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Bilbo landed in Bag End's front hall, covered in dust and coughing his lungs out, his arm aching, his feet stinging but more importantly than all that his dwarves did not hate him.
It was possibly the best day he had ever had.
Bilbo lay there and stared up at the ceiling, feeling a ridiculous smile stretching his face. The bruises that were sure to bloom over his skin from pulling that tower inward with him were going to appear soon and he would be so sore in the morning but Thorin and Dwalin did not hate him . The words kept repeating in his head. The way...the way they had spoke about him. About how they – how they did not blame him, not for any of it, even if he blamed himself. How they...how they had never wanted to hurt him. How they knew now that the gold-sickness had twisted them up like knots. How they wanted him to be at peace –
Wait a minute.
Bilbo felt his smile falter as he ran their words through his mind yet again. Why would they want him to be at peace? Why not with them? Why did they look so devastated when he was standing right there...oh no.
Oh no.
Bilbo sat bolt upright and then gagged at the pain that swept through him. That was unpleasant. Then he shook that off and concentrated on what was important. There was no way his idiot dwarves thought he was dead...right?
Right?
Bother. Snap and blast . Of course they would think he was dead, he threw himself off the blasted battlements in front of them and they never found a body – but then surely they would think he was alive? Unless...did dwarves leave bodies? But of course they did, Bilbo and his folk had seen a number of fallen dwarven warriors on the battlefield despite their best efforts in keeping everyone alive. But did they know hobbits left bodies? But then how...
Then he wanted to brain himself because he still didn't know where Gandalf was or where the elves and men had decided to camp out and – and – and –
Bilbo levered himself up and off the ground, wincing his way to the door and out into the in between . Lalia was sure to box his ears but Bilbo needed to speak to Fortinbras immediately. If what Bilbo thought was right, their people might not have to panic about leaving Erebor's halls so quick just yet. But they would have to be smart about it. Bilbo would have to approach them again, safely, to try and figure out just what his dwarves were thinking and how – if Bilbo were not, in fact, dead – they felt about that, then...
Well. A great many problems Bilbo had felt weighing down on his chest might just be lifted. Just a bit. But they had to be careful. They had to be sure. But first he needed to speak to Fortinbras and Lalia and make a plan. Everything else could wait.
~*~
Thorin had no memory of how he got back to Erebor's Great Gate. He was sure to look a state. Bilbo's blood was drying on his skin and clothes and a part of Thorin hoped that it would not disappear this time. That he would have something – anything – of Bilbo's to keep. Then shame swept through him. To hold the lifeblood of another dwarf, their One or not, without permission was a grave sin of their people's. But Thorin also could not bear to wipe it away. The blood was Bilbo's . It had been warm when it met Thorin's skin. Warm like life and if that...if that was the closest he would ever get to...
“Thorin. Thorin.”
He blinked to see Balin standing in front of him, a faint, worried frown on his face. But in his hands was a white silk cloth, surely given to him by one of their holy people. Thorin took it with trembling fingers and allowed Balin to guide his hands to wipe up the blood on his face with that blessed cloth. Then Balin was turning to Dwalin and was giving Thorin's partner his own piece of silk, watching over them both as Thorin and Dwalin wiped up was few drops were left on their hands and arms, making sure to catch it all onto that holy silk so that none would be able to take Bilbo's lifeblood but them. They would have to cut out the parts of their clothes that had been anointed or else burn them in the Great Forges in the center of the mountain. Thorin would not risk anyone getting their hands on the clothes, not now.
Thankfully they seemed to be in one of the tents outside the gate when Thorin managed to get his wits about himself once more. His throat felt sore from screaming and he wished he did not have to see Bilbo disappearing into a cloud of dust and rocks as the tower came down around him, but at least he had not watched Bilbo fall to his death off the battlements once more.
“Ah, Thorin, there you are. We were worried...what has happened here?”
Thorin looked up to see Gandalf ducking in through the tent entrance, his hat gone but staff in hand. Behind him was that same Elrond Thorin had met in Rivendell all those months ago. It felt like a lifetime ago.
“We saw Bilbo,” Thorin blinked up at the wizard, still feeling a bit dazed. “We were at Ravenhill. It was the last place we saw him, before...before the battlements. I thought...”
Warm hands covered his and that was when Thorin realized that Gandalf had knelt before him, putting them at the same height. The wizard was peering at him, his bushy brows drawn tight together. “You are pale,” he said. “Elrond, would you mind looking Thorin over?”
Thorin rocked back at that, unable to stop a scowl forming on his face. “I am fine.”
“Nonsense, you look a fright. Elrond?”
“If I have your permission, King Thorin?” Elrond gave him a bow, which made Thorin feel slightly better about Gandalf's fussing. Thorin glanced at Dwalin and wanted to wince. If he looked half as bad as Dwalin did it was no wonder that his people had put him in a tent and out of sight. Though how Balin knew to have one of their holy ones prepare such measures he did not know. Nor did he know just how long they had been in this tent.
Perhaps it would be a good idea for the elf to look him over after all.
After a brief look over by Elrond – who said Thorin and Dwalin were suffering from a shock but were fine otherwise – Thorin had a warm mug of tea in hand and Dwalin's solid presence pressed up against his side. They had been moved from the tent to a room inside the mountain. Thorin had seen Dáin in the press of dwarves outside the tent when they had emerged but there were logistics Thorin had to go over with Balin and Bofur had an immediate concern about one of the central staircases in the main cavern beyond the gates and one of Bombur's assistants had come to them saying that they were getting low on potatoes and the new shipment from Gondor was late by a week and –
Well. There were many things Thorin had to handle before he could address his cousin's surly demeanor and that strange glint in his eye. As it was Glóin had to peel off to take care of the rest of the parties arriving at their gates. Thankfully Lord Elrond had gone with Thorin's old friend to help organize his own party – though how much of that this Lord Elrond would be doing was anyone's guess. But Thorin could worry about that later. Right now he needed the warmth of a drink in his hand and Dwalin's presence at his side, grounding him in the here and now.
Gandalf had taken a seat by the fire as Thorin and Dwalin were settled onto the couch. Balin was with them and Ori as well, his ink and journal ready to take notes. The young dwarf had been invaluable during their weeks after the battle, oftentimes trailing after either Thorin or Balin as they went over all the things their people would need going forward to make their mountain livable again.
“You said you saw Bilbo,” Gandalf murmured from his chair. The wizard's gaze was directed at the hearth, not at them. “How...how did he appear?”
Thorin looked down at his tea, watching the ripples in the surface for a long moment. “Pale,” he said, thinking back. “Worn. I...we did not even know he was there until...” He had to stop and swallow against a knot in his throat. “His blood fell on us. His feet were sliced open, red and painful looking.” He could hear Ori's pen scratch slow. “He had one arm strapped across his chest. I think it was broken.”
All Thorin could hear was the crackle of the fire. Then Gandalf sighed, a long, sad sound that turned Thorin's head. He saw the wizard droop in his seat, that gray head bow until his chin hit his chest. His pipe was forgotten in his hand.
“I see,” Gandalf said. At some point he had closed his eyes. “You spoke to him?”
“Yes,” Thorin felt Dwalin press into his side. “We – I said I wished him to be at peace and that was when he appeared and – and –,” he had to stop and gather himself. “He said, you don't hate me?” Thorin could not help the way his voice broke on the words. “We swore to him that we did not hate him, Gandalf. I swear it. I would do anything –”
“Be careful,” Gandalf's hand came up but his head stayed bowed and eyes shut. “Do not make any oaths, Thorin Oakenshield. Not right now.”
That made Thorin pause. “Why? What is going on, Gandalf?”
The wizard made no sound for a long, long moment. Then he sighed once more, a soft thing, and his eyes opened. One hand came up to rub at the spot between his eyes. “Much of what I know of hobbits comes from observing them. I have long been a friend to them over the long years on Arda's shores but not even I know all of their secrets. I do not doubt that you lifted your judgment of Bilbo Baggins. Nor do I doubt that you have welcomed all of his people into the mountain, as foolish a decision that could have been.”
“Foolish?” Thorin glanced at Dwalin, who could only shrug in confusion. “How could that ever be foolish?”
Gandalf dropped his hand and puffed on his pipe for a moment. “Hobbits have a strange way of making oaths stick, whether you meant to make it or not. As I know it, hobbits came from a place they do not speak of to Outsiders.” Even Thorin could hear the capital letter there. “Their history is a surprisingly long one, if you know where to look. Perhaps almost as old as dwarves.” Gandalf tilted his head to one side, still staring into the fire. Thorin felt a chill touch the back of his neck. Well did he know the history of his people, how the dwarven fathers were allowed to wake only after the Firstborn had awoken in the world before even the sun and moon were created. To think that Bilbo's people could be as old as theirs...
“Truly?” It was Ori who voiced the question. “Our people have been around since before the moon first rose.”
“I said almost,” Gandalf pointed the stem of his pipe at Ori, who ducked his head. Then the half smile on his face faded just as fast as it came. “If I am right...and I fear I am...then the race of hobbits have been a part of Arda's history since at least the First Age.”
“But where were they?” Thorin curled his hands about his mug, holding it tight. “Bilbo said the hobbits have been in the Shire for perhaps a little over a thousand years at most. That does not even span all of the Third Age, much less...”
Gandalf nodded, tapping the mouth of his pipe to his lips. “Indeed. The hobbits, before they came to the Shire, were a traveling folk, as I told you before. But they did not rise from this area. Even I have not been told in so many words where they came from, but there were songs...” His gaze was focused on some distant thing. “A dark tower and trees of stone. Once I had thought they meant Mordor but now...now I fear a much darker place was their original home.”
“Then where?”
“A place that would have been steeped in the magics of the Valar and many other things. A place where, if a body was lucky and smart, they could eek out a life in the shadows, learning how best to make even the most poor soil grow food. Where they would have seen the kinds of things that would put weight to their widows and their judgments, to their Oaths and Rules in a way that you nor I could ever understand, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf sighed yet again. “But that is a mere guess and now none of us might know the answer.” He gave himself a shake and that dark gaze went to Thorin and pinned him in place. “You said Bilbo bled on you? You're sure?”
“I am,” Thorin swallowed back all the questions he wanted to ask. The silk with Bilbo's blood was tucked close against his heart and he would not allow even Gandalf to see or handle it. Not now.
Gandalf's mouth pursed. “And it was warm? It felt like living blood?”
“It did.”
“Strange,” Gandalf muttered. “What else did he say?”
Thorin repeated all he could remember from the few moments they'd had with Bilbo. Dwalin added what he could remember as well. And when he got to the part where Bilbo said he – they – had 'fixed it' Gandalf sat up straight in his seat, his pipe forgotten in his hand.
“You're sure he said it like that?”
“We are,” Thorin said, sharing another look with Dwalin. Ori's pen was flying over his parchment. “Why? And who is Bilbo talking about? It was he alone here in Erebor. Who else could he be talking about?”
Gandalf's gaze seemed to track something only he could see. “Hobbits have a knack, I have long theorized, given from where they came from, to be able to fix things. Perhaps it was the reason they were created,” was said softer, as if to himself. “Not in any sense that men or dwarves or even elves would understand the meaning of it. No, they do not fix things so much as...situations, I suppose you could say. And if Bilbo had found what I think he found, and he wanted to fix that situation...”
“What do you mean, what Bilbo found?”
“Do you remember, after the mess in Goblin Town, the little ring Bilbo would keep in his pocket?” Gandalf sat back in his chair, pipe back at his mouth. “I have spoken long with Elrond and Galadriel over the news of Mordor's destruction. It is why Elrond has come with his people, why Galadriel has left Lothlórien and is coming here. It is why the Rangers are here.”
None of that made sense. “Mordor has been destroyed? When? Why would they come here over a simple magic ring when there other such things afoot? There were many made in the Second Age, many yet that linger in the world or in the treasures of trolls and dragons in the north. Why are you so worried about it?”
Gandalf breathed out a smoke circle, thin and wavering, looking much like a giant ring that turned crimson in the light of the fire before it broke apart into wisps. “Because if what I fear is true, our Bilbo did not find a simple magic ring under the mountains. I fear that what he found and in destroying it, in fixing it, as you heard him say, then our Bilbo has done the one thing myself and my order and the White Council has been working towards for over an Age.”
“And what is that?”
Thorin felt Dwalin take his hand as Gandalf spoke, the words ringing in the room like a bell. “That our Bilbo found, and destroyed, the One Ring of Sauron and has thus freed us and all of Arda from the great darkness that yet lingered in our lands.”