elves had not yet awoken in their birthplace of Cuiviénen Aulë, the Vala of invention and crafting secretly forged into existence beings of his own. They were his children, strong in body and mind. Driven by passion and creation just as he was. He gifted them all his knowledge in such matters, but the only thing he could not give them was the spark of independent life, a soul. That was something only Eru Ilúvatar could grant.

When Ilúvatar learned that Aulë had tried to exceed his power, he was not pleased. In the wake of his god's wrath, Aulë forged a great hammer, expecting to be forced to fell his creations. Right before his hammer fell, pronouncing their destruction, Ilúvatar stayed his hand. He accepted Aulë’s creation, granting them souls, and decreed that they may wake only after his first children.

Aulë was grateful but also saddened by what he had almost done. When his wife, Yavanna, Vala of all things green and growing, saw his turmoil, her advice was to grant the dwarves a boon. The gift of unconditional love and everlasting companionship. But as said, he could not create a new soul and had only been permitted so many. His solution was to take up the very hammer he had intended to smite the dwarves and instead use it to separate the souls into two parts. Not every soul was destined to find each other, but when they did, it would spark a love that burned brighter than any forge. 

What Aulë did not know was that it was Yavanna who asked Ilúvatar to grant her husband's creations true sentience. Her love for him was great, and she knew that destroying something he had put so much of himself into would break his spirit. At first, Ilúvatar denied her, but she would not be dismissed.

Moved by her act of devotion, he granted her two gifts to her husband’s one. First, he gifted her the Ents to act as protectors of her forests should her husband's creations seek to overstep. Second, he gave her hobbits. Small folk who would honor and tend her lands. They were not adventurous or mighty people, but they were hardy and as loyal as she had shown herself to be. Yavanna wept with joy. She was not so different than her husband. They were both beings of creation who wanted to share their love for the world they had helped sing into existence.

Her only regret was that she and Aulë’s creations would always live a world apart and never know what they could learn from each other. That night, she stole away into her husband's forge and, using her own magic, fused the soul of one of her hobbits with one of his dwarves. When done, she took up the great hammer and split that soul into two beings. 

Then, with all the patience of a loving mother tending a slow-growing garden, she waited.  

Chapter Text

Thorin had been ruling Erebor for over a decade after the passing of his father. He was content, and his people thrived. Yet, for all the power of a king, he could not escape the insistence of his sister. 

“Dis, really, a masquerade ball?" Thorin held a flyer in his hands. A similar one was already pinned to every loose column in the mountain. It told of a masquerade ball being thrown in the royal ballroom in less than one week's time. 

“You can’t wall yourself up and away from your people, Thorin. They need to see you. They need to know that you are approachable.”

Every few years, they went through this same song and dance. She wanted him to put himself in more public situations, and he wanted no part of it. It wasn't that he was against seeing or interacting with his people. It was that events that Dis put together were thinly veiled disguises at various attempts to find his One. She was borderline obsessed with the notion and waved away and all of Thorin’s insistence that he didn't have a One. 

“I see right through your ploy, Dis. By approachable, you mean open myself up to allow every non-bonded Dwarf on this side of the Misty Mountains to try and initiate a spark with me.” Thorin sat back down in his chair and shuffled some papers around to look busy. 

“Well, it certainly couldn't hurt now, could it? How else do you expect to find them?”

“I don’t. My One is-” Thorin never made it to the end of his sentence.

“Your One is the kingdom. Yes, so you’ve said. I just can’t say I’m convinced. It has been two years since you appeared at an event. This will be beneficial to the kingdom and boost morale." Dis was not backing down, and much to his chagrin, she had a point. 

"Why a masquerade?" Thorin asked with genuine curiosity. 

"It's being held on the spring equinox as a celebration of Yavanna. It seemed appropriate, and I knew I would have a better chance at convincing you if I promised you some way of keeping your identity less conspicuous." Dis replied. Thorin snorted. She did know him well. 

“Fine, yes, I agree. But no surprises, Dis. Just a normal celebration.” 

“Of course,” Dis agreed. 

The next day, beyond the lonely mountain in the city of Dale, a Hobbit by the name of Bilbo Baggins woke from an uneasy slumber to the sound of banging coming from an adjacent room. He groaned and rolled over, trying to keep the dream he had been having fresh in his mind. Rolling green fields, fresh fruit and vegetables, a lovely garden, and most lovely of all, a soft mattress free of uncomfortable lumps and bumps. He missed all the comforts of his home out west, but even with that said, he did not regret coming to Dale.

For as long as he could remember, he had been drawn to Dwarves. Their language, culture, and mannerisms were all fascinating to him. Of course, leave it to him to fall in love with one of Middle Earth's most secretive and elusive races. He likely would have spent his days sitting in a pub in Bree admiring them from afar if it hadn't been for a meddlesome wizard.

He met Gandalf in the Prancing Pony, hoping to meet some dwarven merchants willing to talk to him. Three mugs of ale and the ability to run his mouth while drunk meant he spilled all his thoughts onto the man. Instead of looking at him like he was insane, as most people did when they learned of his curiosities, the old man just looked thoughtful. 

Gandalf showed up at his door around tea time the next day with a proposition. He would escort Bilbo over the Misty Mountains, and all Bilbo had to do was find a way to plant a single acorn within Erebor's walls. Every time Bilbo asked a question about why this needed to be done, the wizard deflected or spoke in riddles until finally, Bilbo gave up. He asked for three days to deliberate and come to a decision. 

The first day, he could only pace the length of his simal nervously. This was the chance of a lifetime! He would never be so lucky again. To travel and stand at the base of one of the greatest dwarven strongholds in Arda would be a dream come true. Literally, Bilbo had dreamed of what it would be like to walk the halls of stone and see the labor of love that was their home. On the other hand, it was terribly far from his home and further than he had ever been before. He would be able to bring nothing of the life he led with him, and there was no telling when he would be back. Despite his better judgment, he found himself taking a mental checklist of what he would and would not want to take with him.

On the second day, his Tookish side was fast asleep. This was a ridiculous dream that could not truly become a reality. No matter how badly he wanted to see Erebor, it wasn't worth the risk of traveling halfway across Middle Earth and sneaking into a dwarven city. Dwarves were not generally fond of people infiltrating their homes. He found they were friendly enough if you spoke to them in a pub or caught them walking along the Greenway that paralleled the South Farthing, but he knew well enough not to incur their wrath.

Bilbo has seen his fair share of pub brawls that ended in a dwarven victory. He even saw a particularly stout dwarven woman punch a hole directly through the top of a bar counter simply because someone said she couldn't. That was it then. There was no reason to indulge the passing whims of a crazy wizard just because it sounded like a dream come true. 

By second breakfast the next morning, Bilbo was packing his bags. His Took side was back with a vengeance. Why should he stay here? What was even left for him in Bag End? He was alone in a house built for a huge family he didn’t have. He lived in a museum of his parent's things for no reason other than that was what was expected of him. He didn't know if what he wanted was an adventure, but he did want change.

He wanted to breathe new air and pursue what was most interesting to him, damn the consequences. Deep down, he knew that if he decided to turn Gandalf down, he would ponder what could have been for the rest of his life, and that was not how he wanted to live. 

While he waited for Gandalf to arrive, he wrote three letters. The first was to The Mayor of the shire, informing him of Bilbo’s extended absence. The second was to his cousin Drogo telling him that he was leaving and where he was off to. There were specific instructions that should he not return in three years' time, Bag End was his to do with as he pleased so long as he promised Lobelia never got her grubby hands on it. The third letter was to Hamfast Gamgee, his gardener, requesting that he please not let Bag End fall into disrepair in his absence. Enclosed was a key and an invitation to take anything out of his pantries he liked, and he could give away what he didn’t want. Just as he pressed the seal into the last letter, there was a knock at his door. 

He was going on an adventure. 

And an adventure it has been so far. Four months on the road with a wizard for company. Gandalf wasn't all bad, but almost anyone's habits can become tiresome after so much forced proximity. When they arrived in Dale, Gandalf left him almost immediately. His parting gift was a key to a room he had pre-arranged and paid up a month and a large, unblemished acorn. Not a single time in four months had Gandalf given a straight answer about why the acorn and Bilbo had quite given up trying.  

He was now on his sixth day in the city. He found it fascinating and terrifying, but he mostly found it lonely. He still had no idea how he was going to sneak his way into the mountain. The sight of the mountain alone almost made the lumpy mattress and bland food worth it. It was twice as big as he thought it would be and loomed large over the entire landscape.

 Bilbo rolled rubbed his hands down his face to shake off the lingering tiredness, and used a chair as a step ladder to get down from the bed. He bent and twisted until all the pops and cracks were out of his joints, then made for the downstairs. 

“Good morning there, Mr. Baggins. I have some scones and jelly set aside for you. I baked them fresh this morning.” The innkeeper, Mrs. Harper, was a kind woman. He regretted that they had gotten off to an embarrassing start. When he had walked downstairs the first night he had slept there, she nearly called the town guard because she was convinced he was an abandoned child.

It took an entire twenty minutes to get her to understand he was a grown hobbit. When she finally did understand, she was very apologetic. She had taken to making him something fresh every morning as an apology. As much as Bilbo insisted she didn't need to, he was grateful. Her cooking beat the bland food the rest of the city seemed to enjoy. It was as if they had never seen salt or a garlic clove in their life. “You have any big plans for today?” Mrs. Harper asked while serving him. 

“Not unless you have suggestions,” Bilbo replied before stuffing his face.  

“I might actually. How do you feel about earning a few more days room and board from me?” That was not at all what he had expected to hear. 

“I suppose that entirely depends on what I would be doing?” Bilbo replied. 

“You give good cooking advice, and I know you’ve said you’re handy in the kitchen. I also know you seem fond of dwarves judging by the books I see you reading at dinner time. I’m going to have a small troop of them through here this evening, and they all need to be fed. I could use the help setting up and making food if you’re amenable.” Mrs. Harper offered. Bilbo nearly choked on a scone in surprise. A troop, she has said. Not just one or two dwarves seen from afar and spoken to sparsely, but an entire room of them! Much to his chagrin, he had not gotten the chance to see or speak to many dwarves since arriving in Dale. They were less numerous in the city than he hoped. Though perhaps that was to be expected as their home was only a five-mile trek up the slopes. 

“Yes! Yes, I'll help!" Bilbo shouted. He had nearly sprung off the stool with the force of his enthusiasm but recovered just enough to clear his throat and fully sit back down. “I mean to say, of course, I’ll help. I do wonder, though, why would they come here instead of going straight to the mountain?” 

“That you’ll have to ask them. I can never get a straight answer out of them.” Mrs. Harper remarked. 

“So they’ve been through before?” 

“A few times. I only know the name of the one who pays at the end of it all. He’s a recognizable chap with a big floppy hat by the name of Bofur.”  

Bilbo spent the rest of the day at Mrs. Harper's beck and call. She wasn’t kidding when she said they had a large feast to prepare. They made several chickens, ropes of sausages, potatoes in many forms, and half a dozen other sides. Even through the most mundane kitchen tasks, he was buzzing with barely contained enthusiasm for the day.

It was around six in the evening when the dwarves arrived. Bilbo had expected them to arrive slowly over the course of the evening. Instead, the inn was assaulted with the sound and presence of dwarves. They wore thick leathers and well-worn traveling cloaks that spoke of months on the road. Even with the road-worn look about them, they were all laughing and carrying on with arms slung around each other's shoulders. Bilbo had been the one to open the door and let them in and was now scrambling to get out of the way before he was stomped on. In his haste, he tripped over a dwarven boot and landed on the floor. 

“Woah there, laddie. I apologize, I didn’t see you. I’m not used to watching what’s under my feet when in Dale.” Bilbo let the dwarf pull him to his feet. This looked to be a middle-aged dwarf with a head of white hair bound in many complicated braids. His beard was braided as well and held at the bottom of his chin in a large, long silver bead. A protective style, if Bilbo had to guess. 

“It’s quite alright. I didn't expect so many to come through the door at once.” Bilbo straightened and patted out his waistcoat in an effort to overcome his embarrassment.

“Dori! Did you go trippin over the innkeeper's son? We’ve been here for nigh five minutes, and you’re fixin’ to get us kicked out!” The dwarf that called out was around the same age with a shock of auburn hair. There were not as many plats in it as Dori’s, but his beard held the braids his hair didn't.  

“I’m not a child,” Bilbo said exhaustedly. He was getting really tired of having to explain that to people.

“Then what are ye.” The red-headed dwarf asked as he looked Bilbo over. 

“I’m a hobbit from the west and a full-grown man two decades past my majority, thank you very much.” Bilbo had known dwarves to be blunt back in the shire. These dwarves were even more so. Perhaps because, in this case, he was the traveler and not the other way around. 

“Gloin doesn't mean to give any offense. He’s always been the most forward out of all of us.” The dwarf Dori assured him. Bilbo tucked himself back behind the counter with a giddy smile. These were the kind of chances he had hoped for when he left the shire. It was almost worth being accidentally trampled. 

The evening moved on, and after all the food had been served, Bilbo took to sitting as close to the group of dwarves as possible. Their chatter was intriguing, and none of them seemed to pay him any mind. They spoke about home, food, and battles with names he could not decipher. Most of all, they spoke of who they were going home to. It’s amazing how much you can overhear when you’re small and quiet. Especially when you had the advantage of being sober as everyone else slowly got more drunk. Gloin had a beautiful wife and a strong child waiting for him at home. Dori and Bofur both had brothers to check in on. The conversation left a question burning in his pocket, and before he could think better of it, he was asking it.

“If you all have people you’re looking forward to seeing, then why did you stop here and not continue on to the mountain?” Bilbo froze as all the dwarven eyes in the room only now realized how close he sat to them. Their calculating stares made him take a gulp and hope he hadn't just made a grave error in judgment. Bofur, the floppy-hat dwarf, broke the silence. 

“We’ve been travalin’ for about six and a half months now. Most of us are going to get swept right up into our jobs the moment we get back. We might not even get the chance to see each other for some time outside of the realm of duty. Think of this as one last night to slack off before it’s back to serving our king and mountain.” There was a pounding of tankers as an agreeing call rumbled through the dwarves.

“We may get to slack off a little sooner than we thought!” Gloin called. His speech was slurring, and his face was nearly as red as his hair “Not with the masquerade ball Princess Dis is throwing. Yavris (Bilbo later learned this was the name of his wife) sent me a letter this mornin'. Had this in it.” He slammed a well-made flyer down on the table for everyone to see. It read:

In honor of our Maker's wife, the lady Yavanna, the royal family is hosting a masquerade ball on the evening of the Spring equinox. Your attire should pay tribute to both our maker and his beloved wife. 

His Majesty will be in attendance. All dwarves are welcome. 

Bilbo watched the reaction from the dwarves at the table range from apathetic to excited. A few even seemed amused. 

“Who wants to bet that Dis wrote this herself just to add the bit about the King being in attendance?” Gloin cackled. 

“Is it so odd for your king to attend public events?” Bilbo asked. Again, the dwarves only just seemed to notice he was there. 

“I don’t know how much we should share or say with you here. I don’t mean to offend, but these are dwarven matters, not hobbit ones.” Dori was polite, but it was clear his words held a warning to his companions. Bilbo opened his mouth to apologize but was cut short by Bofur speaking up.

“It’s fine, Dori. We’re not teaching him Kuhzdul or sharing any trade secrets. If anything, it’s refreshing to find someone so genuinely interested in us. How many times on the road do we get looked at with suspicion from outsiders? None of them could care less that we even had family and certainly not enough to try and eavesdrop.” Bofur gave him a friendly wink and continued. “To answer your question, no, our king is not fond of public events. However, his sister, Princess Dis, is fond of them and seems to enjoy dragging her brother along with her.”

Bilbo was sitting on the edge of his seat, trying to determine how many questions he might be allowed to ask before he overstepped. 

“Do you like your king?" The response from Bofur was swift but not in a way that was rehearsed or said in fear. It was said with surety and adoration. 

“Yes. Thorin II, son of Thrain, son of Thror, is the greatest king we’ve known since the time of Durin.”  

“Do you have a queen?” Bilbo followed up.

“Well, ain’t he full of questions once you get him going!” Gloin shouted, “We’ve got no queen or consort, laddie. Not all of us are fortunate enough to find our One’s in this life. Though that hasn’t stopped the princess from trying.”

Bilbo’s curiosity was at its peak. Every time they answered a question, another took its place.” 

“What’s a One?” The table roared in drunken laughter. 

“A One is like my bold lass waiting for me at home. The only thing a dwarf can love above craft or duty. The other part of our souls. The love you feel for your One is fully unconditional and all-consuming. It defies logic, status, class, or gender. Every dwarf was made for another, but only some are lucky enough to find them. Those that don't, find love in their craft.” Gloin pulled out a locket from under his tunic and opened it. "This is my Yavris. She’s the jewel of my heart and my fierce other half. The moment I met her, I didn’t know how to live apart from her. Dwarves are a fierce and proud people. We love only once and with everything we are.” There were nods from around the table as others agreed heartily with Gloin's words.

“I hope your king finds his One someday,” Bilbo said. He was touched by what was just shared. It sturred a longing in him, too. He had always been a perpetual bachelor. It was an odd thing for a hobbit to be, especially one of fifty, but no one he had ever entertained had felt right, and eventually, he stopped bothering with it altogether. Better to be alone than with the wrong person, he always thought.

To know that there was someone out there made just for you. He didn’t know how untethered dwarves could stand it. If there were such a thing as a hobbit One, he would be compelled to scour the earth for them. 

“We do, too.” Bofur smiled, “Our king deserves all the happiness in the world. But with all this talk of home, I find my feet are itching to reach it. Sober up, lads. We head back to our mountain in thirty minutes.” 

That was Bilbo’s queue to hop down and start tidying things up. He spent the rest of the evening gathering plates and cups for washing. When he finally had a sizable stack, he took to standing on a chair to wash them. Finally, when all was said and done, he could relax.

This evening had been well worth the amount of work he had to put in. He was grabbing his pipe to step out and take a smoke when he saw that the dwarves had left the masquerade flyer sitting on the table. He grabbed it to take a better look. 

A masquerade ball. For Yavanna, no less. He folded it and tucked it into his breast pocket. As he took his smoke, his mind wandered back to the flyer and the acorn burning a hole in his pocket. Until now, he scoffed at Gandalf's deal, wondering how the wizard expected him to complete this task. The masquerade presented an interesting solution. He was short enough that he could pass as a dwarf. A very short dwarf, but easier than being a very tall one. A mask would keep his beardless chin and pointed ears hidden.

The idea was enticing. What was better than speaking to dwarves than being in the midst of their culture! It would be risky, and he might get caught. Their king might be benevolent to his own people, but that didn’t mean he would be to outsiders sneaking into his mountain. 

Still, he had a rare opportunity he couldn't let pass by. If he was quiet and clever enough, he just might be able to pull this off.

He needed a plan. 

Chapter Text

Knowing you need a plan, having a plan, and executing a plan are three very different things. For the sake of his sanity, he decided to approach this one step at a time, starting with the comparatively easy task first task of obtaining a costume and a mask.

Bilbo wasn't the best in the handy art of sewing, but he could get by in a pinch. This definitely qualified as a pinch, but he didn’t have the time to stitch something together. He would need to find something suitable in the time he had. The flier had said his clothing must pay tribute to both Aulë and Yavanna. He briefly entertained the idea of going as a particularly bejeweled potted plant but laughed the notion away. 

If not a plant, then perhaps an animal? It would be the easiest to create and decorate. The idea brought up memories of the time spent on the road with Gandalf. They had stopped to stay with a friend of his named Beorn. A man big enough that he made even Gandalf look small. Despite his size, Bilbo found him to be pleasant and good company. He had even garnered a nickname in his short time visiting. Little bunny.

Bilbo had not been fond of it at the time, especially with the explanation that he gained it due to his unconscious affinity for twitching his nose when he was thinking or uncomfortable. By the end of their stay, it had grown on him just enough to be worth remembering. 

A bunny it is, then, he thought. He would just need to figure out how to make sure it paid tribute to Aulë, too. One step at a time. He spent the evening hunched over a sketchbook, trying to piece out an outfit that would look good enough to let him mingle among dwarves unnoticed.

He would be limited to what he could scavenge or purchase, but this would give him an idea, at least.

He thought of the dwarves in Bree and of the ones he met the other night. Dwarves did seem to be fond of layers, so he started there. Over the simple linen shirt, he drew a dark green tunic with long cuffed sleeves and a slightly open front. Next were gloves to hide how small his hands were, and he added fur to the collar and cuffs to better show off the bunny aspect of the ensemble. He looked at it from a few angles and was happy with it thus far. Though it still seemed to be missing something he couldn't put his finger on.

He resolved to let his mind chew it over as he drew accessories like a good size belt dwarves were often fond of and….boots. He looked down at his bare, fuzzy toes. They would give him away instantly, but the idea of covering his feet entirely made him shiver. One step at a time. 

The fur was easy enough to find from a tanner, and Mrs. Harper was willing to lend him the needle and thread he would need to put all of this together. The rest was going to be more difficult. Bilbo checked three tailor shops looking for dwarven clothing. Despite living so close to the mountain, they had none.

Dwarves, as he should have guessed, purchased fabric from Dale but made their clothing themselves, and the men of Dale seemed indifferent to their neighbor's styles. At about a quarter past three, Bilbo gave up looking. He bought a cornish pastry from a cart and climbed to the very top of some stacked barrels that gave him a view of the area. Dale was quite beautiful from higher up. It was washed with reds and sandy browns. 

“Hey, you!” Someone called from nearby. Bilbo didn’t respond as he didn't think anyone was speaking to him. “I said hey you! Halfling with the pasty!” Well, now he knew he was being addressed. And rather rudely, too. He looked down and was surprised to see it was a dwarf that was addressing him. 

“Hobbit,” Bilbo shouted politely. The dwarf cocked his head.

“Is that your name or something?” He shouted back. 

“No, it’s what I am. I’m not a halfling; I’m a hobbit!” Bilbo replied. The dwarf didn’t look amused. Bilbo could see the little vein on his forehead popping.  

“Well, get your hobbit backside off my damn merchandise.” The dwarf grumbled.

Bilbo scampered down only to realize that he had not been perched on the tallest barrel stacked against the building as he thought but on a merchant's cart. His eyes scanned the wares and rested on a small basket with a bundle of clothing in it.

“Where do you set up shop?” Bilbo asked, hoping he found the key to getting the dwarven-styled clothing he needed. 

“In Erebor, sometimes to the king’s court itself!” The dwarf puffed out his chest in pride. “I’ve even had the King himself buy my wares.”  

“So I don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell any of it to me? I can give a fair price, and I can already see you have something I may be interested in.” The dwarf’s face went funny, like he was catching up to what Bilbo was saying, then he doubled over in laughter. 

“I sell to kings, lad. From where I’m standing, you don’t look like royalty or anyone of note. Piss off and be gone with you!” He gripped his cart and laughed again, leaving Bilbo standing in the street red up to his ears with anger and embarrassment. A plan formed in his mind. Fine, Gandalf intended for him to be some sort of reverse burglar, then he would get his practice in now.

He retreated for about an hour before circling back around and finding the cart again. He waited until Dwarf was distracted, then crept silently to the back of the cart and snathed as many pieces of clothing from the basket as he could fit in his arms. 

“Hey! What are you doing? Get back here!” The dwarf shouted. Bilbo dropped four silvers into the cart and bolted, running at full speed and using his size to slip past people and through narrow areas with ease and grace. When he knew he had lost him, he scurried back to the inn, heart still hammering in his chest. He closed the door and slid down it, laughter coming in hitches that edged onto panic.

When he was safe in his room, he poked through the spoils of his theft. With a victorious shout of delight, he found a green tunic that would suit his needs, as well as a large belt with some writing on the buckle and an oversized pair of gloves. He got to work sewing in the fur immediately, not wanting to waste any time. He had less than a few days already and still needed the mask. 

It was well into the night by the time Bilbo finished and passed out with the sewing needle still in his hands. He woke to the sound of knocking at his door. 

“I didn't know if you were having a bit of a lie-in, but I found something while cleaning out a dwarven guest room, and I think you might like it.” Mrs. Harper said from behind the door. Bilbo was out of bed in seconds, and when he threw open the door, the innkeeper was holding up a long red coat with dwarven symbols and heraldry braided and stitched down the sides.

He could pass out from joy but instead settled for attacking Mrs. Harper with as big a hug as he could muster. The coat was, of course, too big, but not so long he might trip over it. The hem came just above his shins, and the sleeves came to about his elbow. The jacket cuffs and collar lining already had a soft grey fur on it. It was likely not rabbit, but he hardly thought it would be noticeable. 

“You have no idea how much I needed this! It’s the missing piece I needed. Thank you!” Bilbo hugged the coat to his chest. “Mrs. Harper, do you know where I might be able to purchase a mask?” Bilbo tried to be casual about it and trusted the innkeeper enough to ask. 

“So you are going to the Masquerade. I had a suspicion when I found the flyer. You’re really keen on getting close to them, Dwarves, huh? You know you could get into big trouble if you’re caught, right?” She regarded him with motherly apprehension. 

“I’m aware, but…I have to.” It was a surprise to him that he wasn't lying when he said it. This really was something he needed to do. For himself or because the mountain seemed to call to him more and more the longer he was near it, he didn't know, and it didn't matter. 

“Try the toymaker. He’s a dwarf. Bit of a funny one, and he doesn't like talking to people, but he’s skilled.” So Bilbo did just that. He found him easily in a calmer area of Dale. The dwarf in question sat legs up on his cart, carving away at a chunk of wood in his hands. He looked up as Bilbo approached.

“Good morning. I’m wondering if I can request a commission. I need it quite quickly, and I’m willing to pay for expediency.”

The dwarf said nothing but took down a sign with a list of common phrases. He pointed to the one that read, what can I make for you? Bilbo took out a rudimentary drawing he had done up just before scurrying over. He was just asking for a standard wooden rabbit mask with tall ears. He had plans to paint and draw all the other symbols himself. The dwarf pointed to the price, which was reasonable, then pointed to a time frame. 

“One day, really! You’re incredible!” Bilbo shouted a little louder than was necessary. The dwarf smiled back and tipped his head. 

By the following evening, Bilbo had every part of his outfit secure, including a pair of large, sturdy old boots belonging to Mrs. Harper's late husband. The man had been broad and tall, and his boots reflected that which was good, considering a hobbit's feet riveled that of most men.

He put them to the side so he could paint the mask. It had turned out beautiful. Tall ears, big eyes, and a bunny nose. He panted it white and traced some of the same patterings on the red coat along the sides and in the slopes of the ears. When it was done drying, he fastened a thick leather strap to the back to hold it to his head and made sure it both covered his ears and still allowed him to see. When he sat down, he looked back at the boots again. He had better get this over with. 

He slipped the first one on and took it off immediately. His instinct was to chuck it as far across the room as he possibly could. With a deep breath, he tried them on again. It felt uncomfortable and compressing. The shoes were long enough but a tad too narrow. He did at least get both on this time before taking them off again. After a pep-talk in the mirror, he tried a third time.

He got both on and started walking around. Well, stomping. He picked up his foot and placed it down, then did the same to the other around the room until he didn't feel like he was about to fall over. How every other race did it, he didn’t know. When he took them off, he placed them in front of the bed and stared at them, wondering if there was any way he could do without them. 

He couldn’t, so he put them back on and went to supper. He might as well get used to wearing them because, in a few days' time, he would have to wear them for at least an entire day. This left one major roadblock in this increasingly ridiculous plan. Actually, getting through the gates. 

Mrs. Harper already had supper laid out on the table. It was pork chops with greens and a nice gravy. He ate and chatted with other patrons until the fire burned low, and it was just him and Mrs. Harper left. 

“This was very good. You do a lot with the spices you’re given.” He collected his plate and took it to the back. He was a long-term tenant after all. The least he could do was clean up after himself a little. 

“Why, thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I still need the recipe for that tomato soup you made. Never had something that paired so well with a cheese toasty in all my life.” She smiled at him as she carried the rest of the dishes to the sink. 

“Actually, Mrs. Harper, you’ve been very kind during my stay, and I was wondering if it would be stretching your hospitality to ask a favor of you?” Bilbo grabbed a plate and started scrubbing just to have something to occupy his hands. He could feel her calculating stare. 

“This wouldn't have something to do with you sneaking into that mountain now, does it?” She crossed his arms and cocked an eye at him.

“Yes, it does,” Bilbo replied 

“Well, out with it then.” 

“I need you to help me find a cart going into the mountain with free space on it.” 

In Erebor, King Thorin was preparing for his part in the next day's events, or rather, he was waiting for his sister to stop talking so he could get a single word in. 

“- you should see the centerpiece for the entire masquerade, Thorin. It’s stunning! The silver smiths did a fantastic job, and the crystals were polished to perfection. It radiates light like nothing I’ve ever seen! I’m almost sad the Elves were not invited so that I can see the jealousy burn in Thranduil's eyes. So, have you picked a costume yet? There are a few for whom Dori made masks. I told him that you’d probably want to be a raven-” 

“I don't want to be a raven,” Thorin interjected 

“But you love ravens?” Dis rebutted, surprised. 

“Yes, and the entire mountain knows that. They’ll expect me to be a raven. I’m supposed to be inconspicuous, right? I would rather not be bombarded with questions and touches. I’ll do my speech in my regular attire and change after. Put Kili in the raven; he’ll love it.”  Thorin had thought in great detail how he could suffer this party and actually enjoy himself.  

“Fine then, what are you going as?” Dis asked 

“A ram. Strong, sturdy, and disagreeable creatures if you piss them off.” He met his sister's look of exasperation with a smile, and they both started laughing. 

“Fine, fine, I know when it’s a lost cause. If it means you’ll actually mingle, then you can wear whatever you want. Just dance at least once, will you? If nothing else, it would do you some good. I worry about you and how much weight you unnecessarily put on your shoulders. You deserve to look for happiness.” Dis, always the worrier, he thought to himself.

In truth, he has been feeling more adventurous. He awoke that morning with the bizarre need to visit Dale. The strength of the desire caught him off guard. He only visited for meetings with King Bard and had no other reason to visit, yet the feeling persisted even now. He pushed it to the back of his mind. 

“I am happy, Dis, but I’ll do at least one dance if it makes you stop fretting.” Dis seemed pleased with his response and continued on talking about the party decorations and preparation. The ball was tomorrow evening. One more day, and this would be over. Then, he could get back to his normal duties, which is what he wanted. Right? 

Chapter Text

“Mr. Baggins, are you sure about this?” Mrs. Harper eyed the barrel in front of her skeptically. 

“Yes, I’ll fit into it, and I put an old bedsheet at the bottom to cushion it.” Bilbo stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his handiwork. He bought this barrel for the express purpose of sealing himself inside it. He had even put a bar on the inside of the lid so he could open it from within. 

“I’m not worried you won’t fit. I’m concerned that this is insane.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at him. “You really want to see the inside of Erebor this bad?” Bilbo nodded without hesitation. “Alright, well, gather your stuff and get in. My friend should be by soon.” No sooner had Bilbo situated himself in the barrel than Mrs. Harper gave a single warning knock and addressed the other merchant. "Samson, there you are! I have a favor to ask?” 

"Long time since you asked me for any favors, Josie. What can I do for you?" 

"Last week, I sent a shipment up the mountain. I was cleaning out my larder and realized I had forgotten a barrel. I won’t be marked as a swindler, and I know you've got a shipment going up tonight. Mind taking it with you? 

"I didn't know you started trading with the dwarves. Is it yer famous pickles? Because if it is, it might get lost along the way.” The man laughed heartily at his own joke. 

“Not pickles, just apples. Do you have the room?” 

“Aye, I have the room. How about I take it, and it'll only cost ya a peck on the cheek, ey?" The man's voice was still full of mirth. He sounded like one of the gaffers back home. It made him a little homesick. 

"How about instead I just don’t water down your ale when you come round for a drink?" Mrs. Harper quipped back. Her voice was just as playful as Samson’s was.  

"Oh, you cheeky lass, you wound me. You'll get sweet on me yet one of these days." 

"Don't hold your breath too long on that bet." He heard the sound of laughter again, followed by idle conversation that seemed to be a quick catching-up session. 

"Yes, I’ll take it. Don’t worry about lifting it. I'll have the boys throw it in." Samson shouted two names, and he felt a lurch in his stomach as his barrel was roughly lifted off the ground.  

"Don’t go tossing it around, or all my apples will show up bruised.” Mrs. Harper chastised nervously. “Get it there safe, and your first non-watered-down round is on me," Samson's response must have been nonverbal because the next thing he knew, the cart lurched forward. He did a quick check of his pockets to make sure everything was in order. All his things were accounted for, including his lucky handkerchief and Gandalf’s acorn. He was going to Erebor!    

He had slightly underestimated how long the trip up the mountain would be. It was only about six miles by distance, but when you’re bouncing in the back of a cart, and your only source of fresh air is a cork-sized hole, that might as well be forever. He was on the verge of blowing his own cover when the cart stopped. He put his ear to the hole, trying to gauge why they had stopped. He heard iron and stone grinding against each other to make a sound that could only be a great gate opening.

“Alright, move everything inside the gates!” He heard a gruff dwarven voice shout to someone further off.

He curled up and stayed uncomfortably still as he felt his barrel get lifted. Whoever was carrying him was surprisingly gentle, and he was barely tossed. He was suddenly very concerned about a variable he didn't account for, someone sticking something on top of him.  They didn’t typically stack barrels of “apples,” did they? All he could do was wait and listen.

It wasn’t as boring a wait as he feared. Once the carts of men had pulled away, the workers started talking among themselves. No matter how far from home he got, some things always remained the same. Children would always find any mischief to be found, food always tasted better with company and left long enough, chatter always became gossip.    

“All this work for a big fancy party, but what’s the point? Everyone is tripping over themselves for a chance at the king, but it’s not like we’ll see much of him. He either stays so far off nobody can so much as talk to him, or he gives his speech and disappears. My guess is this would be the latter.” The dwarf sounded annoyed and put off.

It surprised Bilbo. It wasn’t like it was a crime to hate parties. He would bet it was extremely taxing if you had to be kingly the entire time and maintain airs. Hosting large dinner parties was bad enough! He could only imagine an entire mountain. 

“His majesty couldn't be bothered with the lesser folk. Too many big lords to appease. That’s why I think he’s never found his One. He doesn’t look because he’s too scared they might be lowborn.” The two dwarfs laughed among each other, and for some reason, Bilbo found himself getting very upset at their words.

From what he knew of Erebor, the people didn’t live in poverty, nor did they have to deal with hunger or rampant crime. Surely, that wasn’t the mark of an idle king. He perked up when he heard a much gruffer older voice. 

“How old are the two of you?” He said pointedly. The two younger-sounding dwarves gave ages of 52 and 57. 

“Because you’re both only one rough shit past your majority, I’ll let you get away with those stupid words. You don't remember how bad things got before King Thorin took the throne, and if you do remember and you still talk like that, then the good fortunes of the last decade have made you soft to what hardship really looks like. So long as Erebor still prospers, the king, his sister, and both princes can throw a ball every week for all I care.”

Bilbo found himself nonsensically nodding along with everything the older dwarf said. Both younger lads mumbled their apologies and went back to speaking on gentler topics, like what they would be wearing that evening. 

Just as Bilbo's legs were beginning to cramp and ache, he heard them start to wrap things up. 

“Let's go boys. The kitchen crew will take the rest of this.” Bilbo carefully listened to the patter of feet make a swift exit and sighed in relief. What was an even bigger relief was that no one had stacked anything on top of him.

Honing his hearing and using the little peephole, he determined that everyone had left. He was still incredibly cautious as he lifted the lid of the barrel. They were gone, but he didn't want to waste any time. From the sound of it, another group of dwarves would be here to collect the rest of the goods soon. When he got out he turned around to fish out the mask and boots he had yet to put on and snuck around a corridor. He wasn't prepared for the sight that awaited him. 

Bilbo’s eyes grew large, and he barely held on to the things in his hands. He thought the inside of the mountain was going to be dark and hard to navigate, or cavernous. Oh, vala, far across the dark sea, he was wrong, so wrong.

The chamber had led onto a walkway that revealed a vastness he had not previously been capable of comprehending. Above and below him, steps and pathways wound through the mountain. The glow of sun mirrors and lit forges made it so that few shadows existed in his sight, and it was loud. Voices, and hammers, and wheels on stone could all be picked up.

Bilbo stepped back into the cavern and covered his mouth to stop the laugh or sob, he was unsure of which, from escaping him. Erebor. This was Erebor, the place he had only ever dreamed of stepping foot in, and now he was here. It was real. He wiped mysterious tears from his face and set his eyes back upon the grandeur of Erebor. 

Where he had stumbled out seemed to be a waystation to get goods quickly to other parts of the mountain. The sun was already half west by the time he had been taken into the mountain. From the way his stomach was growling, it was certainly past tea time. He needed to find where festivities were being held as they would likely start soon.

Bilbo eyed the boots in his hands with disdain before slipping them onto his feet. He had spent the entire previous day in them, and while it did get easier to walk after a time, they were no more pleasant to wear than when he first put them on. The red dwarven jacket he was wearing had a fur hood, so he pulled that up to hide his ears and beardless face. 

It was slower moving than he would have preferred, but he kept to side streets, trying to fumble his way to what he hoped was a more populated area. It was far easier to look inconspicuous when blending into a crowd. He knew he was headed in the right direction when the familiar smell of fresh food reached his nose. He did what any good hobbit would do and followed it all the way to its source, which was the entrance to a large, LARGE kitchen. 

“Come on, lads, we need two more trays of that lamb and at least three more of the sweet yams. Make sure the one on the end makes it to the king's table. They’re made special!” A red-haired dwarf with his hair braided in a way that made it look like a rope that hung below his big belly.

Bilbo hurried to the side so as not to get trampled and realized with a jolt that they were likely going to the ballroom. He took one last forlorn glance at the big, bright kitchen and followed the dwarves with trays of food. They led him right to the towering doors of an immense ballroom. The entirety of the party tree and surrounding fairgrounds could have easily fit into this room. It was another jaw-dropping sight, and he had the feeling he was going to experience a lot of those here.

The whole world outside would never see such a sight. Vibrant greens, blues, and silvers danced around the stone walls, and even the texture of the floor was different. It was polished black with veins of gold running through it. Bilbo wished he wasn't wearing these horrible boots. The sensation would have been so foreign but so fun on bare soles. 

His goal when he got into the room was to get as far back as possible so he wasn't trampled by people coming in and out of the doors. It was incredibly easy to do as most of the dwarves' attention was pulled towards the back of the room.

While everyone was distracted, he quickly slipped on his mask and tried to see what had everyone so interested. All he caught was the broad back of a tall, dark-haired dwarf, and with a jolt of realization upon seeing the crown upon his head, it registered that it must have been the king. Do kings dress up for things like this, or are they above all that? He thought to himself. It would be dreadfully boring not to participate, but the dwarves he met at the inn did say he didn’t enjoy parties all that much. 

When the door on the opposite side of the room closed, it signaled the celebration was allowed to begin. The music of a mighty band rose up, and people took to the center of the room to dance. He retreated to the far back, where a giant glowing tree that looked to be carved of solid quartz and decorated with glass ornaments stood. It was lovely to behold and must have been a master craft.

As beautiful as it was, Bilbo did wish it was a real tree. It would have been a comforting sight. Seeing a party devoted to Yavanna without more green and growing things was odd.

He looked around at the crowd of dancers with calm envy before turning his attention away from the decore and to the buffet table, unable to curb his hunger any longer. In his excitement and partially because the mask obscured some of his peripheral vision, he bumped into the big-bellied dwarf he had seen shouting orders in the kitchen. 

“Sorry!” Bilbo apologized as he recovered. 

"No worries at all! I can't fault you for making a beeline straight for the potato pancakes. They’re a popular favorite. The king likes them with puree apples, but I always preferred sour cream.” The dwarf said jovially. 

“I’ve had them with sour cream, but pureed apples?” Bilbo eyed the sauce in question with curiosity and apprehension. 

“Not a popular pairing at your table, I guess. Go on and try it.” Bilbo had little say as the dwarf scooped some of the sauce onto the potato pancake and put it in his hand. One tentative bite later, Bilbo had to restrain himself from devouring the entire tray. 

“These are amazing! No wonder the king likes them so much!” Bilbo took another big bite, careful not to lift his mask in a way that showed he had no beard. 

“Always had a sweet tooth, our king, but he’s got good taste! And I’m not saying that just because I’m the royal family's personal chef!” Bilbo started as he said it and slowed his third pancake from his mouth. 

“You serve the king! That must be so exciting!” Bilbo exclaimed, 

“I do indeed. Bombur, at your service.” Bombur bowed and came back up with a pat on his belly. “Good food, and I’m proud of it. Whereabouts are you from? I’m guessing not Erebor from the look of you.” Bombur was being conversational, but Bilbo froze 

“I…uh... I… traveled over the misty mountains for a… change of scenery.” He didn’t want to lie outright and hoped it was vague enough not to warrant elaboration. 

“Oh, Ered Luin! I have a cousin who lives in those hills. Nice halls I’ve had the pleasure of visiting a time or two. Even spoke with a few of the little folk that live not far. They’re some of the best cooks around. Couldn't get one to swap a recipe with me. Damn shame. What’s your trade then?” Bombur asked conversationally while picking at the other cuisine lining the table.

One too many comments stuck out at him from the few friendly sentences Bombur had uttered. He so wished he could give the jolly man a recipe fit for the fine dining of a king table. On the other hand, these questions were getting more and more specific, and despite his unexpected success in getting him to assume he was from the Blue Mountains, Bilbo felt the need to slip back into the crowd.  

“Yes, it’s a very beautiful place to live, and I…I’m a scribe. I am so sorry to cut this conversation short, but I do see my friend…” He was racking his brain for a name when the ones from the night at the inn popped into his head. "Bofur! My friend Bofur needs me. I have to go. Lovely speaking to you, and thank you for the food! Your- I- I mean, our king has amazing taste!”

He didn’t look back to see if his fumbling caught him a queer look and sped across the floor dodging dancers and increasingly drunken dwarves alike. In his haste, he also didn't notice that the acorn had fallen out of his pocket and rolled to the base of the quartz tree. 

Bilbo scrambled blindly, not knowing the area well enough to navigate properly, and emerged by a long row of kegs. This is, unfortunately, where Bilbo’s luck ran out. The dwarf in front of him turned from getting his drink and stopped right in front of Bilbo. The wolf mask he was wearing hid any features that might have given him a clue as to why he was being stared at. Then he lifted his mask, and Bilbo was shocked to see it was indeed the merchant he stole from. 

“Wait a minute. That belt and that tunic, where did you get those!” His loud voice didn’t carry only because of their proximity to the band.

“I…I bought them off of a little fellow. Why are they yours? I’m afraid if they are, then you’ll need to wait until after the party to reclaim them.” With every word, Bilbo took a slow step back.

“Oh no, you don't!” The dwarf shouted and reached for him. Bilbo dodged out of the way, but his fingers caught the underside of his mask and pulled it up, revealing his face. “I knew it! Guards!” 

Bilbo pulled his mask back down and ran.  

Every plan had its flaws. The fault in Thorin’s plan was thinking that he would be unrecognizable if he took off his crown and wore a ram mask. It did well to lessen his overall presence. However, he had still been found out by particularly keen-eyed dwarves.

As a result, he moved further and further back into the room until he was standing just on the edge of the dancefloor, smiling contentedly at the joy this was bringing his people. Dis was right. It was a good moral booster. Every once in a while, he could even see his young nephews twirling around with each other to a tune vastly different than the one the band was playing. As an added bonus, the compulsive nagging feeling that he should visit Dale had subsided, leaving his mind free to think about other topics. 

“I’m proud of you for showing up.” Thorin jumped, not expecting to be addressed. Dis just smirked and sipped her mead. "I’m going to go wrangle my children after I say this, but I think you haven't forgone all hope of finding your One like you seem to want people to think.” 

“How do you figure that?” Thorin scoffed. 

“You’re not wearing any gloves.” She left no room for retort as she slipped into the crowd, leaving Thorin looking at his hands. He hadn’t even considered putting gloves on, just a pair of black bracers that matched the rest of his attire.

Quick as a whip and with surprising strength, someone put their hand in his and yanked him onto the dancefloor. 

His immediate reaction was to stop dead and not allow himself to be pulled, but he decided to see where this was going. Whoever this was clearly hadn’t realized who he was, and the gall it takes to pull someone into a dance made him curious about what kind of dwarf this was. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I needed to get away quickly, and you were the first person I grabbed.” They fell into step with the dance, and Thorin was able to assess his surprise dance partner. He was about a foot shorter than him, wearing a white painted rabbit mask and a long red coat. None of what he was wearing seemed to fit him correctly. The tunic and coat were too big. The belt around his waist was gawdy and clearly held the heraldry of a mining guild. This was clearly no miner in front of him, so it must have been borrowed. Even the shoes on his feet seemed ill-fitting, and his movements seemed clumsy. But his voice was very pleasant, and there was something intriguing about him. 

“I suppose I’m happy to be of assistance then. You’re not in any danger, are you? If someone was being too forward, that can be dealt with.” He looked over the smaller dwarf's shoulder to see if there was someone approaching. 

“No, just an old acquaintance I would rather not speak with. I’ve been having a nice time. I would rather not spoil it.” The man seemed understandably nervous but calmed down as he realized he wasn't going to be abandoned on the dancefloor. 

“So your first thought was to grab a stranger and pull them onto the floor? I could have been worse trouble than the acquaintance you’re avoiding.”

The man laughed, and the sound of it rivaled that of all others he had ever heard. A goofy and uncharacteristic smile broke across his face, hidden only by his mask.

“You don’t seem like trouble, which means that my gamble paid off, Mister…?”

The question was left hanging, and it confirmed Thorin's suspicions that the man had absolutely no idea who he was, and he was loathe to tip him off now. His silence caused the man to speak again.

“Is it rude to ask that at a masquerade? I’ve never been to one before, so I don’t know the etiquette.” Bilbo nearly missed the next queue and tripped over his feet.

Thorin steadied him with a hand around the waist and, in an expert blink, changed their positions so that he was now leading. He found himself willing the music to continue so he wouldn’t be forced to break contact. Every moment spent in this man's presence made him more and more curious.

“I’m assuming you’re not from Erebor, then? Parties such as these happen at least once a year here.” That question seemed to cause a great deal of hesitation, and the dance forced them to separate before he could answer. There was a sense of immediate relief when the small man was back within arms reach. 

“I…I’m from the other side of the Misty Mountains.” The man offered no elaboration.

“What brings you from the mountains of Ered Luin to the Lonely Mountain?” It wasn’t often they got visitors from so far away. 

“I’ve always wanted to visit, and a… opportunity landed on my doorstep. I heard that it's the greatest inhabited dwarven hall of the third age of Middle Earth.  And that the king is just and kind.” The way the man said it seemed odd to him as if he was reading it out of a history book, but the oddity of it was eclipsed by his last statement. 

“If you’ve never met the king, how can you say he is just?” A vain question that he asked to satisfy his own worries, but he asked it nonetheless. 

“Because his people thrive and seldom speak ill of him. I couldn’t imagine having that much weight on my shoulders. I just hope he’s here somewhere enjoying his own party. Seems a waste to put something like this together and not enjoy it.”

Partially mesmerized by the kind words, Thorin led them through the next steps of the dance before pulling the man nearly flush against his chest. He fit perfectly into his arms and was at the perfect height to rest his head on his chest if he so desired.

Thorin could see from this angle that he had a head of short copper curls. An unusual hairstyle for a dwarf, but even so, he was fighting the urge to twist one around his finger and feel its softness. How was one completely random man managing to nearly overcome over a century of carefully crafted discipline in the course of a single dance? 

“If Ered Luin has been hiding dwarves with such silver tongues as you in its halls, I should have paid it a visit long ago.” He deliberately missed the queue for the next step of the dance, which would have meant he had to let go of the man.

Bright green eyes blinked up at him from inside the mask, a mix of curiosity and caution. Thorin got lost in them, his mind comparing them to the loveliest emeralds ever to come out of a dwarven mine.

Thorin looked at where their hands joined and, for the first time ever, was sad to see a gloved hand. A force greater than himself compelled him to remove the oversized glove. Slowly and with plenty of time for the increasingly enchanting man to protest, he slid the glove off his hand. The man's breath hitched, but he didn't pull away, and for a few blissful seconds, the rest of the world ceased to exist. 

Without warning, the peace they had found on the dancefloor shattered as two guards loudly lumbered through the crowd, shouting for the rabbit-masked man to halt. The warmth of the man's body pressed to his disappeared as he turned to flee. 

"Wait, you don't have to-." Thorin reached for the man in hopes of stopping his flight.

At that moment, their fingers connected, skin to skin. A bolt of lightning sparked from the point where their fingers connected, forcing through him a need so raw and powerful it brought him to his knees. Whatever the world had looked like before vanished, narrowing down to a single point.

Opening his eyes, he saw the man being hauled back by two guards, struggling fiercely but in vain. Still reeling from the shock to his system, he was working on pure instinct. Every part of his being was screaming that he needed to defend that man with his life.

"UNHAND HIM IN THE NAME OF THE KING!" Thorin ripped his mask off his face and threw it to the ground.

The guards dropped their captive immediately at the sight of their enraged king. No longer restrained, the man cast his eyes upon him one last time before disappearing into the crowd.

Thorin pursued him to the nearest exit, slowed by the crowd that was starting to form as well as his size. He pushed people out of the way in an effort to catch the fleet-footed mystery person before he could get to the exit. When he exited the great doors to the ballroom, all he found was a pair of worn leather boots and a linen handkerchief with two bold BBs embroidered into the corner. 

Chapter Text

Bilbo didn’t know where he was going, and he had no idea where he would end up. All he knew was that he needed to get as far from the ballroom as possible, purposefully ignoring the sudden raw urge to drop everything and find that dwarf again.

He rounded the corner and tripped over his own feet. Damn! It was the boots again. They had caused him to have two left feet all night. Quickly and desperately, he discarded them just in time to hear the sound of raised voices and footsteps in the corridor. He ducked behind a statue placed into a recess of stone and hugged the shadows.

A group of guards walked past him at a brisk pace and split up as they each took various corridors. When they had passed, he rushed back the way he came to get here. The corridors and rooms he passed were largely empty except for a few members of staff who didn’t seem to notice or pay him any mind. Before he knew it, he was back at the loading gate he had entered from. The gate was closed, but he could see the chain used to open it.

One…two….three steps closer to leaving.

His hesitation was a conundrum even to himself. He was a sensible hobbit who knew when he was in over his head. He had his fun. He saw the dwarven kingdom. He danced and spoke with many dwarves. Was he searching for a reason to leave, or was it a reason to stay? The Acorn! He couldn’t leave! He had to plant the…oh no. Bilbo checked his pockets and came up empty. He patted down his whole person and realized that he was missing not only Gandalf's acorn but his handkerchief as well. Oh no! But this meant he couldn't leave! He had to stay and find it! That was why! That was why he was staying, right? 

Wrong. 

He was staying because whatever had transpired over the course of that dance had changed him. Like something long dormant had taken root. He had felt it when he was dancing, an immediate calm. A sense of peace and safety that he hadn't known since his parents died. He had nearly completely forgotten why he pulled someone onto the dancefloor to begin with. Despite Bilbo being the one to start the dance, he felt swept off his feet and enchanted by the one he had conscripted into his spur-of-the-moment plan. He hadn't even been cross; if anything, he was just as curious as him, even going so far as to take over the dance when his clumsy feet and surprise got the better of him.

Before he was forced to flee again, the dwarf had invoked the name of the king. Was he close to the royal line? An adviser or maybe even a family member? He wanted to know more! All he had to go off of was a brief glance at a handsome face and a gilded ram mask. 

One…two…three steps away from the gate and back into the depths of the dwarven city.

Thorin had abandoned any attempt to stay at the masquerade. Guards had been ordered to look for the man who fled, but harming him in any way was strictly forbidden.

He paced the floor of his room for what felt like hours, trying to sift through what happened to him. He had never felt so right as he did holding that man in his arms, but there were so many other questions, too. Who was he? Why was he running? What did he do? And was he actually a dwarf?

Thorin had danced with other dwarves, and he didn't feel like any of them. He wasn’t nearly as stocky, and there were no rippling muscles under the tunic. If anything, the man felt exceedingly soft.

That train of thought only produced more questions, like why on earth a non-dwarf would sneak into Erebor just to attend a ball? Even with all his questions, there was no denying the feeling that rocketed through him when their fingers met. Lost in thought, he was startled as the door opened, and he was greeted with the familiar face of his sister. There was no humor in her face, only deep concern. 

“Balin and half the council have been asking to speak with you. I think today might be a topic for some time to come. I’ve warded them off for now, and Balin is keeping them at bay. The masquerade is still ongoing. What happened out there, Thorin? All I saw was you dancing with someone, and then there was a commotion before you invoked the name of the king. I have never seen you invoke your kingship in such a way before.” Dis sat at the table in his room, looking at him expectedly. 

“I can’t tell you what happened because I don’t even know myself! I- I don’t know why I reacted that way.” Thorin gripped the small handkerchief he had been holding with both hands like it might provide him with answers. 

“Why did you choose to dance with whoever that was? It looked like you were having a good time?” Dis continued,   

“I didn’t choose to dance with him. He grabbed me and pulled me onto the dancefloor,” Thorin admitted. Dis cocked her eyebrow. 

“You were easily twice that man's size, so some part of you must have wanted to dance if you allowed yourself to be pulled.” Dis’s continued questions were not as annoying as he expected them to be.

She was his meddlesome little sister, but she cared, and she was never one to mince her words when it mattered. He didn’t answer because he couldn’t. What had transpired wasn’t logical. 

“Dis, what did it feel like when you met Vili?” He finally looked up from the handkerchief, though he still ran his thumb over the BB in the corner. Dis’s eyes were blown wide in shock, and there was no mistaking the corners of her mouth twitching with the desire to split her face into a wide grin. She held it in. 

“Well, meeting him was a bit of an accident. Father had made me so mad that I took off in the opposite direction while in Dale. I got lost, and before I knew it, the sun was starting to set. I started heading in the direction of the mountain, intent on walking home, when his cart pulled up beside me. He was adamant that I not walk home in the dark. He had no idea who I was, and I was skeptical of him at first. I had no reason to trust him or his intentions, but I was tired and pretty sure I could handle myself if he tried anything funny. He offered me his hand to get in, and when we touched, it was like the world fell away. They call it a spark for a reason. It was as if I had been struck by lightning. Nothing ever felt right without him again.” Dis walked closer and knelt down in front of his chair. Her eyes were swimming with a mix of emotions. “Thorin…did…did you meet your One?” Thorin looked into her eyes, suddenly feeling less like a king and more like a scared sibling. 

“I think I did, but given everything that’s happened, that thought scares me. Why did he run? Did he not feel the same way? He heard me proclaim myself as king. Does my soul belong to the one person who does not abide that?” Once he voiced one concern, the rest followed like a floodgate opening until Dis silenced him. 

“You are assuming a lot of things, Thorin, befo-” She didn't finish her thought before there was a knock at the door. Dis cracked it open, then let the person through. It was a weary-looking Balin. 

“Your majesty, I can’t put off the counsel any longer. They are demanding you meet with them over what they believe to be an imminent security concern.” All of what made Thorin a king returned to him with those words. He rose from his chair and straightened himself up. 

“I’ll meet with them in half an hour.” Balin bowed and left the room, and Dis gave him an affectionate pat before leaving as well. Thorin changed and prepared for the meeting ahead. 

He walked through his halls with his head held high, burning with renewed purpose. His One was somewhere in his kingdom. Likely confused or scared. He needed to see him again. He wanted him in his arms. He wanted to finally look upon the face of his soul-made flesh. For now, all he had to go off of was a rabbit mask and a handkerchief, but that was easily rectified.

The guards must have been chasing him for a reason, and he had been too caught up in being consumed by the spark of their meeting to ask questions. He was the last to arrive at the council room, throwing both doors open wide in the wake of his determination. Half of his council was already in a fierce debate. 

“Princess Dis, this is ridiculous. A possible enemy is freely marching through the halls of Erebor with nearly free reign. He’s likely here with a mission of deceit and subterfuge. Why else would he choose the day of a masquerade ball to make his move! The guards, from what I’ve been told, have been instructed not to use lethal force under any circumstances. I demand to know why more isn’t being done to protect the citizens of Erebor!”

Dis’ face was pulled back in a snarl as she listened to the sniveling lord Devik prattle. Several other dwarves nodded in agreement. The door slammed closed behind Thorin as he walked in, and all eyes turned to him. 

“Your majesty, thank you for joining us. It’s best we get this handled quickly.” The more even-tempered Lady Uradira advised.   

“I agree. We do need this handled as swiftly as possible.” Thorin walked to the head of the table. “Dwalin.” His head of security and friend stepped clearly into the room. “Bring in the guards that nearly captured the unknown man and anyone they know to be associated with him.”

Dwalin gave a grunt and a nod and left. Thorin addressed the rest of the room. “I don't believe this man to be a threat.” Before he could continue, Lord Devik cut in, 

“You can’t know that!” 

“I can!” Thorin replied sternly. Annoyed at being spoken over. “I can because whoever he is, he is my One.” Silence was the only thing the chamber heard for several moments. Many council members traded confused and concerned looks. Devik looked entirely taken aback. In that time, Dwalin returned with the guards and another man. “That was swift,” Thorin remarked. 

“They were looking for me as I looked for them. We met in the middle.” Dwalin stepped back and let the dwarves move forward. 

“What was your purpose for attempting to capture the man I was dancing with? Tell me all you know of him and spare no detail,” Thorin commanded. All three started talking at once. “Silence! Guards step forward and speak first.” They both reported that the other dwarf was a merchant who alerted them that the man was both not a dwarf and a thief to boot. When the merchant confronted him, he ran.

The guards took the merchant at his word and decided that in the interest of security, they would apprehend him first and ask questions after the fact. The council shifted and muttered at the testimony, likely theorizing as he did what race that populated Middle Earth could so easily pass as a dwarf. Thorin nodded and beckoned the merchant to step forward. He was still dressed for the masquerade and had his wolf mask pulled above his head.

“What is your part in this story? What do you know of this man?”   

“I know he’s a no good burglar, Your Majesty! I ran into him in Dale a few days back. Found him sitting on my merchandise, eating a pasty without a care in the world. Thought he might have been a human child from afar, but as I got closer, I realized he was one of those small folk from across the Misty Mountains, halflings.” At this, the room stirred into an uproar silenced only by Thorin's demand. The Merchant continued. “He asked to buy some of my wares. I refused him. My clientele is more refined than random halflings I find on the streets. I told him to piss off, and when I thought he had gone, I turned to take my inventory. When I was distracted talking to another merchant, the little shit grabbed the basket of clothes in the back of my cart and took off. Then he had the gall to wear those very clothes to the masquerade! I alerted the guards as soon as I saw him.”

It took all the learned patience he had accrued over his life to keep a straight face. Every insult that poured from the merchant's mouth felt bitter, and even having no real reason to distrust the man's words, he took them with a grain of salt. That said, the story did explain his One’s distinctly odd state of dress.

Regardless, the merchant’s testimony was useful. He now knew what his One was. Not a dwarf at all as he had expected but a halfling. He had heard of them before, a small, elusive race of people said to be crafted by Yavanna, who kept to themselves and traded with the Blue Mountains. So he hadn't lied when he said he was from the East; he had just let Thorin fill in the blanks how he chose. Clever. Still, why was he so far from home? And why did he choose to steal? Was he exiled from his own people or destitute and hoping to find a better life? He had many of his questions answered, but they were each replaced by many more. 

“One last thing, then you can go. Did you catch the halfling's name?” Thorin asked, 

“No, Your Majesty, I did not, but if you catch him, I care more about getting paid for what he stole than I do his name.”

This man reminded him why he hated working with the merchants guild. They were always more concerned about what was lining their pockets. Thorin placed a single gold coin on the table in front of the merchant. 

“Take this, and do not worry about this halfling again. His debt to you is beyond paid.” The merchant snatched the coin off the table and was babbling his praise and thanks all the way out of the room. Dwalin dismissed the guards, and the door once again closed on the council room. 

“Well. I suppose that settles it, then. There is no way that this halfling is your One. It’s not possible.” Devik smoothed out his tunic as his words settled with a calm finality that had others shaking their heads in agreement. 

“I know what I felt. Our hands touched, and I felt the spark. This halfling, whoever it is, is my one, and I will find him.” Thorin was growing tired of these games. 

“There were many people on that dance floor, Your Majesty. Is it not possible that you touched one of them and merely thought it was the halfling?” The council member from the Iron Hills asked. Dis intercepted the question. 

“There are many people around this table who have met their Ones. How many of you could have mistaken your One for anyone else once you felt that connection?” Her question was met with silence. In the silence, Balin stepped up beside him. 

“I think it’s best if we continue this council with a more selected group. I fear that we will get nowhere if we continue like this.” It was sound advice, and he was sure it didn’t escape Dis or Balin’s attention that his temper was starting to rise. 

“Everyone except Balin and Dis leave.” A simple command given through gritted teeth. He was tired of arguing. 

“We have yet to decide what to do about this threat!” Devik protested. 

“It's one small halfling councilor. Are you concerned that the whole of the mountain will topple from his mere presence? I think you’re safe in your bed tonight. I will not say it again, leave.” Thorin retorted. Lady Uradira quickly took over and ushered Devik out the door.    

“Well, that went about as well as I expected it would,” Dis commented. 

“We’re still not any closer to finding him or understanding why he was here,” Thorin argued, 

“We know more than we did a few hours ago. How many halflings do you think are roaming the city? I doubt he's a local resident, so he must have been staying somewhere or with someone.” Dis reasoned.

It made Thorin think back to the night he had woken up with the compulsion to visit Dale. Was this bond trying to lead him to his One even then? After several more rounds of conversation trying to devise a plan, their meeting was interrupted by two knocks at the door, followed by muffled bickering. Thorin looked at Dwalin in question, who just shrugged before heeding Thorin’s silent command to open the door. In stumbled a most unlikely pair. Bombur, his royal chef, and Ori, his relatively new head scribe and record keeper.

Thorin looked back at Balin in confusion, but his advisor seemed just as perplexed as he did. They did not wait for an invitation to speak. 

Bombur was quicker and shouted, “I know something about the intruder!” It got Thorin's attention immediately, and would have kept it if what Ori shouted hadn’t been even more bizarre 

“There is a tree growing in the middle of the ballroom!” Every mouth closed and turned to him. 

“There’s a what?” Thorin replied, thrown off kilter by both sentences. 

“Real vines and branches have taken over the quartz tree that the Lady Dis had commissioned, and they continue to grow!” Thorin couldn't believe what he was hearing. 

“Has anyone been hurt?” Thorin asked, 

“No, Your Majesty, I think most people think it’s some trick meant for the masquerade. It started right after you left.” Ori explained. The news that no one was hurt doused some of his fear. He turned to Bombur next. 

“What do you know of the intruder?” 

“He spoke to me a little. Had an impeccable palate and went straight for the potato pancakes, but when I asked questions about where he was from, he became antsy and said he needed to leave because Bofur was calling for him. My brother is Bofur, and he’s the only one of that name I’ve ever met. He is the guild master of the mining guild.” 

Thorin nodded. “Yes, I’ve worked with him before. He’s a good dwarf and a miner with the strongest stone sense this mountain has had in an age. I thought he was still traveling back from Ered Luin?” 

“He returned several days ago,” Bombur supplied. 

“Go get him and bring him here. Ori, the masquerade should have wrapped up by now. Show me what you’re talking about.”

They walked in silence, Thorin’s head throbbing with a mix of all the emotions he had been forced to feel over the course of this night. Throughout all of this, there was still an empty void burning in him, and he let his mind wonder what his One looked like.

A halfling explained why he felt so much smaller. He had never gotten to touch his actual skin with more than his fingertips, but he imagined that his One was soft and plush. He could feel the curves of him while they danced.

“Ori, you tend the royal libraries, do you not?” Thorin asked. 

“I do, Your Majesty,” Ori replied.

“Are there any books on halflings?” 

“There are no books on shire folk written by them. Only accounts of run-ins with them from the dwarves of Ered Luin.” Ori explained. 

“What do they say of them?” Thorin wondered, 

“They keep to themselves and don't prefer to travel. They love green and growing things and are said to be made by Yavanna and share her gifts for growing and nurturing the earth.” Ori recited what he knew of their mannerisms and temperament. It was an incredibly short explanation. 

“Does it say what they look like?” He thought he should feel guilty for asking, but it wasn’t out of some vanity or concern that his One’s face or figure wouldn’t please him. His figure, which was the only thing he had seen of him, certainly pleased him greatly. He only wished to have a more complete picture for his mind to think on. A touch of something to salve the sadness of not being near him so soon after discovering him. 

“They’re not usually more than four feet tall (122cm). They have healthy figures but are not as dense or muscular as dwarves. They have pointed ears, kind of like elves, but a little less sharp and curly hair. They grow no facial hair, neither the men nor the women. Oh, and they have big, fuzzy feet. Bigger feet than most men, and they don’t wear any boots to cover them! They’ve been depicted as cute many times in the text.”

Even with the vague description, he felt a little lighter. Subconsciously, he brought his hand to his ear as if trying to imagine what a pointed ear would feel like under his hands.

He had never paid the ears of elves much mind. Were they sensitive he wondered. Then he gave a look to his own booted feet. His One had been wearing boots when they danced. The extreme lack of coordination and the fact that he ditched his boots so quickly made sense now. Had he been uncomfortable or in pain the entire time? Why had he gone through so much trouble? Thorin hoped, truly hoped, that it was for the same reason he had felt the urgent need to go to Dale. That he was drawn to him or trying to find him, but if that was the case, why did he run?

They reached the ballroom, now mostly empty save those who drank too much and ended up under a table. Ori had been true to his word. Thorin’s eyes grew wide as he saw the quartz tree now completely engulfed in thick, twisting branches. The root system sprawled out over the floor, binding to but not breaking the rock. There was no vegetation on the branches themselves, but it did not look dead. It also didn't look like new growth. It looked as if someone was trying to grow a 500-year-old tree in the center of his mountain. 

“How is this possible?” Thorin breathed as he walked forward.

“I don’t know. It could be a sign that Yavanna is grateful for the party in her honor?” It was pure speculation cut with admirable optimism. He wondered to himself if it could also be a warning. It was, after all, her child that the mountain sought and her child that almost came to harm. Did she think that her child was rejected by his One? He placed his palm to the tree in some silent plea to convey that it could not be further from the truth. He was surprised to find the tree warm to the touch. 

"Do you think it poses a threat, your majesty?" Ori squeaked.

"No. Leave it be. When the last dwarf has staggered out of here, close the doors and let no one through. Do not harm this tree in any way." If this was a sign of peace or wrath from Yavanna, he would not see it done any harm and risk further insult.

He and Ori went separate ways as he walked back to the council room. His sister and Balin were still waiting on him, as well as the additional occupant of the jolly-faced miner Bofur. He swept his hat off the top of his head and gave a bow. 

"Your Majesty."

“It’s good to see you again, Bofur.” Thorin replied politely. “I don’t mean to cut directly to the chase with no preamble, and I know you have not been back in Erebor for long, but I’ve been told you might be able to identify someone. What do you know about a halfling that might be living in or around Dale? According to your brother, our surprise visitor at the masquerade named you.” Thorin was happy to see Bofur's face light up with recognition. 

“We stopped at an inn and pub in Dale on the way home, as we often do after traveling so far together. The lady that owns the place, Mrs. Harper, had a new employee. Thought he was a son at first, but he didn’t like that implication one bit. Said he was a Hobbit from the West. He was a cute fella and incredibly curious about dwarves. Real genuine about it, too. It was refreshing. He didn’t do anything reckless, did he? He was a nice fellow. I would hate for him to be in trouble.” Bofur's testimony brought an unintended smile to his face. He had a lead! A direct connection to his halfling, no, hobbit! It doused any jealous feelings that Bofur knew what the face of his beloved looked like, and he did not. 

“We should leave now. Take me to this inn.” Thorin made for the door but was stopped by Dis loudly clearing her throat. 

“Thorin, it’s the middle of the night. It would not be a very productive trip to leave now. We should sleep and go tomorrow with renewed energy and level heads.” Her advice was sound, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed hearing it.

He took the information on the inn and pub from Bofur and made plans to meet Dwalin and Dis the next morning by the gate. He walked back to his room slowly, his head on a swivel, checking every shadow. His crafty One had evaded all guards and any hint of detection. It made him a little proud but also deeply worried. Erebor was a big place for dwarves, let alone someone who had never been. He could get lost or accidentally injured, and he might not know until it was too late. Thorin laid the handkerchief on the pillow next to his head, idly brushing his thumb over the BB as he had found himself doing often. 

“I promise I’ll stop at nothing to find you. Even if I have to search my kingdom stone by stone.” 

Meanwhile, Bilbo was not scared or confused. He was, however, very annoyed. Everywhere he turned, there were groups of guards, and they seemed to double with every hour. Oh, what he wouldn't do to turn invisible right now, but alas, he had to use what was at his disposal, and for him, that was his short stature and the fact that he was incredibly silent compared to the dwarves around him.

He was also pleased to see that the apology Dori had issued to him in the Inn when he was almost stepped on was, in fact, true for all the dwarves he had met thus far. They rarely looked in low places or for someone much shorter than them. It made it easy to hide in the cracks and shadows that grew more numerous after the sun had set. The search for his mystery dance partner would have to continue tomorrow, but there was no way he would be able to stay awake through the night. He already felt his body slowing down as a result of the tumultuous day he had had. 

In a surprise twist of fate, aided by the fact that he had little idea of where he was going, he ended up back at the ballroom doors. They were being sealed, and a foolish thought came into his mind.

The guards looking for him were less likely to check somewhere they had already thoroughly looked, right? Carefully, Bilbo waited in the shadow of the door, and when the dwarf turned to grab something, he slipped inside.

As he did, he heard the door close behind him. There was the concern that they might lock the doors now that they believed the room to be empty, but that was a problem to be solved after a few hours of shuteye. Bilbo turned around and skidded to a halt, nearly losing his balance in surprise.

The room was just as he remembered it from dancing, with the blaring exception of a giant old forest oak tree anchoring itself around what used to be the quartz tree. The glass ornaments still dangled untouched by the sprawling branches as if on purpose. A rush of relief swept over him as he stumbled forward, arms outstretched to place his hands on the trunk. It was warm and coursing with life. He felt stable for the first time in hours with the feel of the bark scratching his fingertips. Was this the acorn that Gandalf had given him? Was this part of the magic of wizards? Did that even matter to him anymore?

Bilbo circled the tree a few times in wonder and disbelief before crawling into the space where the tree met the stone wall and nestled within the roots. Now, finally, no longer in fight or flight, his mind wrapped itself around the image of the dwarf he sought. Raven hair with streaks of silver and that deep baritone voice that sent unexpected shivers of delight up his spine.

He was very handsome and well-built. He still remembered the feel of his muscles under his hands as he tensed and led them through the steps of the dance. A sure and unwavering grasp, and not for one moment was he ever in fear of being dropped or led astray. But what Bilbo truly went to bed that night, remembering, was his eyes. They were more blue than any flower he had ever seen, and they conveyed a depth of feeling he knew he might never have time enough alive to explore. 

I just need to find you again. 

Chapter Text

Thorin almost felt guilty at how quickly sleep took him. Guiltier, still that his dreams were sweet and lovely. He was dancing again, listening to the lilt of his One's voice as he led them across a dancefloor occupied by no one.

When he woke, it was to a lesser reality, where he had yet to be reunited with the only thing he wanted. It was an increasingly frustrating feeling. Why must it be so difficult? It was not this way for any other dwarf whose partner knew them instantly upon touch. Thorin wrestled with the likely reality that while he felt the spark, his One being of a different race did not. That this deep-seated need and longing was entirely one-sided. Would he have to woo him? He would. He would do everything in his power to make his affections clear and known. He was a king, after all. Surely, that alone could grant him a passing interest.

He was not someone who flaunted his titles and never had been, even as a crown prince, but if that title was worth anything, he would leverage it just to see those pretty green eyes on him again. He would grant his hobbit anything within his power to give, and the absurdity that he knew this without a shadow of a doubt despite barely having a single conversation with him was not lost on him. 

Thorin didn't waste time once he was awake. He threw on discrete traveling clothes that would not draw attention and left his room without bothering to grab anything to eat. His stomach wouldn’t settle anyway. He left his royal apartment and started walking towards the gate. If Dis and Dwalin were not already there, he would leave without them. 

“I knew you’d be in a rush. Got up an hour early just so I didn’t accidentally miss you.” Dwalin stepped out from where he was leaning on the wall and matched his stride. 

“Any news on our guest?” Thorin didn't have time for niceties. He needed to get straight to the point. 

“Not even a hint. No one saw any movement or any evidence there was anyone out of place. Either he can turn himself invisible, or he’s crafty. Couldn't have settled anywhere for long. Poor bugger probably didn’t get any sleep.”

Dwalin didn't seem to mind the all-business attitude Thorin had adopted. The comment on his One’s lack of sleep did worry him. His first night spent in my kingdom, and it’s as a fugitive, he grumbled to himself. If he did have to woo his One, this was not the start he would have preferred. It did bring a complicated smile to his face to think of how clever his One would have to be to dodge a mountain full of soldiers all looking for him.   

As they approached the gate, Dis came into view dressed in plain clothes usually associated with men, as most women did when they left the mountain. Not that most other races could tell the difference that well. Every dwarf shared similar traits of a broad form and facial hair. 

“Don’t tell me. You got up early, so I wouldn't run off without you.” Thorin quipped as he walked past her. 

“That shouldn’t be surprising, big brother. I know you better than anyone in the mountain. It’ll take a few hours to get down the mountain. We should arrive in Dale by mid-morning. We’ll arrive faster if we take the rams.” It had crossed his mind, but he wanted to be discreet, and the only ram they could take on such short notice would likely be the royal ones that all held his heraldry. 

“Walking will not take too long. Let's go.” 

The sky was overcast and threatening to douse them all any minute as they walked. Thorin had little interest in idle chit-chat, so they walked in silence. They made it to the gates of Dale in just over two hours. 

“Bofur said the inn's name was The Harper's Nest, east of the north gate.” Dis was reading from a little square of parchment she had taken out of her coat. Thorin nodded and marched forward. He stopped when he heard Dwalin loudly and pointedly clear his throat. 

“This is the north gate, Thorin. Inn would be east of here.”

The length that Dwalin was going not to burst out laughing was insulting enough. Thorin shot him a dirty look and headed east. Dale was busier than he remembered it. It was only due to his bulk that he didn’t get swept up in the crowds.

How had his One navigated this? He had neither the height nor the bulk. He snorted. It was likely the same way he was evading detection of Erebor’s guards. Small and quiet meant places to hide. His One might even be able to rival the sneakiness of his royal spy. Nori would hate that, he thought with a smirk. 

The inn itself was well-placed and easy to find. A sign with a bird's nest and the name Harper hung at the entrance, and the door was wedged open. He didn’t waste time lingering at the entrance and hurried inside. It was a warm and comfortable place filled with travelers and fishermen. Most were just sitting down to or finishing up meals. A woman not much taller than him with a sturdy frame and kind face was wiping tables as quickly as people left them. She seemed to catch them in her peripherals. 

“Welcome in! Are you here for a meal, a room, or both?” She threw the cloth behind the bar as she walked to greet them, and her eyes gave them a polite but curious once over.  

“Are you Mrs. Harper?” Thorin asked. The woman narrowed her eyes.  

“I don’t have many people ask for me by name, so I’ll have you state your business before we take this conversation any further.” She squared her shoulders and regarded them suspiciously. Thorin felt a hand on his shoulder pull him back as Dis stepped forward. 

“We were told to ask for you by Bofur. We're seeking some information on a mutual friend. A halfling that might be staying or working here.” Dis explained politely. 

Mrs. Harper's eyes went wide. "Is Mr. Baggins alright? He didn't get himself tangled up in something dangerous, did he? I told him he might be in over his head." At the mention of a name, Thorin's hand went automatically to his breast pocket where the handkerchief rested. He decided honesty was the best approach.

"Mr. Baggins,” He said, the name slowly testing the way it sounded on his tongue, “disappeared after his identity was uncovered within the mountain. I fear for his safety if he's not found." Thorin tried to be both honest and subtle.

"How do I know you don't just want to find and jail him?” Mrs. Harper asked. Thorin had no right to be annoyed. It was a fair question, and the idea that his One had inspired such loyalty was endearing. 

“I don't know what I can offer you that would make you believe my reassurances, but I give you my word that I would never harm your friend, and I only seek to protect him from others who might wish him ill.” They held eye contact before Mrs. Harper broke it with a sigh. 

“I'll do what I can, but I likely don't know much more than you. His motivations were a mystery to me. He still has a room here. His things are upstairs, the last room on the left. I’m afraid that’s as much help as I can be.”

That was plenty. Thorin motioned for Dis and Dwalin to stay then all but sprinted across the inn, up the stairs, and to the aforementioned room.

He hesitated at the door. This felt so much more personal. What would his One think of him rifling through his possessions, especially if they didn’t have a mutual spark? Would he consider it a violation of his space? Would anything he found here even help him find him, or was he just doing this in some desperate attempt to feel a connection he ached for?

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a very small room. Smaller than all the others, if he had to guess. That made sense. His One was very small. The room was used but tidy, and as he expected, there were very few personal effects. The bed was unmade, and on top of it sat a travel pack, its contents half spilling out. He ran his hand along the flowery waistcoats and linen shirts. When he cast his eyes back over the room, he noticed a theme of flowers. Several cups and jars had flowers in them carefully arranged and bursting with color.

Ori had said Hobbits were fond of growing things. Would his One need a place to grow things in order to be happy in the mountain? He could order one of the terraces closer to the base of the mountain to be cleared. In the spring, he could trade with Thranduil to have fresh soil and seeds brought from the Greenwood. Or would he prefer a greenhouse? He knew that the men of Dale had them and used them to cultivate herbs in the winter. He was getting ahead of himself, but the more he learned, the more he wanted to build a place his One couldn't say no to. 

He poked through the remainder of his things until he came upon a series of books on dwarves. Almost all were written from the perspective of men, but it showed curiosity and gave him hope. The last book he opened, he closed again quickly. It was a journal clearly written for its owner's eyes only. If poking through his things was seen as a violation, then reading his secret thoughts would definitely cross a line.

Before he closed the book, he saw the notation at the bottom of the page signed Bilbo Baggins in an elegant looping script. BB. He ran a calloused hand over the words on the page with a smile. Finally, he had the full name of his One. He carefully put back the journal where he found it and turned to leave content in what he had found, even if it would do little to aid his search. When he stepped back downstairs, he was just in time to see a large black raven swoop through the open door and perch itself on Dis’s arm. It was Roac who croaked in loud, clear Khuzdul. 

“From Balin, the intruder has been found and apprehended.” 

That same morning, a short time after Thorin left the mountain, Bilbo woke from his place within the roots of the tree. He had wonderful dreams. Even now, as his eyes fluttered open to take in the dimness of the room, he could feel strong arms wrapped around him with the promise of so much more. It filled him with fire and determination.

He would find his dwarf. He tried not to think too hard about what he would do when he did find him. Hi, sorry for sneaking into your mountain uninvited. I can't stop thinking about you ever since we danced, didn’t seem like the most sane approach. Then again, he was waking up in the roots of a giant tree that sprouted from nothing, so perhaps he shouldn’t count the idea out entirely. He would find the dwarf first and worry about possible unrequited feelings later, and hopefully not from a prison cell. 

Bilbo untangled himself from the roots that seemed only to grow thicker overnight. Not seemed to, had. He stood again before the large oak tree that had grown several new branches. The fatigue he had experienced the previous night faded, and now he could properly take in the enormity and bizarre nature of the flora before him. 

“By Yavanna’s grace, Gandalf, what did you get me into,” Bilbo whispered to no one. Although this did mean he fulfilled his promise…sort of. Not that it would matter unless he could get out of this room without being caught. Just how big the chamber was had been lost on him the night before. It had looked smaller with so many dwarves to fill it.

He counted three great doors. At least one he knew was an exit. The other two were a mystery. His stomach interrupted his thoughts by growling loudly, nearly echoing in the empty chamber. Bilbo clamped a hand over it as if that might quiet it. What were the chances of one of those rooms being a kitchen? But he knew where the kitchen was. He had followed the chefs into the ballroom. Could there be multiple kitchens as big as the one he saw?

His stomach grumbled again. He hoped so. He was ravishingly hungry. He remembered the door the king exited after his speech was in the far back. He also remembered the jolly chef he had met at the beginning of the masquerade. He had said he was the royal chef and was almost certain that his Dwarf was connected to the royals in some way. Perhaps a dedicated staff would mean fewer guards? It could also mean far more guards, but he decided to press his luck. 

Silently, he walked across to the door and rather quickly met his first obstacle. The door, while clearly outlined, had no doorknob. Bilbo haphazardly patted down the defined space, looking for a bump or depression, and found nothing. In a final fit, he gave it a kick and settled his hands on his hips in annoyance.

He turned to walk back towards a different door and tripped on a root, landing hard on the smooth floor. He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, caught between whether to laugh or cry at the circumstances that he had put himself in. Bilbo got back up and dusted himself off, and when he turned, he was completely taken aback. The tree, whose roots had grown to take up much of this side of the chamber, were now sprawled across the door that was popped open just enough to pry it open the rest of the way. 

Bilbo looked back at the tree, unsure of what to think. Was the tree…helping him? How was one expected to act when you were pretty sure a tree that sprouted from a magical acorn given to you by a very odd wizard did you the favor of opening a door? Bilbo had no idea, so he fell back on the ingrained Baggins politeness that flowed in his veins and thanked the tree kindly for its help before taking the opportunity and slipping through the door.    

The corridor beyond was well-lit and narrow. He followed it until it delivered him to a wide hall; from there, he knew exactly where to go. Not because it was in any way familiar but because he could smell fresh bread and braised meat. His nose guided him to a familiar-looking kitchen, nearly identical to the one he had seen when he was trying to get to the masquerade.

This time, he didn’t shy away from it and snuck in after checking the coast was clear. There were few people in the massive kitchen. Bilbo walked past half a dozen fires, burning low with piping-hot coals. Metal grates and iron cooktops were built over them, large enough to cook half a pig. There were heating mechanisms turning chickens slowly and a large oven that seemed to be the source of the amazing smells he caught down the hall. 

Sitting unprotected on a marble counter was a jar of lemon curd and a gorgeous loaf of sourdough bread. His admiration was short-lived as he heard voices coming from the doorway opposite the one he came through. As quick as he could, he snatched the entire jar and chunk of bread and dived under the table. He heard a plate get roughly tossed onto the table he was under, and one of the dwarves that stepped in let out an annoyed sigh. 

“It would have been nice for someone to tell me the king wasn’t taking breakfast today before I marched my sorry ass all the way to the royal apartment.” The dwarf grumbled. 

“Oh, leave it alone. I’m sure he’s got his hands full with finding the intruder.” The other voice laughed. 

“I heard about that. I don’t know how I feel about a potentially dangerous intruder sneaking around Erebor unabated.” Bilbo listened carefully as another set of heavy footsteps came from the hall. 

“I don’t know if I would call a mountain of guards all looking for him unabated Koric.” The voice was familiar, and Bilbo racked his brain to explain why. “I also don’t know if I would call him dangerous.” 

“How would you know?” The dwarf Koric scoffed. 

“I spoke to him at the masquerade.” Bilbo’s head nearly bumped the table as he looked up sharply. He hadn't spoken to that many dwarves. Then the voice clicked. Bombur! “He actually seemed pleasant and with a good palate.” Both the other dwarves snorted. 

“Pleasant or not, he has an entire mountain on his tail, and news of the intruder isn’t the only thing floating around the mountain. Word is the king met someone special at the masquerade and danced with them all night but couldn't find them again in the chaos after.” The other dwarf gossiped. 

“If that’s the case, then why haven't they gone and presented themselves to the king? Anyone would be lucky to become consort even if the king was not much of a looker.”

Bilbo considered himself to be of above-average intelligence. He excelled in arithmetic and reading. He enjoyed puzzles and riddles. As he heard the chefs speak, he felt the color drain from his face. Was it possible that the person he had danced with was not related to the king but was, in fact, the actual king? That would mean that he had dragged the king of Erebor onto the dancefloor without a single how do you do. That had to be some sort of high crime. Though surely, the dwarf could have stopped dancing at any moment? He was twice Bilbo’s size; he could hardly force him into something he was opposed to. That said, the description of the dwarf he danced with compared to how the chefs described the king was off. They said the king was homely, which was not at all how he would describe his dwarf. Sure, he had only gotten a fleeting glance, but it was long enough to know that he was unbelievably handsome. 

“Maybe the intruder IS the king's One,” Bombur replied overly casually. The other two dwarves snorted unattractively. 

“No way!” Koric shouted, “I heard the intruder wasn’t even a dwarf. It’s not possible to have a non-dwarven One.” The chatter of the dwarves died away as they left the room and went about their business.

Bilbo did not move from under the table. His mind was too occupied with what he had heard. He slowly munched on his stolen bread and lemon curd, feeling more life flow into him with the much-needed nourishment.

He had a lot to think about. What if the king was the dwarf he had been searching for? Would that make all of this in vain? A great king would hardly have time to entertain the wild whims of a silly hobbit. His hopes seemed silly now, yet the words the dwarf had used, ‘met someone special’ rang in his head. Was he the special person, or was this just some cosmic coincidence? It couldn't be. He knew how he felt deep down. The way he had been held as they were dancing was not something conjured by his mind. It was real he knew that! Rejection was worth the risk of finding out because just as he knew that if he didn't go on this journey, to begin with, he would grow to regret it, he would also regret not following this feeling to its possible bitter end.

First, he needed some idea of what he was dealing with and actual confirmation that his dwarf was the king. The last thing he needed to do was make a fool of himself if it turned out he was wrong.

Bilbo used the last of the bread to scrape the jar clean and left his hiding place. The hardest part of this next task was finding the royal wing. All the signs were in cirth runes, so they were of no help. One of the dwarves that came into the kitchen said they were coming from the royal wing, so he chose that direction as a good starting point. By now, he was starting to understand how the guard rotations worked.

They were always in groups of three, and he could hear their boots well before he saw them. It was still slow going. Bilbo crept along, then hid, then crept along, then hid. It was a dull process, but he eventually reached his intended destination. He neared a hall that, by looks alone, must lead to the royal hall or, at the very least, somewhere important.

The door to the hall was impossibly big and carved with a great gilded crest. A hammer and anvil with a crown above it and seven shining stars. He was unsure how anyone was supposed to enter a door so big until he approached and saw that a smaller door was fitted into the bigger one. He heard the sound of heavy boots and ducked inside quickly, knowing another patrol would be by soon. The inside took him by surprise. It was little more than an opulent hallway with a door on the far side and two along the right-hand wall.

Along the left wall were rows and rows of shelves with books and heirlooms. He was halfway to pulling a book off the shelf when he heard the door to the hall rattle. In a panic, he dived for the nearest door only to find it locked. He dived towards the one next to it and scrambled inside just as he heard the door to the hall swing open and guard boots march down the hall. Bilbo turned to see where he had ended up and found himself in a musty-smelling portrait room. Only one torch was lit inside the door, and Bilbo took it and used it to light the others. Each sconce was situated next to a large painting with a gold plaque underneath it. Curiosity gripped him as he went around and lit each one.

Thrain I- TA 1934- 2190 

Founder of Erebor TA 1999. 

Thorin I- TA 2035 -2289 

The Abandoner TA 2210. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered the name to himself. That was the king's name, but this must be an ancestor. Bilbo continued on. He passed by portraits of many other dwarves until he got to one that stood out. It wasn’t a single portrait like all the others. Two strong and strapping dwarves in their prime stood side by side. One with long raven black hair and bright blue eyes and the other with a shock of red hair messily pulled back into a ponytail. They held proud and mischievous looks on their faces.  

Thrór- TA 2542 - 2790

Reclaimer of Erebor: TA 2590

Grór- TA 2563 - 2805  

First lord of the Iron Hills: TA 2590

Not depicted 

Frór- TA 2552 - 2589

May we greet him again in the halls of our maker.

The next portrait showed a much older and more worn version of the dark-haired dwarf, Thrór, in the previous art. He looked beaten by time, and the blue eyes depicted with such life before looked icy and distant. The space next to the one of the older Thrór confused him. It did not hold a portrait, although there was space for one. A plack hung in the center of the allotted space that read. 

Thrain II- Dragonslayer- The king that never was.

TA 2644 - 2850

Gave his life in the defense of Erebor and Dale. Slayer of the great red dragon Smaug on the fields before the gates of Erebor. May we greet him again in the halls of our maker.

Finally, Bilbo made his way to the last portrait, and when he lit the sconce, he nearly dropped his torch. There before him was the dwarf he had danced with. Younger but no less regal. His dwarf was… it was the king. He danced with the king of dwarves. 

Thorin II, called Oakenshield 

TA: 2746-

King under the mountain, long may he reign.  

Bilbo continued to stare, starstruck at the picture before him, wishing he could get closer. He felt a mix of excitement and hopelessness. There had been part of him that dearly hoped that his dwarf was not the king. It would have been so much simpler. He still wasn’t sure how to come to terms with it. He was trapped between the overwhelming absurdity of the situation and a feeling of deep, unbridled longing that seemed to drag him along. He mentally strangled the Baggins' predisposition for propriety that told him this was all going to come to a bitter end and let the Took in him run wild with his thoughts. 

It was clear he wasn’t going to get into the royal quarters. It was too well guarded. He needed another place a king would frequent. A place like the throne room! All kings had thrones, and one in a dwarven city like this would likely be in the middle. Or at least he hoped so because that was his best guess. He had one other issue.

This area seemed particularly well guarded, and he had unknowingly trapped himself in this room. The guards outside could have moved on, but they also could still be there, and if he tried to look, he would give himself away immediately. In frustration, Bilbo sat on the ground in front of Thorin’s portrait and leaned his head back. As soon as he did, he heard the soft grinding of stone. His eyes flew open in alarm. The wall on the far side of the room had opened to reveal a passageway. Bilbo looked behind him to where his head touched the wall, trying to feel for a button he might have unknowingly pressed and found nothing. He looked at the new door wearily. It could be a coincidence or a trap. Either way, he had little choice as the other exit was just as likely to end in disaster. Holding his breath, he picked up a lit torch from a wall and plunged forward. 

The tunnel was cold and clammy. It looked seldom used other than by the spiders who left behind dense patches of cobwebs. He reached the end of the tunnel and looked around for a way to leave. The torch reflected light off of something to his right, and just above his head was a gold button. Bilbo had to jump to press it.

The path before him opened up. Whatever this path was, it had taken him to the heart of the mountain. A sweeping expanse of stairs and paths was laid out before him, and in the middle was a surprisingly narrow path right up to a magnificent chair carved from the earth. The mountain seemed to come down and touch it like a finger of Aulë himself. 

Closer he crept until he was right on the edge of the path that led to the throne. The guards were surprisingly few here, and he could move easily. Eventually, a flicker of movement stopped his momentum as he heard footsteps on the stone. It wasn’t guards, and the steps weren't uniform. Members of the royal staff, maybe? He didn't expect a dwarf that he recognized to round the corner. Bofur, the floppy-hat dwarf, and another shorter dwarf with straw-colored hair and a stack of books in his arms walked cheerfully along. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help with those, Ori? They seem awful heavy.” Bofur maintained a sunny disposition. 

“They’re books the king requested. I wanted them ready for when he got back. What are you doing milling around anyway?” Ori asked between heavy breaths. 

“With all the excitement happening? I'm waiting to see how this all plays out, of course. Staying close to the action.” Bofur twisted his mustache into a finer curl with a big grin. 

“Yes, well, this, whoever he is, can’t stay hidden forever. How is he getting food or sleeping, for that matter! And how did he get that tree to grow in the great hall?! I didn't find anything about shire folk having magical properties.” Ori seemed exasperated. Bilbo was shocked. They had found out he was a hobbit, and if Bofur was here, he was likely the one to say as much. He supposed that was fair. It wasn’t like there were many other hobbits running around, and Bofur had spoken to him. 

“I think we’ll hear from him soon. The smartest thing for our intruder to do is turn himself in.” Bofur replied. 

Ori snorted. “How do you figure?” 

“Well, the king is looking everywhere for him. Damn, near willing to turn the place upside down. If our visitor is looking for the king, the fastest way to do so would be to turn themselves in.” Bofur explained. Ori looked thoughtful. 

“That’s assuming that the Hobbit is looking for the King.”

“I think he is. I met the chap, and he seemed the over-curious sort.” 

Bilbo’s heart pounded in his chest. Was it truly just as simple as that? Turn himself in? It wasn't something he had remotely considered. He had new information now. With confirmation that his dwarf was the king, he would be submitting himself to the king's justice. He couldn't hide forever, and he was becoming increasingly impatient for the end of this unexpected adventure, whatever it may be. Bilbo walked back the way he came, heading towards the ballroom. He made no great strides to hide and soon came upon a group of soldiers. He stood proudly and unwaveringly even after the guards spotted him and approached with swords drawn.

"My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I am submitting myself to the king's justice."

Chapter Text

Soldiers surrounded Bilbo, sharp blades pointed so closely to his skin that he could feel the chill of the steel. He swallowed hard, hoping he didn’t make a grave mistake. Two large dwarven hands seized him by the shoulders, restraining him while someone else bound his hands behind his back and covered his eyes. He was marched forward in silence to some unknown destination. He was forced to rely on his hearing to scoop out his surroundings. He could hear chattering voices drawing closer to where he was being led, but the guards stopped before they were close enough to make out words.

“You found him! Finally, this game of cat and mouse can be over!” He felt someone tug on the front of his overly large tunic, yanking him forward haphazardly. 

“Tisk tisk tisk Devik. I don't think you’re supposed to be manhandling our guest like that.” The voice was condescending and amused, but Bilbo felt the pressure come off the front of his shirt. 

“What is your business here, Nori.” The other dwarf, Devik, said coolly. 

“My business is the king's business. You are not the king, so you are not privy to that business.” There was clearly no love lost between the two, and Bilbo could feel the icy stares they must be giving each other even if he could not see it. 

“He is not our guest. He is an intruder who broke into this mountain and has been playing the king for a fool. How am I the only one who sees the threat? His existence here is a clear indication that our security is weak and easily circumvented! Not to mention the witchcraft that he stuck in the great hall. He should be interrogated about his intentions, how he got in here in the first place, and whose help he had in doing so. To this end, most of the council has already gathered.” Devik spat. He was grabbed again and dragged forward towards the chattering voices further down the hall. The other dwarf was shouting something in Khuzdul he couldn’t understand, and Bilbo was almost buried under the weight of the noise and chaos. A well of fear grew in Bilbo for the first time since being in Erebor. Suddenly, the weight disappeared, and he felt himself fall forward onto familiar ground. He felt roots under his hands and could smell the scent of earth. He was back in the ballroom. 

“Devik, you are out of line! This is the council of the king, not a place for you to be the arbiter of some misplaced sense of justice!” Bilbo liked this voice. It seemed to come from an older dwarf: “I have sent a raven to the king. This council will take no further action until he arrives.” 

"Balin, you heard the king. All of you did! He speaks of things that can not be! This council exists to serve all of Erebor and as a way to safeguard all we have created from another mad king like Thror! Can you say the actions his majesty has taken over the last two days are rational? If he can not see past the illusion cast in front of his eyes, then we have no choice but to circumvent his command and clear this threat for him.” The room lit up with loud gasps and confused chatter. Another husky but distinctly feminine voice rose above the clamor. 

“Are you suggesting the members of this council stage a coup, Lord Devik?

Whatever Lord Devik was about to say was lost to the sound of the doors being kicked open and the sound of hooves on the stone floor. 

The words had barely escaped the raven's beak when Thorin bolted out the door. Attached to the inn was a small horse stable. He needed a mount to get to the mountain quickly. He would not leave Bilbo’s fate in unpredictable hands a second longer than absolutely necessary. He looked at his options, all of which were horses that would be too tall for him to ride, until he spotted a Chestnut pony munching away in her stable. Of course! It must be Bilbo’s steed. His hobbit traveled here after all. He saddled her quickly and took off, stopping briefly in front of the inn to instruct Dwalin and Dis to gather all Bilbo's things and bring them back to Erebor. He pushed the pony to her limits, apologizing but not slowing down. Thorin got to the gates and, without dismounting, demanded the guard tell him where the hobbit had been taken. “Great Hall '' was all the poor guard could utter before Thorin was galloping through Erebor’s halls. When he got to the doors, he forced the pony to rear and kick the door open. 

Stunned faces greeted him, but he scanned the room for only one and found it. Lying on the floor with his hands bound and eyes covered was his One. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and Thorin nearly tripped getting off the pony because he didn’t want to take his eyes off of him. But his enjoyment of the moment was marred by the look of fear and uncertainty in his expression and his inability to see his eyes. Slowly, he approached Bilbo, unsure what to do or say. He had imagined their first meeting in so many ways, but not like this. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin reached out to touch the hem of his sleeve and was pained to see him flinch and shuffle back. 

“T-Thorin? I mean Your Majesty! I’m not here to hurt Erebor, I promise! I-I know this will sound silly, but I think something happened when we danced, and I can’t explain it, but I needed to talk to you again. To find you. You’re a king, and I snuck into your kingdom, and you have obligations, but if I could have just a little bit of time to explain, I can try and make it make sense, and when everything is said and done, I’ll head back to my home and never bother you or your people again.” The words were spoken with urgency and worry. It took him time to comprehend them while trying not to drown in the sound of Bilbo’s voice and the way that he was now leaning toward him. He reached out his hand again, fingers itching to trace his lips and the curve of his nose. Instead, he reached for the cloth covering his eyes. He slipped the fabric off and smiled as finally, after what felt like ages upon ages, their eyes met.

“Hello, Bilbo. I’ve been looking everywhere in this mountain for you. I didn’t mean for any harm to come to you after you were found. Are you hurt?” The words felt lame to his lips, but he was holding in the tidal wave of different emotions by sheer force of will. 

“I-No, Your Majesty, I’m fine. My wrists are a little sore, but that’s hardly anything.” Bilbo stammered. He seemed just as flustered and taken aback. 

“Please, just Thorin. To you, I’m always Thorin. I have much I’d like to speak to you about.” He quickly undid Bilbo’s binds, and when Bilbo didn’t pull away from him, he indulged in soothingly rubbing his fingers along the irritated skin where the rope had left angry red marks. Upon seeing evidence of rough handling, anger crept back into his countenance. “Why was he bound and on the floor?” Thorin asked, his voice almost a whisper. One last kind look at Bilbo, and he stood to his full height. “The instruction I left was that if he was found, he was to be treated with respect and dignity. Instead, I find him robbed of his sight and bound. Who will face the punishment for this?” Thorin turned to the crowd who had remained silent as the grave. In the silence, Devik spoke up, and if Thorin didn’t know any better, he seemed almost sorry. 

“Do you all see now? The madness that creeps into his words and actions? Punishment for what? Defending our home against someone who has crept within our walls to an end what we have yet to discover. Thorin, you have come to madness! Where is your caution?! Where is the king who protects the people of Erebor above his own interests!” 

“So you think this is madness?” Thorin chuckled. “You know not of what you speak. What you are capable of seeing is the peak of a mountain in fog, for your vision is obscured to only what little information you have access to. I am KING, Devik. What you have seen of me is not madness. I have free reign to the forces and policies of Erebor. Do you think that my madness would be as tame as leniency for a hobbit intruder? I have Thror’s blood in my veins, and you should know better than everyone here except myself what true madness can look like. But to ease your troubled mind, I will grant you the knowledge of the sacrifice I was willing to make should Erebor be in real danger. Nori!” Thorin shouted, “What was your task?” His spymaster stepped forth from where he had been watching on the sidelines. 

“I was told to find and tail the intruder and watch for any signs of malice, subterfuge, or ill intent. I was told not to alert you or another living soul of his whereabouts should I find him or show my face at all until the hobbit was found by others. I was also told that if I deemed the intruder meant to do real harm to Erebor or her citizens, I should execute the king's justice as I saw fit.” Nori replied conversationally. 

“Did you know that he was my One?” Thorin asked cooly. 

“Yes,” Nori replied. 

“The hobbit is still alive. What did you make of him?” Thorin asked. Nori smiled and looked over at Bilbo, who was still sitting. His face was painted with shock and surprise. 

“He’s of no danger. It took me a little while to locate him, but I found him in this very hall this morning. He slept in the tree roots. I even aided in his navigation of the mountain to see what he would get up to. He has a very hard time with our style of doors.” 

“Wait, that was you!” Bilbo shouted. Nori grinned 

“Afraid so. Both times. In the portrait room and the great hall. Although it was funny when you thanked the tree, I almost blew my cover at that. I also set the bread and lemon curd out for you.” A ripple of quiet laughter broke out among the other council members. 

“How did you know I’d be in the Kitchen!” Bilbo asked 

“I heard your stomach growl, twice. Also, it was morning, and you hadn't eaten, and we only have one kitchen, so it’s a safe bet.” Nori explained. Bilbo didn’t look convinced. 

“You have at least two! I saw them.” Bilbo replied indignantly    

“Nope. We have one with several entrances.” Nori was enjoying himself. When Bilbo looked over at him for some sort of confirmation. He regretfully nodded in favor of Nori.  

“This doesn't explain your wild notion that this halfling is your One!” Devik screeched. Thorin was about to retort when Bilbo sounded behind him. 

“I am a Hobbit, not a halfling! I am half of nothing! And why is everyone talking about Ones? I can’t be the king's One!” The warm and wonderful feeling that had existed upon reuniting with Bilbo vanished. He couldn't keep the hurt and longing out of his expression. 

“Do… hobbits not have a concept of a One?” Thorin asked. 

“Well, no, but it’s not just that, is it? I’m not a dwarf. A One is the other half of your soul. How could I possibly be the other half?” There was just as much sadness in Bilbo’s voice as there was in his heart. Those green eyes were once again not looking at him but cast to the floor.  He closed the distance between them and slipped his hand around Bilbo’s waist like he had done at the masquerade. 

“I don’t know, but can you deny that this feels right? This feels perfect. Because when I hold you like this, I feel complete, and I felt it the moment you pulled me onto the dancefloor. You said yourself that you felt something.”

“I-I did.” Bilbo’s eyes fluttered as his gaze drifted from his eyes to his lips. A little pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. Thorin wanted to chase it back into his mouth but held onto his patience. “I do! It’s just that you’re not any dwarf; you're the king! I-I don’t know if I can live up to what you need me to be. All of this is the last thing I expected.”  

“I don't need you to live up to anything; I just need you to be you. It’s been a long few days, and I don’t expect you to make any decisions. You didn’t get the best introduction to my kingdom, but if you stay, I can show it to you again. I can make this a place worthy of your presence in it if you give me that chance.” Emboldened by the notion that, in some way, Bilbo did feel the same as him, he brought his hand to his face and threaded his fingers through Bilbo’s hair. It was softer than spun silk. At the overtly affectionate display, a murmur went up behind him, but he didn’t care. Everything that encompassed his world at this moment was right in front of him. Bilbo looked shaken, and Thorin sat on the edge of his nerves for him to speak. 

“Even after what I did, I…I can stay?” Bilbo asked genuinely. The emotion in the question turned his restraint to sand. 

“I don't think I could bear it if you left me now.” Thorin closed the distance between them, tasting the sweetness of Bilbo’s lips, and was overjoyed when Bilbo received his with just as much enthusiasm. The moment their lips met, a green light brighter than any that had ever been seen so far under any mountain burst forth from the great oak, and the tree was suddenly in full bloom. Its green leaves raining down around them like snow upon a mountaintop. Thorin heard the surprised shout from council members and couldn't be bothered. Bilbo had sunk his hand into his hair and was moaning into his mouth, allowing him completely unfettered access to his person. When they finally parted for air, they were out of breath and panting. Thorin pushed his nose into the crook of Bilbo’s neck and breathed in the scent until his heart slowed. When their eyes met again, Thorin got to take in the blinding smile on his One’s face, slowly turning into a laugh. 

“You have leaves in your hair.” Bilbo giggled as he shooed some of the leaves off his head. 

“I’m not the only one, but they look better on you. You never did say how you managed to make this happen?” Thorin pointed to the tree.

“I didn't, not intentionally anyway. A wizard gave me an acorn.” The explanation made very little sense, but he could ask Bilbo to elaborate later. “Why is Myrtle here?” Bilbo pointed to the pony. 

“Oh, I kind of rode her here from the inn. Dis and Dwalin should be here with the rest of your stuff soon. Sorry if that was presumptuous.” Thorin replied awkwardly. 

“Maybe a little, but it saved me a trip, so I can't be too upset. I will need to see Mrs. Harper, though. She's probably very worried.” 

“We can go together.” Thorin nuzzled Bilbo's ear before straightening. He finally turned to the other people he remembered were in the room. Most were in states of shock or a little pink. Several, including Balin, just looked happy.    

“I think we are done here. By your leave, Your Majesty, this council session is adjourned, and I don't think we will need to meet again for several weeks at least.” Lady Uradira turned to a stammering Lord Devik, who looked to be on the verge of arguing. “If Yavanna has seen fit to bless this union, then who am I to subvert her will. I see no further reason to carry on this meeting, and I am sufficiently certain that the only madness that exists in our king is being madly in love. I have no doubt he will be insufferable to be around for months. I have a One of my own to go home to, and she is likely already cross that I’m turning in so late. Good night.” One by one, the other council members left as well until Thorin and Bilbo were left alone in the room, grinning at each other and imagining all the possibilities their new life could bring.  

Elsewhere in the world, Yavanna sat and tended her garden with a wide smile. She didn't look up when her visitor approached her. She knew he would come. 

“Ask the question that burdens you, Olorin, for you have found me in a bright mood, and I am more than happy to indulge you.” 

“Why, my lady? Why did you ask me to give the Hobbit an acorn?” Gandalf asked 

 “I told my husband what I had done to one of his souls. I told him that my hope was that our children could grow to learn from one another and appreciate not only the way the mountains sing but also the way the earth can nurture. He was not upset. He looked at me with kind pity and told me they were not built for that purpose, so it could never be. That it would be easier to get a great tree to grow and flourish in the heart of a mountain and out of solid stone than to get his children to love the green and growing things of this world.” Yavanna looked up at the inquisitive maia with an expression of mischief. “Stone is not the only thing in Arda that is patient. And after all, they will need wood.”