Chapter Text
Bilbo’s never particularly liked having guests over, cramming up his personal space, disrupting the order of things. More so if those guests show up unannounced, unexpectedly. But he refuses to let his frustration show more than he has to and tries to wear his mask as bravely as he can, clenching his jaw and forcing a polite smile while his insides are boiling — it’s the respectable thing to do.
But there is, Bilbo thinks grimly, a line. And now, with the strange picture of no less than thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard seated around his dining table, that line has been crossed. The room is jam-packed, with no chair left for Bilbo to sit on, so he awkwardly hovers in a corner somewhere behind Gandalf’s back, his fingers interlaced on his chest as he impatiently waits to finally receive an explanation for all of this.
He looks first at Thorin, who’s quietly spooning his soup with an astounding display of table manners Bilbo didn’t know Dwarves were capable of. It’s a rather humble type of stew Bilbo quickly threw together using the few edible things he still had left, and it’s really not much — especially not compared to the feast the other twelve Dwarves had just moments ago. But despite his earlier demeanour, Thorin didn’t complain or ask for more. He wordlessly accepted the bowl, albeit a bit gruffly, but not unkindly.
A glance at the table tells Bilbo that a plate of biscuits also appears to have survived the Dwarves’ attack on his pantry. Though, not for much longer, he surmises when he notices how Dwalin’s hawk-like eyes are fixed upon the heap of pastries.
Bilbo directs his next glance at Gandalf, who still hasn’t deemed it necessary to supply even an attempt at a sufficing explanation for all of this commotion on what had promised to be such a peaceful and, more importantly, uneventful evening.
He is just about to open his mouth, requesting exactly that, when he hears that dreadful sound. Again.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Another one of yours?” Bilbo asks Thorin, hoping he doesn’t sound too exasperated.
Thinking back to their frosty introduction just a few moment ago, Bilbo expects a sarcastic remark laced with some hidden insult, maybe a dismissing grunt. But no, there’s nothing of the sort. There’s no reply, no indication that Thorin has even heard Bilbo speak. Instead, the Dwarf lifts his head, stops eating. The spoon slips from his grip and hits the bottom of the bowl with a dull thud. He shares a look with Dwalin, his eyes wide, his lips parted.
“I thought you said he wouldn’t come,” Dwalin says, the tone of his voice resembling the strange look on Thorin’s face.
“He won’t.”
“Who’s at the door then?”
Bilbo does not linger to await Thorin’s answer. He quickly excuses himself from the rest of his guests, and, in a considerate pace, makes his way to the source of the unwelcome noise. He hears the Dwarves muttering behind him, and almost expects Thorin to follow him to the door, but when he looks back everyone is still sitting in their seats.
He hasn’t even passed the threshold of his dining room, when the person at the door decides to knock once more, this time so forcefully and loud that Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised if he is going to find a dent in the delicate wood tomorrow.
“Yes, yes, yes, calm down! I’m coming!” He turns forward again, picking up speed and suppressing the urge to groan. Are thirteen Dwarves not enough for one evening? What’s coming next — an Elf? A Man? An Oliphaunt?
With more verve than needed he swings open the round door to reveal yet another Dwarf standing on his porch. The stranger has his hand raised and curled into a fist, apparently just having been about to knock again. Bilbo narrows his eyes at the gesture, and the Dwarf quickly drops his hand, awkwardly patting the side of his thigh.
“You must be the burglar.”
“Burglar?” Bilbo echoes, an unpleasant feeling spreading through his gut as the word rolls over his lips. Who do these Dwarves think he is?
“You don’t know?” The Dwarf snorts and shakes his head, a wry smile appearing on his features. “Well, this is going to be just great, I can already feel it.”
“Don’t know what?” Bilbo wants to know, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
He cannot help but notice that the Dwarf’s looks are strikingly similar to those of Thorin. They share the same prominent shape of nose and the same thin lips, though this one’s hair is a few shades brighter, almost dark blond and with no streaks of silver in it. There’s not even a hint of a frown on the stranger’s face, and he seems young— younger, more carefree in the way he holds himself. Less regal.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Boggins,” the Dwarf announces, already brushing past him.
“It’s Baggins,” Bilbo instinctively returns. It’s such a short and simple name, how difficult can it be to get it right on the first try?
“Oh, I know,” the Dwarf nonchalantly replies over his shoulder. The grin on his face looks entirely too close to smugness to Bilbo’s liking.
Bilbo’s chest puffs up, now downright overflowing with annoyance. The sheer audacity of these... these Dwarves.
Bilbo merely lifts his eyebrows at the sight of the Dwarf’s incredibly dirty and ragged boots, when his eyes wander further, and he discovers the muddy spots on the floor he has just scrubbed this very morning. He takes a deep breath to calm down again and presses his mouth firmly shut. Gandalf has a lot to answer to.
“Frerin, at your service.” The Dwarf does not bow, but after everything Bilbo has witnessed in these last few moments — these last few hours, really — he cannot say he’s surprised at the lack of manners and the seemingly non-existent courtesy.
“Where are the others?” Frerin cocks his head to the side, his eyes roaming the room. “Did my brother already arrive? Wouldn’t put it past him to get lost in a small town like this.”
Brother, Bilbo repeats internally. Of course. Arrogance and plain rudeness appear to run in the family.
“Dining room,” he grinds out between gritted teeth, indicating to his right.
Frerin has already turned his back on him, rushing to said dining room with large steps. Bilbo follows him with a held-back sigh.
The Dwarf stops short at the entrance, so abruptly that Bilbo almost crashes into him. He keeps mumbling under his breath until his shoulders sink with a deep exhale.
“Twelve,” Frerin whispers. “So few.”
“Excuse me, few?!” Bilbo exclaims, a tad louder than he means to.
That grabs the other Dwarves’ attention. The muttering stops in an instant. Silence falls over the dinner table, and each of the fourteen heads turn to look at them. Confusion shows in all of their faces, and Bilbo quickly realises that Thorin’s brother wasn’t part of the plan, not at all.
Whatever the plan is.
Out of all the Dwarves, Fili and Kili recover the quickest, and after a short, stunned moment their lips begin to spread into wide smiles. Fili gives Frerin a nod, while Kili almost springs up from his seat. “Uncle. You came!”
Frerin inclines his head and gives both of his nephews a fond smile, before he turns, focussing his attention on Thorin’s seated figure before him. Thorin stares up at Frerin, as if he cannot believe what he is seeing. The ghost of a smile tugs at his stern features, and Bilbo sees the slight movement as he opens his mouth and—
“I suppose Dain said no then?” Frerin says, and Bilbo almost flinches at the sharpness in his voice. “Good for him. At least someone still possesses some common sense in this family.”
A shadow falls over Thorin’s face, and every hint of the smile evaporates. He tears his eyes away from his brother and turns to the company instead. If possible, his shoulders grow even more tensed.
“The meeting in Ered Luin?” Dwalin inquires, the hope in his eyes already deflating. “What did the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Isn’t Dain with us?”
Thorin takes a deep breath before he answers. “They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone.”
“You’re going on a quest?” Bilbo interrupts, unable to keep quiet any longer.
“I wonder why,” Frerin says, his voice soaked with sarcasm as he continues as if Bilbo hadn’t spoken. “If I had to take a guess it’s probably because he doesn’t want to risk the lives of his people in a vain attempt to battle a live, fire-breathing dragon.”
Thorin’s eyes flicker to the side, but he doesn’t turn.
“A dragon?” Bilbo repeats. The glance Frerin throws him is close to pity, which only succeeds in rising Bilbo’s temper further. “Can someone please explain to me what is going on here? Why did you call me a burglar? I’ve not stolen a thing in my life!”
“He doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” Frerin guesses. “A Hobbit, Thorin, really? A Hobbit? Why didn’t you ask Fili and Kili to join this suicide mission while you were at it— oh wait, I forgot, you did.”
Now Thorin reels around, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor with a loud squeak.
“I did not need to ask them,” he snaps. “They know where their loyalties lie.”
Fili and Kili are conveniently silent in their corner of the room, and Bilbo cannot blame them for it. Fire rages in Frerin’s eyes, and Thorin’s face is painted with an entire spectrum of emotions, with seemingly neither of them willing to back down. Bilbo clears his throat, a frail attempt at hoping to defuse the arisen charge in the air.
“Oh, and I don’t?” Frerin snarls back. “Is that what you’re saying? Do you really think this is what Father would have wanted you to—”
“Boys, boys,” Balin barges in, one hand raised in an appeasing gesture. “I believe there is time for that later. We oughtn’t make our host more uncomfortable than he already is.”
“Thank you,” Bilbo says quietly.
Frerin and Thorin are still glaring at each other, the tension in the room almost tangible.
“Frerin.” The arched eyebrows make Balin look strangely strict.
Frerin finally drops his gaze, and Thorin’s frown immediately changes into something softer as soon as his brother has his back on him. Thorin sits down again, slowly, as if his bones were aching. He seems more tired, older, as his fingers curl around the spoon. He stares into the bowl for several long moments until he firmly pushes the soup away from him, apparently having lost his appetite. Frerin slumps down in the seat between Gandalf and Dwalin, snatching the plate of biscuits from the firm grip of the latter.
“Oy!” Dwalin protests.
Frerin gives him a half-hearted smirk, taking a large bite. Dwalin shakes his head, his lips quirking up into a fleeting smile before his expression turns serious. He leans closer to Frerin, keeping his voice low.
“Was that really necessary?” It’s clear that he’s not referring to the biscuits.
“It’s even worse than I thought.” Frerin’s reply is equally low, and Bilbo inconspicuously moves closer to properly make out the words. “Thirteen, Dwalin. Thirteen. We are never going to make it.”
“Thorin knows the odds. We all know the odds.”
“You weren’t there.” Frerin’s eyes become distant for a moment, and Bilbo recognises the fear in the Dwarf’s rigid shoulders, hears it in the urgency of his hushed voice. “You didn’t see the dragon. You didn’t see the devastation, all of those people burning alive, the screams... Smaug came, and the entire defence of Erebor and Dale didn’t stand a chance. I’m telling you, we won’t make it. Not with so few in number.”
Dwalin shakes his head again, but the look in his eyes softens. “And yet you’re still here.”
“He’s my brother,” Frerin says simply. He holds Dwalin’s gaze for a while longer until he sags back into his chair and looks away, silently nibbling on the chunk of biscuit in his hand.
“Bilbo, my dear fellow?” Bilbo turns away from Dwalin and Frerin to look over at Gandalf to his right. “Let us have a little more light, please.”
And so Bilbo studies the map, listens to the story of the Dwarves and their lost kingdom, sees the hope flare up in Thorin’s eyes when Gandalf hands him the key that belonged to his father. He watches them argue, hears Thorin’s speech, and he sees it. Sees that there is no doubt that all of these Dwarves would be willing to follow their leader anywhere, no matter how great the danger and risks. Sees just how much they believe in this journey, how much they believe in Thorin. It’s visible in all of their awe-struck faces, in the flaring determination in their eyes, how it grows stronger with each passing second.
No, not all of the Dwarves, Bilbo quickly corrects himself. Frerin is the only one not to participate in the shouting, the wild gesturing, the excited battle cries. Despite all his earlier abrasiveness, he remains quiet, and his gaze is entirely set upon his brother, and upon his brother alone. He doesn’t waste one single glance at the map, nor on the key in Gandalf’s hand. It’s a staggering contrast — the more Thorin’s eyes begin to shine, the dimmer the look in Frerin’s becomes.
Just as the contract is shoved into his hands, Bilbo’s eyes catch Frerin’s across the dinner table. The Dwarf meets his stare, briefly, until he looks away, squeezing the biscuit in his clenched fist so tightly until it’s nothing more than a heap of crumbles on Bilbo’s dining room floor.
He does not even look angry anymore, Bilbo realises. He looks sad.
##
The Hobbit has fainted.
Frerin stands in the doorway, leaning idly against the yellow-painted wall as he watches Thorin carry their passed-out host into the living room. The peacefulness of sleep has taken away the substance of his — rather grouchy — character and makes Bilbo appear utterly small and fragile in his brother’s battle-hardened arms. So small and fragile that Frerin sets his jaw, trying with all his might to not make another snappy remark about the absurdity of assigning a Hobbit to face and steal from an enormous and vicious creature as Smaug.
How many of their kind have actually dared to venture beyond the borders of their rolling hills, beyond the safety of their gardens? Not many, he supposes. And certainly not this Hobbit, no matter what tales Gandalf appears to have spun to gain Thorin’s approval on this matter. The halfling almost gouged his eyes out at the sight of some harmless mud on his floor — how can they expect him to survive months on the road?
Thorin gently puts Bilbo down into the cushioned armchair next to the fireplace and stares at the sleeping figure for a few moments longer before he releases an exasperated sigh, no doubts sharing the thoughts that have just crossed Frerin’s mind.
It’s not as if Thorin isn’t aware of how reckless the idea of reclaiming Erebor is, Frerin knows that. But his big brother still deems the quest as necessary and the goal more important than the means. It’s hard to argue with someone who knows all of the risks and dangers, but simply chooses to ignore them and do the damn thing anyway.
“So, he fainted, huh?” Frerin fails his feeble attempt to keep the vindicated tone out of his voice. “Very promising.”
Thorin silently glowers at him. Dwalin’s broad figure appears in the doorway, and his gaze flickers from the sleeping Hobbit to Frerin and then back to Thorin. “I’ll get some tea,” he announces gruffly.
“I suppose that would be wise,” Gandalf agrees, taking place in the chair opposite of Bilbo.
“What exactly do you intend to to now?” Thorin asks, staring down at the seated Wizard.
“Well, I thought it would be best to wait for him to wake up, don’t you think?” Gandalf suggests calmly. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
Thorin looks like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Frerin shares the sentiment.
“Yes,” his brother snaps, “and then? He had no knowledge of this quest, or its importance. He didn’t know anything at all. You told me he was the best choice for his task, you said—”
“I know exactly what I have said, Thorin Oakenshield, there is no need to remind me of it,” Gandalf interrupts him. “I will talk to him. He will join the quest, of that I am fairly certain. Give it some time.”
The Hobbit’s eyes flutter open just in time as Dwalin appears around the corner with a large mug of steaming tea in his grip. He wordlessly shoves it into the perplexed halfling’s hands, keeping his mouth pressed into a thin line, and disappears as fast as he came.
Bilbo’s hands clench tightly around the mug, and his eyes widen in shock as his memory seems to catch up with him. “Please tell me I didn’t faint.”
Thorin sighs again and directs one last stern look at the Wizard before he turns around and exits the living room.
“Are there any other options?” Frerin asks him. “For the burglar, I mean. Something tells me persuading the tiny grump to come won’t be as easy as Gandalf believes it to be.”
Thorin tries to brush past him, but Frerin grabs his brother by the sleeve and holds him firmly in place. “What, you’re ignoring me now? Thorin, come on.”
“Frerin, not now,” Thorin says, sounding unbelievably tired.
“Yes, now, “ Frerin insists. He stands up straight and wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers. “Look, I am sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone. It wasn’t fair.”
“So you are going to yell at me in private instead?”
The knot in Frerin’s stomach makes it hard for him to breathe. He knows he’s already screwed this up, and the journey hasn’t even begun yet. He didn’t travel all this way to yell at his brother, he was determined not to. But seeing them all there, seeing Fili and Kili, seeing Gandalf... Suddenly it hit him, that this is real, this is really happening. His brother is going into certain death, and no matter what he does or say, he cannot stop it.
Only twelve other Dwarves have answered Thorin’s call. There will be no army standing beside them against the dragon. All of it seemed even more senseless and vain than before, and something inside him just snapped, all his previous resolutions to keep calm and accept Thorin’s decision vanished, and now his inability to control his own temper has once again left him with a broken mess of a situation he only ever manages to make worse.
His first instinct is to run, go back home, but he can’t do that, not now, not with Thorin, not with this. He needs to fix it, put the broken shards back together again, convince Thorin of his sincerity, show him his support. Which, after all, is the only thing Thorin has ever asked of him.
“We need to talk,” he says at last, glad that his voice doesn’t waver.
“What for?” Thorin asks, crossing his arms. “You have made your opinion on this matter perfectly clear. Several times now. You do not need to bother trying anymore, I won’t be swayed. I am sorry you travelled all this way, I am, but it was a waste of time.”
“I’m not here to change your mind,” Frerin says. “I won’t succeed anyway, I know that now. I’ve never seen you so sure about anything.”
“But you said—”
“I may have overreacted. Again.” He takes a deep breath. “But honestly, Thorin, can you blame me? You just sprang all of this at me! I had no time— You came back after looking for Father, and before I even had the chance to deal with that revelation, you quite flatly announced your intention to go on a quest to reclaim Erebor, after I didn’t hear you speak that name in years. And suddenly there was little else you talked about, as if there was— is not a single thing in the world more important to you than reclaiming that mountain. You were so ready to abandon everything we’ve fought for, everything we built, our home. So of course I was mad at you. I still am, I am bloody furious with you, Thorin. You’re leaving everything behind for these... these ruins, on a whim, planted in your head by a Wizard you met in a pub for Mahal’s sake, in Bree of all places— And now I find out that the person on whose shoulders this entire undertaking lies upon is not an expert burglar at all, but a untried, cranky Hobbit who already faints at the mere mention of dragon. With only thirteen Dwarves at your side!”
His voice rises at the last sentence, and while letting all the steam out seems relieving in theory, he now only feels hollow after doing so. Thorin’s face has turned blank, and for several agonising moments all he does is stand utterly still, staring at Frerin, and the only thing Frerin hears are his own heavy breaths. Then Thorin’s lips move, and the next word is spoken so low that it may also have been a gust of wind. “Thirteen?”
“Do you honestly think I would let you go without me?” Frerin steps closer, locking Thorin’s eyes with his own. “You are my brother, Thorin. I won’t pretend that the odds aren’t against us, because they are. Overwhelmingly so. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how preposterous to reason this whole thing is, how much I wish that you would stay home. None of it matters. Because if you really have to go on this journey, then I’m sure as death coming with you.”
Thorin swallows, and Frerin still sees it, it’s still so painfully visible, even under Thorin’s now subdued demeanour, this unfamiliar glint in his brother’s eyes. He hasn’t experienced Thorin this vibrant, this alive in a very long time. Tonight, he almost looks close to the person he had been before Smaug’s attack on Erebor, before Azanulbizar. During all of these years the fire within him had gradually subsided until it was nothing more than a dying ember — extinguished by the crushing weight of duty and honour alike, successfully destroying every crumb of idealistic dreams Thorin had ever possessed. But now it’s as if a spark has been ignited, growing into a wildfire, spreading so fast that it’s devouring his entire being and focussing every ounce of his remaining strength into this one single task.
Frerin longs to say that he’s glad to see Thorin like this again; after all, it’s more than he’s always wished for. But the words lie on his tongue like dry coal, remaining there, unspoken, until he finally swallows them down again. A bitter aftertaste lingers in his throat.
“You are serious about this?” Thorin asks after a long moment.
Frerin doesn’t even blink before he answers. “Entirely serious.”
“You agree on undertaking a journey halfway across Middle Earth for a quest you do not believe will succeed? To reclaim a mountain you refuse to call home?”
Frerin scoffs. “Well, that sums it up nicely.”
Crinkles appear on Thorin’s brow. Every movement in his face speaks of disbelief, and his voice is stained with doubt when he asks, “Why would you do that?”
Frerin meets his brother’s puzzled stare with an unwavering and what he hopes to be an optimistic smile. “Well, I am a son of Durin, am I not? I’ve heard those are supposed to be particularly prone to such reckless folly as this.”
Thorin’s eyes are still fixed on him, wary, but his lips finally curve. He steps closer, untangling his arms from his chest to press a hand on Frerin’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Frerin nods, and the knot in his stomach partially unclenches. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, throwing a glance to the Hobbit’s living room. “Do you really think Gandalf succeeds in convincing him to come with us?”
“If he doesn’t, we will leave without him,” Thorin says simply. “Nori is a good thief, he will manage.”
“I wonder what he sees in him,” Frerin muses quietly. “Gandalf, I mean. The halfling’s got character, I grant him that, but he seems so... respectable. Soft. I bet the only thing he has ever killed is the weed in his garden. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but why choose him for a mission as dangerous as this one? There has got to be a reason why the Wizard believes him to be the right choice for the quest. What did he tell you about him?”
“He said he has known him since he was a fauntling. Described him as adventurous and curious, perhaps even close to daring.”
“Daring?” Frerin raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Are you sure we’re at the right house?”
Thorin gives a soft chuckle. “Perhaps he is simply not the same Hobbit he once was. He was no older than a child back then. Perhaps he has changed over the years.”
“Aye, perhaps,” Frerin agrees. “People seldom don’t.”
Thorin nods absently, and in that moment Balin appears at their side, his face twisted into a frown. “It appears we have lost our burglar.”
Frerin and Thorin turn their heads in unison to see the halfling strolling past them. There is no contract in his hand, nor does he take particular note of their presence. Balin is right. Bilbo Baggins is not coming with them.
Well, what a surprising turn of events, Frerin thinks wryly.
“Told you so,” he mutters under his breath.
“Shut up,” Thorin instantly replies, more out of habit than anything else.
Balin presses a warm hand on Frerin’s shoulder and forms a fond smile. “I am glad you are here, laddie.”
Frerin returns the smile, his eyes tentatively flickering back to Thorin, whose attention is still fixed on the Hobbit. His eyes follow the halfling’s every step, and he keeps them lingering on the slender figure until Bilbo has walked out of sight and he has disappeared into what are probably his sleeping chambers.
“So am I, Balin,” Frerin says. “So am I.”