Work Text:
Only Thorin even notices at first. Every night, once camp has been set and whatever they’ll be calling dinner that night is hanging over the fire, the cats start appearing. Not the same ones, or at least not all of them. Each morning the company begins its journey again, and some will follow for a while, until by midday they have mostly fallen too far behind. Then, evening falls, and once more, cats begin to appear. There was a small black and white one that followed them for three nights, over twenty miles or more.
There’s no reason for it that Thorin can determine. Perhaps this area simply has an unusually large, unusually friendly feral cat population. It’s odd, but surely no more than that.
After a week or so, the other members of the company begin remarking upon them.
“You’re a fine fellow,” says Bofur cheerfully, scratching a stocky brown tabby under its chin. “Far from home though, you look as if someone’s waiting for you, and I’ll wager their fireside’s warmer than ours.”
“Where are they all coming from?” asks Kili, and one by one the assembled Dwarves look at each other and shrug.
The halfling says nothing, and Thorin has not yet realised how unusual that is. The wizard pulls knowing faces from behind his pipe but Thorin has not the patience to listen to another mysterious, rambling half-answer and pretends not to see.
When the company lies down to sleep, the cats cluster around the halfling, who has embarked on their quest in little more than his market-day clothes. He probably needs the warmth, Thorin decides, and dismisses the issue for the moment.
--
There are cats in Rivendell, because of course there are. Long, skinny creatures apparently kept as decorative pets, with large pointed ears, almost as ugly as their owners. They never shut up, either, yowling and chirruping as they follow the dwarves around the galleried balconies of Lord Elrond’s home.
Or not exactly the dwarves, as it turns out. Thorin raises an eyebrow as Master Baggins passes the alcove where he is sitting, wandering idly along with his gaze fixed on the endless leafy tedium that surrounds this place. Behind him follow a weaving, purring throng of cats.
“It’s you,” says Thorin, and is perhaps a little gratified to see the halfling’s start of shock. He recovers himself quickly, however, and faces Thorin with his chest thrown out, huffing as if offended.
“I’m sorry, can I help you with something?” he asks. Thorin stands and strides over to him unhurriedly, taking full advantage of his bulk and height. It’s particularly satisfying after a few days of craning his neck to talk to the Elves.
“The cats. It’s you they’re following,” says Thorin.
Master Baggins has the grace to look abashed, opening and shutting his mouth on air a few times, and scrunching his nose up in a sort of circle. It’s a habit he has, one that could almost be endearing on a less infuriating creature.
“...yes,” he says at last, casting his eyes down to where the cats are rubbing themselves deliriously against his short legs.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” shrugs Master Baggins, helplessly enough to seem honest. “I just… they like me, I think? It’s been happening since I was a faunt. And I’ve never minded, not really. I suppose I just got used to it. Is it a problem?”
Thorin considers. “No,” he admits. “Not for now. Provided they don’t cause trouble.”
The halfling stares at him as if trying to determine how serious he is, before crouching down to address the cats, for all as if the creatures could understand him.
“Now,” he says firmly, shaking an admonishing finger at his besotted furry audience. “See here, all of you. You’ve to be nice to these dwarves and not scratch them, or chew their hair, or eat their food, or cause trouble, all right? They’re my… well, they’re my friends. Even if they are rude and foul-tempered and smell like sweaty goats. Those are the rules.”
Master Baggins straightens up, and Thorin cannot help but ask. “Do they follow your commands, then?”
“Um, mostly. They’ll do pretty much anything I ask them to, except go away, of course.”
Thorin nods. That makes things rather more interesting, and he begins to wonder about the possibilities of a cat army.
“We do not smell like sweaty goats,” says Thorin, as an afterthought.
Master Baggins grins lopsidedly and comes closer, stepping into his space as if he isn’t in the least intimidated, and impudently takes hold of the collar of Thorin’s tunic. “What’s this made from?” he asks.
“Wool,” answers Thorin, frowning. The sudden lack of personal space is uncomfortable.
“Goat wool,” agrees Master Baggins. “And when did you last wash it, eh?”
Before Thorin can think of a response, the Halfling is gone, whistling to himself, his pack of cats following dutifully behind. Infuriating, thinks Thorin again, and stamps off to tell Balin of his discovery.
--
As they approach the Misty Mountains, Thorin notes grimly that their company once again numbers fourteen. Cats and wizards are not foolish enough to travel through these mountains, and such wisdom is only confirmed when they fall into the Goblin Caves and escape by the skin of their teeth.
--
Slowly, after the Carrock, the cats begin to appear once more. Their presence seems to lighten the company’s mood, as they chase the ends of sticks wildly or settle themselves into laps. Often they bring birds, hedgehogs, or small rabbits, even mice, although there’s not so much Bombur can do with those. Far from stealing rations, with the help of the cats Thorin’s company eats better than he could have hoped. Only Master Baggins has the gall to complain, claiming that he’d rather have more vegetables.
It’s not until Beorn’s house that problems arise.
“Dwarves! You dare bring Death into my home!” bellows the giant, furious skin-changer, loud enough to rattle the wooden rafters of his hall, and even the Wizard jumps to his feet. Beorn slams the small, broken body of a dead rabbit onto the gigantic table and Thorin resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s only a damn rabbit.
He sets his shoulders, prepared to stride forward and explain, but a small figure ducks past him quickly, blocking his way.
“No no no,” says Master Baggins, holding out both hands. “I’m so sorry, that’s all my fault, I should’ve realised, Master Beorn, I’m sorry, I really am.”
Beorn glares down, his expression more suspicious now than angry.
“It’s the cats,” explains Master Baggins. “I forgot. I should’ve told them not to bring us any more food. I really can’t apologise enough.”
For a long moment, Beorn merely stares at him, and the air is thick with threatened violence. When the silence is broken, it’s by the fat brown tabby that Bilbo was petting when they were all interrupted by Beorn’s rage, who stalks back over to the hobbit, meowing his displeasure loudly.
Now Beorn bellows again, this time with laughter.
“So Little Bunny is a Whisperer?” rumbles Beorn, once his merriment has calmed. “Well, see to it your cats don’t harm my people, in future, and I think we can be friends.” He reaches down with his unbloodied hand to ruffle the Hobbit’s hair, and Thorin’s hand twitches for his sword hilt.
From the expression on Master Baggins’ face, he’s not particularly charmed by the gesture either.
A day or so later they leave again, riding the finest ponies Thorin has ever come across and with plenty of food in their saddlebags. Several cats follow them almost as far as Mirkwood.
--
If there are any more of those scrawny Elven cats in Thranduil’s realm, they don’t venture down to the cells, and Thorin has more important things to worry about. They must escape before Durin’s Day is upon them.
Alone in his cell, Thorin finds his attempts to plan thwarted by his own traitorous mind, which insists on circling ever around the thought of Master Baggins. There is something about him, his cleverness, his bravery, the twitch of his nose and his bright smile, and more, above all of that, something indefinable that makes Thorin’s heart lift at the mere sight of him. Perhaps it’s the magic that draws the cats to him.
It’s Master Baggins who rescues them all, and by now Thorin is barely even surprised.
--
Laketown, of course, is the worst. There are cats everywhere, and every last one of them is utterly intoxicated by the fish-scented dwarves and their cat-whispering hobbit. When they’re escaping from the Master’s guards one almost gives them away, hissing loud enough to attract anyone’s attention, until some market woman traps it under a crab pot.
Back at the Boatman’s cramped hovel they are constantly underfoot, though his daughters seem delighted by them. They are at least the sort Thorin remembers vaguely from his childhood, long-haired, stocky beasts with muscle mass and thunderous purrs. He watches Balin petting one with fur as snowy white as his own beard, and remembers a small ginger cat that his sister had owned, when they lived under the mountain. He has forgotten its name, but the memory of it chasing loose sapphires across the floor is a good one. Enough to distract him, so that he steps on the tail of some other striped fiend and swears aloud when it screeches loudly and flees, upsetting all the others in the building and causing a chaos that does not settle down for some time.
It’s the last straw when Kili trips over one whilst they are trying to rob the Master’s Armoury.
Master Baggins assures them that the cats will not follow them to the mountain. “They’ve got far too much sense to go fannying about in boats,” he grouses, and it proves true. The cats of Laketown assemble in a great writhing mass at the dock, yowling their sorrow almost louder than the trumpets, but they don’t jump in beside Bilbo.
There are no cats on the far shore. There is little of anything but bare, scorched rock and a biting cold wind, and in any case, no cat could climb the hundreds of steps to the secret door.
Or so Thorin thought. The company is sitting in anxious silence, waiting for their burglar, when a mangy black beast with ragged ears appears at the head of the staircase and pads silently across the stone of the outcrop. It walks to where the secret door stands open and sniffs the air cautiously, one forepaw raised, before turning its tail. It slinks to a shelf of stone as far as possible from the Dwarves, and sits neatly, tail tucked in around its paws, staring fixedly at Thorin. Its eyes glow golden and unblinking in the deepening dark of the night.
If he was inclined to credit such nonsense, Thorin would say it looked disappointed in him.
There is little chance to entertain such foolish thoughts, however, since it is only moments later that the ground shakes and he hears, for the first time in so many years, the sound of Smaug’s roar.
--
There are no cats at all on the battlefield, and Thorin is glad of it. Glad that he can bid his beloved farewell in private, that no-other creature can intrude upon this last moment. He will not be so selfish as to confess a love he can never, now, act upon, but he is greedy for Bilbo nonetheless, drinking in the sight of his eyes, the sound of his pleading, the tight grasp of his hand upon Thorin’s.
It is not such a bad way to die.
--
Thorin wakes.
Everything hurts, but in a strangely impersonal way, as if his body does not belong to him. He recognises the sensation and guesses he must be dosed up with a considerable quantity of poppy milk. Less familiar is the realisation that he is pinned on all sides by small, warm, gently vibrating bodies. After a moment of blinking, he realises they must be Bilbo’s cats, although why they have joined him on his sickbed, he is unsure.
“Thorin!” exclaims Bilbo, and leans into Thorin’s field of vision. He looks exhausted, dirty and tear-stained, with a ragged bandage on the side of his head. “Thorin, thank heavens, how are you feeling?”
“Cats?” croaks Thorin, and Bilbo nods vigorously.
“It’s… they’ll help, honestly they will. With the bones, the healing, it’s the purring and the warmth, you know. Truly, it will help.”
“So he says,” growls another familiar voice, and Oin looms into view. “But you’re awake now, so if you wish to be rid of them, my King, just say the word.”
“No,” croaks Thorin, his voice not quite under his command. “Stay with me, Bilbo.”
“I will, of course I will,” says Bilbo immediately, grasping Thorin’s hand in his own smaller one. His fingers are chilled, but the skin is soft. A soft tenderness blooms in Thorin’s chest that aches more than all his other injuries put together.
“I spoke of the cats, not the burglar,” says Oin, and Thorin wishes he could manage a smile, but he can’t quite, not yet. Instead he looks into Bilbo’s eyes and tries to explain himself.
“They will do anything, except go away.”
A tear rolls down Bilbo’s nose, dropping onto Thorin’s bandages. “Oh,” he says, and Thorin thinks - hopes - there is understanding in it. He cannot be parted from Bilbo now, cats or no. Not ever again.
--
There comes a day when the Men have made good enough roofs in Dale to move all their people back into the city, and the Elves have left for Mirkwood, and even the wizard has bid his farewell. The Kingdom of Erebor stands as itself once more, and it is well.
Smaug was not the only creature to have dwelt in the mountain, it transpires, once rebuilding has begun in earnest. There are whole markets that have been taken over by crowds of bats, and many populations of rats along the watercourses, not to mention the hundreds of mice on the outer walls who seems to live on what scraps the Ravens drop. The mountain is infested with vermin.
The king’s consort and his army of cats make short work of most of them, and the Dwarves of New Erebor are not shy in their gratitude.
Bilbo and his cats stalk elegantly through the corridors of the kingdom, knowing full well their importance. Now that the royal apartments are restored and they are settling in, he has begun to name them all, although Thorin can never remember which is which. The large dark grey tabby on Thorin’s lap is called Lavender, he thinks, stroking gently down the silken fur of her back. It’s a ridiculous name. Something like Ratsbane would be more fitting.
“Are you talking to Heather?” asks Bilbo, looking up from his reading.
Heather, that was it. Some purple herb, he’d known that much. “No,” lies Thorin.
“Oh, you were, don’t deny it,” scolds Bilbo fondly. He sets his book aside, stepping over two other sleeping cats, and kneels down beside Thorin, bending to scratch under Heather’s chin as she cranes her neck into the caress and purrs joyfully. “I believe you’ve grown rather attached to all my cats.”
Thorin grumbles. “I could wish they did not watch us in our bed,” he says, but there’s no real heat to it.
“You’re not so different from them, you know,” says Bilbo, moving his hand to scratch under Thorin’s own furred chin, the sensation undeniably pleasant. His husband remains impossibly impudent, but Thorin finds he doesn’t mind so much any more. He catches Bilbo’s hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss.
“Indeed. And I will do anything you ask of me,” he agrees, pulling Bilbo closer. “Except go away.”