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Chapter Text

There are few who remember a time when hobbits last felt peace and contentment, for there are none among their race who have not lived a life of harsh realities, a cold and mirthless existence spent entirely on the road. Homeless, wanderers, forgotten folk - all are words whispered about the half foot race as they walk the streets of men. Thieves, still others whisper, clutching their children close. Creatures that hide in the darkness and cannot be trusted.

There are fewer still who remember why the youngest of Middle Earth's races are regarded with such suspicion, but those that do think back to the last alliance of elves and men, and the vanquishing of the dark lord Sauron at Isildur’s hand. They recall the strange way only months after the legendary battle, the king had declared another war, this time on the peaceful halflings of the west and their kingdom of flowery meadows and rolling hills.

“Thieves! No more shall these rats curse Middle Earth with their presence!” Isildur had rallied his men on the borders of the shire, causing the hobbits to flee as he burnt their homes and farms to the ground. “Destroy them all! Let them know that to steal from the king is to declare war on Gondor herself!”

Cast out from their lands, the people of the shire were turned away by all the other kingdoms. Forced to wander from place to place, never settling for long, their reputation as thieves only grew as more and more of Yavanna’s children found themselves turning to desperate measures to feed their families.

It was one such hobbit who entered Dale that night, the usually bustling city quiet in the early hours of the morning. Treading lightly, he peered out suspiciously from under his dark brown hood before gesturing quickly behind him. At his sign, a small group of other cloaked halflings emerged, following him down the cobbled streets cautiously.

Their leader continued on, with hairy feet wrapped in bandages to muffle them and similarly clad fingers hovering near the two daggers sheathed on his sides. They were crudely fashioned weapons, one slightly larger than the other, and his fingers twitched nervously over them as he led them through the alleyways of the sleeping city. Finally, the group reached the outskirts of town, where their leader quietly knocked his knuckles against the door of a house. The sounds of restless ponies in a stable nearby elicited a giggle from one of the smaller hobbits.

“Hush, Poppy,” An older halfling scolded quickly before the door opened, revealing a short, burly man. He looked strong, like he might have been half dwarvish or at least had some of their blood in him. He held out his hand expectantly.

“I trust everything has been arranged?” the hobbit at the door asked smoothly, placing a coin purse in the man’s hand.

“Aye. You’ll be sleeping in the stables with the ponies. And mind ya don’t hurt them.”

A murmur of discontentment came from the group, but their leader simply smiled. “That will suit us just fine. Come along, everyone.”

The group were led into the stables, where a small section away from the livestock had been set up. They wasted no time in making the area homely, placing blankets on the straw, hanging lanterns from the hooks in the barn, and even placing some picture frames around. When they were done, they turned back to their leader, who had taken off his belt, containing various leather pouches and his daggers, and was now unwrapping the bandages on his arms.

“This is ridiculous. We can’t sleep in a barn,” One of the hobbits complained to him. Most of them had pushed their hoods off now to reveal their faces, and this one had curly black hair and might have been beautiful if it wasn’t for the nasty scowl marring her face. “What, are we no better than animals?”

“Would you rather we sleep in the dirt or on the road, Lobelia?” Their leader sighed, pushing back his own hood to reveal copper curls and tired hazel eyes. “This is the best I could do, so I suggest you stop complaining and be grateful for what we have.”

“What we have?” Lobelia repeated indignantly. “We have nothing! You have given us nothing! Wandering from place to place, sleeping in stables, it’s a wonder we follow you at all! Why, if I had the heirloom, I’d-”

“Well you don’t!” He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but his patience was wearing thin. “I am the one who has been charged with taking care of this family, and as long as I am alive that’s the way it will stay. Is that clear?”

Lobelia’s eyes went wide for a moment at his outburst, before narrowing back into a sulky expression. She nodded, pushing past him roughly. “Whatever you say, Bilbo.”

Bilbo watched her go, his nose twitching. Lobelia was so irritating! As if he hadn’t worked so hard to provide for the Baggins family since his father’s death, when the role of leader had been passed to him. He’d traveled from the misty mountains to the southernmost shores of Belfalas and stolen everything he could get his hands on just to make sure they had enough to eat at night, and now Lobelia was questioning his leadership?

She was just jealous. Jealous that he had been entrusted with the family heirloom and she had not. Bilbo climbed up onto the window sill of the barn and fished it out of his pocket. There it was, safe and sound, the familiar weight of it in his hands both comforting and alluring. The moonlight from the window lit up the simple gold band in such an enticing way that Bilbo felt as if he wanted to wear it and never take it off. Perhaps even run away from this family who didn’t understand him, run away and never look back…

But he couldn’t. Bilbo pocketed the ring again. He wouldn’t turn away from his family, not after he’d promised his father on his deathbed that he would protect them. He had given him his word, and he didn’t intend on going back on it. Gazing out of the window, Bilbo could see the lonely mountain rising up before him, the magnificent city of Erebor beneath it full of riches just waiting to be plundered.

It won't be long now, he thought to himself as he stared out at the kingdom of gold, before I never have to steal again.

….

Another morning, another mob of angry old dwarves with white beards telling him he needs to stop being so foolish and just crown himself king already! Another morning, another series of snide comments behind his back about his father’s health and mental abilities. Another morning, another bombardment of questions about when he will take over and return this kingdom to its former glory.

“Thorin! You must become a real king!” a chorus of voices seemed to yell at him everywhere he turned. “When are you going to grow up and realize your father isn’t fit to rule anymore?”

The raven rookery was his only sanctuary. Having narrowly escaped a group of dwarf nobles, the regent had hidden himself there now, feeding the charcoal feathered birds and praying to Mahal that no one found him there. His prayers went unanswered as someone else came into the room, frightening the animals away. He flinched, expecting more questions, which never came. Instead, he heard a familiar, gruff voice.

“You’ve missed three different meetings today,” Dwalin said, clapping his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a mid-life crisis, I suppose,” Thorin laughed humorlessly. “I’ve spent my whole life preparing to be king, but now that it’s becoming a reality, I feel as if I would rather be doing anything else. Or be anyone else.”

“I don’t understand,” Dwalin said. “You’re already our king.”

“I’m just the regent king,” Thorin corrected him. “I am only acting in my father’s stead. I still expect him to make a full recovery.”

“Thorin.” It was all he needed to say. Dwalin didn’t need to tell Thorin his father’s condition would likely never improve and he’d be mad and bedridden until the day he passed on. He didn’t need to tell Thorin he was being foolish for hoping his father would come back to him and go back to being the king he once knew and admired so deeply. A king who had valiantly fought back against the dragon of the north, defeating the vile serpent and ruling Erebor with wisdom and might. That king was gone, and lived only in his memories now.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me, Dwalin?” Thorin asked, his voice pained.

“Yes, actually,” His friend seemed grateful for the change in conversation, taking out a small, bejeweled chest and handing it to Thorin. “Princess Jensia of Ered Luin has sent you this as a courting gift.”

“Princess?” Thorin snorted, examining the gift. “She clearly hasn’t done her research. Send it back and ask her if she has a brother instead.”

His laughter died on his lips as he noticed the uncomfortable expression on Dwalin’s face. “Look, Balin said she likely isn’t actually interested in you either. But marrying her would strengthen our alliance. Balin said that would be good for the kingdom.”

“Oh?” Thorin growled. “And why can’t Balin tell me this himself instead of sending his little brother to do it, like a coward?”

“Because I thought you might be more willing to listen to him,” Turning, Thorin saw Balin in the doorway, dark circles under his eyes. He looked deeply unhappy, as if he was the one being told to marry someone he didn’t love. “Trust me, your highness, if there were any eligible male bachelors, I would have sent for them immediately. But there aren’t, and Jensia is the best match out of the suitors to reach out to me, and…”

“And?!” Thorin was struggling to keep his anger in check.

“And the blue mountains are so very far away,” Balin sighed, rubbing his head. “You wouldn’t even have to see her. But these are the kind of things a king is expected to do -”

“For the last time, I am not the king!” Thorin finally snapped, his yelling causing all the ravens in the rookery to fly off. “My father still rules this mountain! Until he is lying upon a slab of stone being lowered into the halls of our ancestors, I will hear nothing else on the matter!”

“Thorin-” Balin tried to interject, only for the regent to angrily push him away, storming out of the room. He needed to clear his head, and get away from his friends before he said something he would regret. A dark cloud hung over him as Thorin dodged the courtiers and nobles who tried to get him to speak with them. In the end, there was only one place in this blasted mountain where they would leave him alone. It was just a pity it was the one place he didn’t want to be.

…

Market places were a veritable smorgasbord for thieves, the perfect place to take whatever you wanted without anyone noticing. Bilbo surveyed the bustling stalls of Dale from his vantage point on a roof, his keen hazel eyes picking out the best targets. Leaping back down into an alleyway, he gathered the family members he had brought around him.

“All right, listen up,” he started, grabbing a stick and drawing out a diagram in the dirt. “These are our targets. Belba, Rudigar, you’ll take the weaver’s stall. Grab just enough fabric to make Milo a new cloak, he’s growing out of his old one. Falco, Posco, grab what you can from the butcher, and Dora, see what you can steal from the fisherman next to him. Otho, Lobelia, you’re on lookout duty. And Rosa, your fortune telling trick worked well in Laketown. Let’s see how the people of Dale like it.”

With curt nods from everyone and a glare from Lobelia, the various family members split up to do their different tasks. Bilbo hung back, rewrapping the bandages around his feet tightly to hide the hair that grew there. The less he looked like a hobbit, the better. Slipping into the bustling marketplace, he began to brush past the jostling crowd, his deft fingers picking out coin purses from the larger folk around him.

It was almost too easy. No one paid him any attention, in their eyes, he was just a poor child wandering the streets alone. Bilbo became bolder, slipping a golden bracelet off a dwarrowdam and a silver necklace off of another. He had just picked a coin purse off of a tall stranger’s belt when he felt a strong, bony hand catch his wrist, rooting him in place. Bilbo froze, panicked, before a gentle voice washed away his fear.

“Come now, is that any way to treat an old friend?”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo sighed as the wizard released his arm. Bilbo threw him back his coin purse, his momentary relief turning to annoyance as the gray cloaked mage gave him a genuine, warm smile from underneath his long, unkempt beard. “We are not friends, you know.”

“So you have said many times,” Gandalf’s smile didn’t falter. “Still, you care enough about me to give me my purse back.”

“I’m not about to let an old man go hungry,” Bilbo rolled his eyes as he walked away, only for the incessantly persistent wizard to follow him. “Now get lost. I’m busy working.”

Gandalf considered him with sad eyes. “Your heirloom. Do you still have it?”

A spike of anger shot through Bilbo. This was why he couldn’t stand Gandalf! He was always asking about his ring, begging him to give it up. As if! The ring was his livelihood, and if the wizard couldn’t see that, then he was blind.

“What do you think the answer is, firework maker?” He snapped, twisting his fonder memories of Gandalf showing him fireworks on the road as a fauntling into a bitter insult. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“For now,” Gandalf looked grave. “All of your ancestors have died to that ring, Bilbo. Don’t you see it? Every baggins who has worn it believes themselves to be the greatest thief who ever lived. I have watched countless of your ancestors fail grandiose heists they thought they would succeed at, only to die at the hands of those they wished to steal from.”
“They were simply unlucky,” Bilbo responded irritably. “My ring had nothing to do with it.”

“Your own father died trying to steal from the king of Rohan. Don’t you remember that? He could have never found success in that goal,” Gandalf implored. “It’s always the same. The owner of the ring plans a massive, impossible heist, usually on royalty, and is caught and killed for their crimes. They only just manage to pass the ring on to their family nearby before they die. And then the new owner grows just as disillusioned as the former, and the cycle continues…”

Bilbo remained silent, unable to prove Gandalf wrong. It was true, most of the owners of his family heirloom had died premature deaths, including his father. Gandalf had asked him if he remembered it, and Bilbo had had to hold back a bitter laugh. How could he forget? He felt his whole body shudder as he recalled the desperate look in Bungo’s eyes as he pressed the ring into his son’s hands. In his nightmares, Bilbo could still hear his father desperately screaming at him to put it on and flee before he was killed too.
But none of that was the ring’s fault. It was just an object, after all.

“That ring is cursed. And now, it has led you here, to the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth, and I worry for you, Bilbo,” Gandalf continued, rousing the hobbit out of his thoughts. “You would seek to steal from the dwarves? You don’t know how deeply they value their treasure. Take your family and leave while you still can. I have a friend who-”

“Oh, shut it! I don’t need anything from you!” Bilbo snapped. “Father told me not to trust you, and he was right. You simply want the ring for yourself!”

“Bilbo! You do not know of what you speak-”

“Yes, I do. The ring is mine. Mine!” He was full on shouting now. “Now get out of my sight!”

Gandalf only stood there, heartbroken, so Bilbo marched off. He met back up with his family members, who stared at his stormy demeanour with wide eyes.

“Are you ok, Bilbo?” Dora asked, but Bilbo shook off her concern with a wave of his hand.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Here, take these purses, and sell the jewellery for what you can,” he said, handing over his spoils from the day. “I’m going to be absent for a little while. Tell Drogo he’s in charge while I’m gone.”

“Where are you going?” Rudigar asked, concern lacing his voice.

“I’m going to prove a wizard wrong,” was all Bilbo said in reply, slipping a golden ring on his finger and disappearing from their sight.

…

The throne room of Erebor was vast and grand, and one of the few places where Thorin truly felt small. On either side of him stood the magnificent statues of his ancestors. Durin, the first dwarf king to ever lead their people. Thrain the first, the first dwarf king to rule the lonely mountain. Thror, the first dwarf king to die defending it. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat as he looked upon the statue of his grandfather. With a quick nod of respect, he moved on, until he reached the throne itself.

Light streamed in from the window behind it, illuminating the golden veins in the rock above the throne. The massive natural structure served as an apt metaphor, in Thorin’s opinion, for the weight upon the shoulders of the king. The throne dominated the room with its size and majesty, and as Thorin brushed his fingers along it, he found it was cold to the touch. The most intimidating thing about the throne, of course, was none of these things, but the Arkenstone embedded within it. The king’s jewel, pure and beautiful. It was the heart of the mountain, and it represented the wealth of the kingdom, and the strength, wisdom and purity of the dwarven kings who sat below it.

It represented everything Thorin was not. How could he ever hope to be a good ruler, when he was already struggling so much just to be a regent king? Selfish, irresponsible, all he was good at was disappointing everyone. Looking up at the throne before him, Thorin felt as if he would never learn to handle the weight of his people’s expectations, or live up to his family’s legacy.
If only he had something to take his mind off of the overwhelming pressure he felt. Some kind of distraction, or escape -

Click! Thorin spun around at the sound of a noise behind him. Cocking his head to the side, he tried to remember whether he had left the door open like it was now. Didn’t he remember closing it? And what was that noise? But a quick look around revealed nothing out of the ordinary in the throne room. He was completely alone.

Chuckling to himself at how easily spooked he was, the dwarf sat back, resting on the throne. He supposed he would have to get used to sitting on it if this was to be his fate. Looking down at his hands, he realized he was still holding the bejewelled box from earlier. Flicking it open, he tried to distract himself by examining the diamonds, garnets, rubies and sapphires inside, but even so, the regent king couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched…

…

Bilbo could almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, perched precariously on the edge of the throne, hanging on for dear life with one hand and clawing with all his might with the other at this damn stone which seemed to be fused into the throne itself, while the most regal dwarf royal sat below him, completely oblivious to his suffering. Bilbo glared at him now, as if his problem with the Arkenstone was his fault.

Look at him, Bilbo thought bitterly, taking in the gold detailing of his blue velvet robes and his decadent fur coat. He’s probably never worked a day in his life. Sitting here all high and mighty on his ridiculously big throne, counting his treasure, like a dragon sitting upon his hoard. He’s definitely vain too-

The thief accidentally interrupted his own thoughts as he tore his nail on the edges of the gem. Biting back a hiss of pain, Bilbo drew his hand back, surveying the damage. The whole thing had split down to the bed, and blood was already pooling around it. The sight of his injury only seemed to fill him with more determination. He had to steal something. He had to prove Gandalf wrong.

Glancing back at the dwarf below him, a terrible idea began to take root in his mind. He didn’t even remember being the one to think it, as if someone else had put it there, and yet he found he could not put the notion away. Since the Arkenstone was no longer a feasible option, perhaps he ought to switch targets. Those gems in the dwarf’s box must be worth a small fortune each, and he was looking away now, staring pensively into the distance. Surely a thief of Bilbo’s caliber could pull this off? He was invisible, after all, because he had the ring. The ring would protect him. It could never lead him astray.

Carefully, quietly, Bilbo jumped down, landing on the armrest of the throne. The dwarf shifted, and Bilbo froze, holding his breath. But he merely brushed back his long, well kept hair from his face, turning away again to ponder. Bilbo began to move again, shifting one of his legs and arms onto the back of the throne and transferring his weight onto them. This way, he could lean above the dwarf, just within reach of the box. Now, all he had to do was stretch out with his free hand and - and just as he was about to grab a gem -

- the ring slipped from his finger.

…

Thorin wasn’t sure what happened. A blur of movement had appeared out of nowhere, knocking the chest out of his hands and sending jewels flying across the stone walkway. Shocked, he stared down at the hooded figure on all fours before him, who was desperately searching through the fallen gems.

“No, no, no, where is it?” they choked out in short, panicked breaths. “Come on, come on! Where did it go?”

Shaking away his surprise, Thorin spotted a simple gold band lying on the ground. Scooping it up, he turned to the figure. “Looking for this?”

The figure jumped up so quickly his hood fell back, revealing wild, copper curls and desperately wide hazel eyes. He leaped for the ring, but Thorin caught his wrist, twisting it back and causing the figure to let out a cry of pain. Thorin’s sharp eyes took in his pointed ears, his short stature and lack of beard, and the pieces began to fall into place.

“What’s this? A burglar caught off his guard?” the dwarf snickered, pulling the would-be thief closer to him. “I’ve heard of your kind. You’re one of those roguish halflings, aren’t you?”

“Let me go!” the thief thrashed wildly in his grasp, desperately reaching for the ring in his other hand. Thorin just smirked, picking the box back up and opening it. For a moment, he felt a strange sense of hesitation, and longing, for the little gold item. Then he shook it off and placed the ring inside the box, slamming it shut.

Genuine horror washed over the halfling’s features as he watched his trinket get locked away, which quickly turned to anger as he reached for a dagger holstered to his thigh. Thorin spotted his movement and used his strength to pin him down to the floor, knocking the breath out of his lungs. His dagger clattered uselessly away as Thorin dug his nails into both of his wrists.

“Ow! Ow, get off of me!” The thief hissed through gritted teeth, twisting around in pain. Their faces only inches apart, Thorin could see a million emotions flickering across the halfling’s surprisingly gentle features. Anger, pain, fear, shock. They all melted away as Thorin relaxed his hold on him, keeping him firmly pinned down but no longer digging his nails into his soft skin. A moment passed as the halfling grew quiet, seeming to control his breaths. He then gave the dwarf above him a charming smile. “Apologies, my king, I didn't mean to alarm you. I am but a humble beggar-”

“You’re really going to try and lie your way out of this?” Thorin interrupted with a laugh. He hated to admit it, but he was having fun. This was the most exciting thing to happen to him in months. “Go on then, little halfling. What could possibly be your excuse for dropping, quite literally, into Erebor’s throne room unannounced?”

The thief’s confidence wavered. “Like I said, I am a simple beggar. I came here seeking shelter,” he continued, his voice shakier. “I am sorry to have frightened you, but if you just give me my ring back, I’ll be on my way-”

“Hmm, no, I don’t think I will,” Thorin teased, releasing the thief as he got back up, placing his hand over the box. “It’s such a lovely little trinket. I think I’ll keep it.”

“Why, you-” the halfling reached for his other dagger, and Thorin found himself laughing again.

“Go ahead and stab me, little mouse. I have mithril chainmail underneath my tunic,” he smirked, pulling the blue velvet aside to reveal the glittering silver metal underneath, which caused the thief to slowly lower his weapon. “That’s better. You see, there’s only one way you’ll get your ring back. I suppose you’ve heard that we dwarves love a good deal?”

The rogue’s ears pricked up and Thorin continued. “Judging by the state of your nails,” he gestured to the burglar's injured hands, “And,” he glanced quickly behind him to see if he was right, and nodded at the sight of red smeared across the back of his throne, “The blood across the engravings by the king’s jewel, I see that you tried to steal the Arkenstone. Correct?”

The thief had picked up his other dagger again, and was holding them up, as if expecting another scuffle. He reminded the dwarf of a cornered animal, or a rat caught in a trap.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes. That’s the most valuable stone in this entire mountain, but you already knew that, didn’t you? Monetarily, it’s worth approximately one fourteenth of all the gold in this kingdom,” He continued. “But culturally, it means so much more. An attempt to steal the king's gem would merit a public execution without so much as a trial.”

The thief swallowed thickly. “You-you said something about a deal.”

“Indeed,” Thorin smiled. “A test, if you will. I wish to see if the legendary skills of halfling thieves are true or merely exaggerated. And it seems you are uniquely qualified to help me find out the truth.”

A flicker of confusion danced across the halfling’s face. “What do you propose?”

“For one year,” Thorin announced, sitting back down upon his throne, “You steal from me. Gold, diamonds, whatever you can find under the mountain. Each day, you bring me what you have found. If, by the end of the year, your stolen goods accumulate to one thirteenth of the wealth in this mountain, you shall have won our little game and not only will I pardon you, but I will give you your ring back. If not, then you shall be punished for your crimes and you will never see your ring again.”

“A year is far too little time,” the thief immediately interjected, and Thorin raised his eyebrows.

“A year is plenty, if the stories are to be believed,” he smirked, holding out his hand. “So, do we have a deal, little halfling?”

The thief seemed to consider his offer for a while, his hazel eyes flicking between the regent king’s hand and the box. Finally, he met Thorin’s own blue eyes.

“But…why?” he asked, confusion lacing his words. “Why ask me to steal from you?”

Why indeed? Thorin wasn’t sure himself. Perhaps it had something to do with him desperately needing a distraction from his royal duties. It felt so refreshing to speak to someone who didn’t look at him with reverence in their eyes, or care whether he would become king or not. Just this mere moment with the thief had made him feel alive for the first time in months, and he hoped to hold onto that feeling for a little while longer.

“My treasury is not as well secured as it ought to be,” Thorin lied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I wish to make sure my guards are up to the task of guarding Erebor’s treasure. Now, will you accept my offer or not?”

The halfling’s eyes narrowed as he sheathed his daggers. “I’m just a guinea pig to you, aren’t I?” he said bitterly. “A creature to be hunted for sport.”

“You could always be executed right now, if you’d prefer.”

“By Yavanna, you’re insufferable,” the thief snapped, stepping up to the throne and shaking his outstretched palm. “Of course I accept your terms, your majesty.”

“I look forward to your visit tomorrow, then,” Thorin smiled, ignoring the sarcastic way his title was snarled out by the halfling. “In the meantime, until we meet again, master…?”

“You must be crazy if you think I’d tell you my name,” the thief was already turning to go.

“Master Burglar, then,” Thorin smirked. “I am sure that we shall both find this arrangement to be most auspicious.” And, with any luck, an exciting change of pace for the regent king.

Chapter Text

A nightmare, that was what this was. It had to be. Any moment now, Bilbo would wake up and feel the familiar weight of the ring in his pocket and everything would go back to normal. Pressed up against an alcove in the stone halls of Erebor, the hobbit screwed his eyes shut, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. 

Come on, wake up…just wake up and it’ll all go back to normal…please…

Bilbo opened his eyes, but he was still here! And the ring was gone. The thought echoed in his head like the deafening ring of a church bell, striking him over and over again, a mighty hammer against the fragile metal of his mind. His ring was gone! His ring was gone!! No, worse! It was taken from him, stolen! His priceless family heirloom had been snatched away by that abominable dwarf king! 

The hobbit felt as if he was underwater, lost in a haze. When did he forget how to breathe? Was the mountain closing in on him? Vaguely, he registered the sounds of a patrol coming his way, and with no small amount of effort, pushed through the swarm of thoughts that clouded his vision, spotting a window nearby. Without thinking, he dove through it, crashing into a bush. The bush gave way and he fell onto the ground below, hitting his foot hard against a rock. 

The cold night air and the jolt of pain that shot through his leg from his foot immediately cleared Bilbo’s head. Get ahold of yourself, you fool, he scolded himself inwardly. Acting stupid isn’t going to get the ring back.

Sitting up, he let out a groan at the sight of his right foot, which had twisted in entirely the wrong direction. Looking back up, Bilbo shook his head at the window some three stories above him. What was he thinking? Clearly he wasn’t. This ridiculous brain fog simply wouldn’t do, and neither would this injury. Pulling his foot towards him, the hobbit gritted his teeth as he used his hands to force his dislocated joint back into place. 

Gingerly standing up, Bilbo began to limp away from the mountain kingdom towards Dale. He was sure he made a pathetic sight, twigs in his hair and bruises already forming around his wrists. Not to mention a sharp pain in his back from when he had been pinned to the floor. That wasn’t even the worst of it, afterall, no physical discomfort could compare to the sting of the hobbit’s wounded pride. 

That damn wizard, Bilbo thought to himself, ducking out of sight of the Dale guards and entering the city unnoticed. He’s going to be so smug when he finds out about this. 

Creeping through the city, Bilbo could already hear Gandalf’s response in his mind. The wizard would sit there, puffing his pipe contentedly, and say: “Well, Bilbo, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Perhaps it’s time for you and your family to give up adventures for good. Settle down somewhere quiet. No more thievery, just a warm fire and a good book to keep you company-”

Bilbo snapped his fingers. That was it! Books! They would be the perfect tool to help him get his ring back. Few knew this about him, but the hobbit valued knowledge greatly. In another life, he might have been a great scholar, or at least owned a large collection of books for his perusal. In this life, however, he had learned to use whatever information he had to his advantage, whether it was to create the perfect situation or get out of a bad one. In this case, it would be the latter. 

The library of Dale was a humble building, but Bilbo was sure that the two story brick structure had to have something he could use. Wasting no time in picking the lock, Bilbo began to scour the shelves. He needed to find something about dwarves, about their weaknesses, their language, anything he could use to get the upper hand over that pompous idiot and his ridiculous game.  

“A, B, C, D - D for dwarves. Section D: Dale, Dale history, Dale soldiers who fell to Smaug,” Bilbo read under his breath as he examined the shelves. “So many books on Dale, though I suppose it is the Dale library, after all. I’ll just skip that area, and that one, and - aha! Here we are!”

He had found the dwarvish section, though the little hobbit’s heart sank as he realised it was housed completely on one of the taller shelves. Sighing, he began to climb up the wooden frame, only for his still sore ankle to give way, causing him to slip. Bilbo came crashing to the ground, books falling on top of him in a miniature mountain of paper and ink. 

“Hello? Is someone there?” Bilbo poked his head out of the book pile and let out a humourless laugh at the sight of a figure approaching him with a lantern. A figure with grey robes and a pointed hat. “Wait. Bilbo, is that you?”

“Of course you would be the one to find me here, Gandalf. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or embarrassed,” Bilbo chuckled bitterly as he got up and brushed himself off. The wizard immediately started to help him pick up the books he had dropped. “I was thinking about you on the way here, actually. Speak of the devil and he doth appear, or something like that.”

“What are you doing in the library at this time of night, buried below all of these books?” Gandalf sounded puzzled. “Old friend, what are you up to?”

“We’re not friends, Gandalf, so my business is none of your concern,” Glancing to the ground, Bilbo’s eyes went wide at the sight of a tome boasting the title: Dwarven treasures and their values . That would be perfect! Using that, he’d make sure to steal only the most valuable treasures for the king, guaranteeing he’d get his ring back in time. Just as he bent down to grab it, the wizard snatched it up first. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Not until you tell me what you plan on doing with it,” Gandalf crossed his arms over the volume protectively, giving Bilbo a scathing look. 

“It’s a book, Gandalf, I intend to read it.”

“Very funny,” the wizard rolled his eyes at Bilbo’s sass. “Why do you wish to learn about dwarven treasures? Are you still planning that ill fated heist on Erebor?”

Bilbo looked away, finding a spot on the ground to stare at. He could feel Gandalf’s eyes examining him, taking in the twigs and leaves in his hair and the various bruises and other signs of a scuffle marking his body. 

“Or perhaps, you’ve already gone through with it…” The wizard’s tone seemed too full of shock to leave room for anger or smugness. “I..I can scarcely believe my eyes. How did you survive?”

“I don’t know, maybe the dwarf king thought I was too cute to die,” Bilbo snapped sarcastically, grabbing the book from Gandalf’s hand and pushing past him. Ahead, he could see a desk with a series of lit candles illuminating dusty old scrolls, presumably which he had been reading. “Yeah! In fact, he said he’d let me go if I marry him. The wedding’s on Trewsday*. I hope you’ll be able to make it?”

“Bilbo, be serious,” Gandalf moved to join him, worry clouding his greyish blue eyes. “Are you on the run from the king? You must leave Dale at once and depart for Rivendell. I can help you-”

“The Baggins family does not accept help from wizards,” Bilbo stated sternly, directly quoting his father. Gandalf recognised his words and looked away as Bilbo turned to his book, flipping through the pages, which were thankfully in Westron. “And if you must know, I made a deal with the king. I won’t tell you the specifics but he’ll give me my ring back if I do what he tells me to.”

“He has the ring?!” Gandalf cried out suddenly, causing Bilbo to jump. 

“By Yavanna, Gandalf, calm down!” He scolded. “We’re in a library, after all.” 

Finding his footing again, Bilbo’s hazel eyes landed on a wheel of cheese at the end of the table. Oh. Oh. How did he not not notice that before? How did he not smell it sooner? It taunted him, its warm yellow colour seeming to glow like gold in the candlelight. When was the last time Bilbo ate? Not since this morning, but even then, he had given half of his portion to the family fuantlings. 

Gandalf followed his gaze and the ends of his lips curled into a sympathetic smile. “You can have it, Bilbo. I’m no longer hungry.”

“I-I don’t accept charity,” The hobbit forced himself to say, despite his mouth watering at the thought of biting into the tasty treat which he had unintentionally moved closer to. “Especially not from you.”

“I see. Well, I am just going to walk over here then,” Gandalf replied, purposefully turning his back on Bilbo and the cheese wheel. “And clean up this mess of books. It would be such a shame if a certain thief stole my supper. I’m sure I would be devastated.” 

A smile worked its way onto the hobbit’s lips in spite of himself. Snatching the cheese and the book, Bilbo made himself scarce. Glancing back, he shook his head at the wizard. He still didn’t trust him, and they certainly weren’t friends, but Gandalf did have his moments. Moments which called into question everything Bilbo had been taught about the wizard from his father. 

…

Once he was satisfied the hobbit had left, Gandalf returned to his desk and the scrolls he had left there. He was pleased to see the wheel of cheese had disappeared, though worry still clouded his mind. Visions of fire breathing serpents and corrupted Maia plagued his consciousness until he no longer registered the words he was supposed to be reading. Throwing his scroll to the side with a sigh of frustration, the wizard held his head in his hands. 

Gandalf had no quarrel with dwarves, in fact, he considered them to be one of the most admirable races of middle earth, with fierce pride, kind hearts and the ability to be lively and sing songs with joy unrivalled by any of the other races. Their kings were just and kind, and Erebor in particular had prospered under the reign of the line of Durin. Gandalf did not doubt the character of Thorin the second, who seemed to be a just and honest regent king in his father’s stead.

But even the most noble intentions could be twisted by darkness. Even the strongest fortresses could be brought to ruin. As much as the dwarves could be kind and good they could also be greedy and selfish. Now that the ring of power had fallen into the hands of their young ruler, Gandalf had to ask himself: how long until the mountain fell into the enemy’s hands?

The enemy, the ring, they were one and the same. Gandalf was sure that it was indeed the physical embodiment of evil itself that Bilbo had carried with him for so long. A small part of him was glad that at least now, his friend’s soul could be spared from its dark influence. The rest of him was horrified at this turn of events, and how it could spell disaster for Middle Earth.

The candles burned low around him as all these thoughts swirled around in Gandalf’s mind, lulling him into a restless sleep. Memories from long ago plagued him before a calm, serene voice cut through them like a knife. 

“Mithrandir, do not be afraid,” It whispered. “Walk with me as we used to walk on the shores of Valinor when I was but a child, and you were not yet haunted by the ghosts of the past.”

Gandalf felt strong arms pull him out of the abyss of his bad dreams and onto soft, white sands, the sea behind him sparkling under the light of the sunrise. Before him stood an elven woman, long blonde hair cascading like a waterfall across her snow white dress, and a gentle smile on her lips. 

“My lady Galadriel,” Gandalf bowed, meeting her smile with his own. “It has been so long since we last walked these shores together. Age has changed me, but not so the lady of Lorien.”

“Your grey hairs come not with age but with the burdens you bear,” Galadriel replied, gently looping her arm in his and walking with him. “You are so cruel to yourself, old friend.”

“I only seek to make up for past mistakes,” Gandalf sighed, not meeting her eyes. “I was banished from the white counsel for a reason.”

“The white counsel…yes, Elrond has expressed regret over that decision, though Saruman has not faltered in his resolve,” Galadriel’s tone had become wistful. “But I believe it is time we look to the future. There is a shadow…a restless darkness that grows in the east.”

“I know,” Gandalf replied sadly, recalling his purpose for visiting Dale in the first place. “If there is a way I can prevent it, a way to hold it back, tell me now so that we can vanquish this foe together.”

“The darkness is not all. Trolls have begun to wander the west. Orcs hunt, unflinching, under the light of the sun. But the worst is this: Hunters have begun searching in the gladden fields for the one ring,” Galadriel spoke as if she did not hear him. “A sickness lies over mirkwood. They say a necromancer lives deep within the trees, summoning ancient evils from a time long ago. A time that is better forgotten.”

“Again, I ask you, my lady, what would you have me do?”

“Seek the tombs of the nine in the High fells of Rhudaur,” The elf looked grave. “If they have been broken into, and their dark weapons taken, then the counsel must know. We cannot allow the enemy to rise again.”

“It shall be done, my lady.” Gandalf replied, causing her to gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“I am sorry to ask this of you, my friend,” she whispered, delicately kissing his forehead. “In time, our troubles shall be over. But for now, all we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us.”

Gandalf awoke to his head on a book, the page open to an illustration of the witch king of Angmar. With a curt nod, as if Galadriel were still there to see it, he grabbed his stuff and left. He would do anything to save Middle Earth from the coming darkness - no matter the cost. 

…

Thorin woke up far earlier than usual the next morning, energy shooting through his body like a million tiny arrows. He felt as if he was a Nadnith again, a child excited by the prospect of getting to play a game once his lessons were over. Only, instead of the tutors of his youth, he had to endure gruelling meetings with dwarven nobility before he could do what he truly wanted to do. Which of course was interacting with that fascinating burglar from the day before. 

“Your majesty, why should we allow the Stonefoot clan to seek shelter within our halls when we do not even know where their’s are?” One noble cried, pounding an ironclad fist on the table they had gathered around to discuss affairs of state. “Winter is coming, and we will not have enough supplies to feed ourselves if we take them in. Let them freeze to death outside our walls.”

“How cruel! Do not let Eikar Ironfist dissuade you, your majesty,” Another argued, pointing to the previous dwarf angrily. “He and his people know nothing of loyalty. Mahal created us as one race, equals in everything-”

“Uh huh,” Thorin wasn’t listening, his mind fixed on the bejewelled box he had hidden underneath his bedside table, and the owner of its contents. “What do you think, Balin?”

Balin gave him a disappointed look he had seen enough times to know how to ignore. “I think we should do our duty, your majesty,” the old dwarf said pointedly, “And nothing more. Give them provisions and send them on their way, rather than letting them stay for the winter.”

“Let's do that, then,” Thorin yawned, lazily waving his hand. “You’re all dismissed.”

“My king, if I could have a moment of your time,” Balin moved to follow Thorin as he made his way to the throne room. 

“Not now, Balin,” Thorin replied. He had finally gotten through the last meeting of the day and was eager to see what his thief had managed to steal. 

“Look, I know you’re mad at me, and maybe even rightfully so,” Balin moved in front of him, blocking his way to the door, “But if we can just put all that business with Jensia aside for a moment-”

“Good! I hope to hear nothing more on the matter,” Thorin hadn’t forgotten their conversation from yesterday and was not eager to repeat it. “Consider yourself dismissed, Balin.”

“Listen, Thorin, you can’t rely on me to make decisions for you forever,” the dwarf continued, blatantly ignoring his dismissal. “I won’t always be around -”

“I sincerely hope not,” Thorin snapped. A flicker of hurt crossed Balin’s face, making Thorin wonder for a moment if he’d gone too far. 

“I…I see. Well, regardless, you still need to be taking more of an active role in running the kingdom, Thorin,” Balin sighed, his tone sadder. “It’s what your father would have wanted.”

“You’re in my way, Balin,” was all Thorin said, not meeting his eyes. “And if you want me to be a king then you can address me as one. I’m not Thorin to you. Not anymore.”

Balin nodded, moving away from the door. “If you weren’t the heir to the throne, you might have only ever been that to me,” he sighed. “But you cannot be anything other than who you are. You will understand that one day, your majesty.”

“Whatever,” Thorin stomped into the throne room, slamming the door on Balin behind him. Such conversations were not ideal when he was trying to distract himself from his duties.

Thankfully, Thorin didn’t have to wait long for a suitable distraction to appear. Sitting upon his throne, a flicker of movement caught the dwarf’s eye as a figure emerged from the shadows. Squinting, Thorin thought he could see the burglar hiding something shiny behind his back. 

“Brooding again, your majesty?” the halfling laughed, pulling off his hood with his free hand to reveal a cocky grin. “What’s the matter? Upset that none of your guards managed to catch me?”

“Perhaps. It seems you’re rather good at this game we’re playing,” Thorin smirked back, his annoyance from earlier melting like snow in the springtime. “What have you brought for me, master burglar?”

“Oh, nothing much,” The thief moved into the light, revealing a golden chalice the size of his forearm. “Just this cup. I don’t suppose it’s worth anything of value?”

He threw it to the dwarf king, who caught it with growing wonder. The chalice was no small prize, with the runic markings across the side clearly identifying it as the property of Durin the second. It was ancient, and worth a great deal. 

“This treasure belonged to my ancestors,” Thorin said, careful not to give too much away. “How did you come across it?”

“It wasn’t as well guarded as it should have been,” The burglar replied, moving closer to the king. “Point one to the hobbit, zero points for the dwarves of Erebor.”

“It is only the first day,” Thorin smiled, placing the cup down and standing up so he could look down on the halfling in front of him. “Perhaps the dwarves shall catch you yet, Master Burglar.”

“Perhaps,” the thief began to circle around him playfully, “Though I doubt that very much.”

“You are so confident in your skills. Is it because you come from a family of thieves?”

“Maybe.” 

Thorin felt the thief brush against the fabric of his coat. “One I might recognise, perhaps?”

“The greatest thieves do not let their victims know their names,” the halfling had finished circling him and was in front of him again. They were so close, it reminded Thorin of their first meeting. “Your Majesty.”

“I see. But if this is to continue for a year, then you really ought to tell me your name,” Thorin smiled as the hobbit began to circle him again. When the dwarf king got no reply, he turned to find the thief had stopped, and was leaning against the throne, a sour expression on his face. 

“You don’t have it on you, do you?” he asked, and at Thorin’s puzzled look, he sighed. “My ring.”

Oh. So that was what all this was about. His circling, his cocky demeanour - it was all a distraction while the halfling searched Thorin’s pockets for the ring. He wondered why he felt disappointed. “Very clever, Master Burglar. But yes, you are indeed correct. I do not have your ring on me. Did you truly think I was that foolish?”

“Do you want me to answer that question honestly?” The thief pushed past him and began to walk away. 

“Wait!” Thorin called out, more desperately than he would have liked. As the thief looked back at him, the dwarf fought for something to say. “Why-why do you care about that ring so much anyway?”

The halfling lifted his hood up, cloaking his gentle features in shadow once again. “You wouldn’t understand,” was his only reply before he disappeared back into the darkness. 

…

“You’re leaving us again?” Lobelia snapped at Bilbo. “It’s been an entire week! What could possibly be so important that you no longer organize our market runs?”

“It is rather suspicious, Bilbo,” his cousin Falco agreed. “Drogo is a good leader and all, but he doesn’t have the heirloom like you do.”

Except I don’t, Bilbo thought bitterly, watching the pinks of the sunrise behind them to avoid his family’s piercing looks. How could he tell them the truth? They’d never forgive him. He’d lose his title as their leader, or worse still, be banished from the family entirely. 

He couldn’t have that. This family was all he had left and all he had ever known. He’d spent his entire life on the road with them, twenty years of which he had been their leader. They could be annoying, yes, but Bilbo had to admit, he couldn’t live without them. He’d do anything to stay with them and if that meant lying to their faces, then so be it. 

“Please, Bilbo, can’t things go back to normal?” Drogo interrupted his thoughts, his big brown eyes practically begging his cousin to take over again. Drogo had always been Bilbo’s second in command due not to his skills as a thief, but his kind heart and dedication to the family. The sable haired hobbit was younger than Bilbo and had only just married his wife Primula, who was giving Bilbo a similarly pleading look with her own piercing blue eyes. 

“I am planning a larger heist which we will complete together when the time is right,” Bilbo lied, averting his gaze. “Which requires private reconnaissance in the halls of Erebor.”

“That’s a little reckless, don’t you think?” Lobelia challenged, and Bilbo’s hazel eyes snapped up to meet her’s with a glare. 

“That’s none of your concern, Lobelia.”

“I disagree, if it involves the family-”

“Enough, both of you!” As usual, gentle Drogo was the one to step in. “It’s fine, we can handle the market runs. The sooner Bilbo is done with his business in Erebor, the better. Then things can go back to normal.”

Bilbo nodded as they walked away, though he doubted things would ever go back to normal. It had been a whole week of stealing for the king and he had not even gotten close to the one thirteenth of the treasure mark. He really needed to step things up. Pulling his book out of his cloak, he began to read as he set off. 

“The dwarves of Erebor believe that the spirits of their kings sleep in their bodies after death, and thus their final resting places are filled with the finest of treasures, should they one day awake…**”

…

The tombs of Erebor were difficult to find, especially for someone unable to speak Khuzdul. Eventually, Bilbo decided just to follow his instincts and simply go down as far as he could go, and that was when he found them. Rows upon rows of crypts lined the halls, each one adorned with runes. The graves were made of stone, with another slab of stone on top of them, and the further down Bilbo went, the more ornate they became. Gold embossing on the runes. Rubies along the bottom of the coffins. He was getting close. 

Bilbo didn’t like that he had to do this. He was a burglar, yes, but he always considered himself somewhat of an honest one. Now he had stooped to grave robbing, and the thought made him feel sick. To steal from the living was a show of skill and talent, getting away with it and not getting caught always gave him a sense of accomplishment. But to steal from the dead, well…what was the point? It’s not like they could defend themselves. Guilt weighed heavily upon him, like the stone of the mountain above him.

Still, Bilbo pressed on, the ever present image of a golden band in his mind pushing him forwards. He needed to get it back, and if robbing graves was how he’d do it, then so be it. 

The halls of neatly spaced coffins opened out suddenly into a large space, an over ledge where two massive stone dwarves glared down at him from above. Missing his ring, Bilbo shook off their unnervingly realistic gaze, fixing his eyes instead on the three stone coffins in the center of the room. 

One of which was completely empty, and devoid of any treasure whatsoever. Useless. The middle one, however, seemed to have better pickings. Some dwarf of high stature had been locked in the stone coffin, and around his final resting place lay shining golden armor, a magnificent shield, a crown, and various tapestries depicting a dwarf with golden brown hair slain in battle. Bilbo picked up the crown, cross referencing it with his book. A prince’s circlet. Not good enough. 

Tossing it aside, Bilbo moved on, to the third and final coffin. This one was piled with so much gold and treasure it made the others seem laughable in comparison. Whatever the tapestries depicted was obscured by a mountain of golden armaments, coins, jewelry and weapons. 

Flipping through his book, Bilbo was about to begin to compare it all when a noise from above startled him. Two dwarves were making their way down the stairs, chatting to each other in Khuzdul. They didn’t look like guards but Bilbo had no doubt they were warriors, if the red head’s twin battle axes had anything to say about it, and goodness, was that a hatchet embedded in his companion’s head?

Bilbo didn’t stick around to find out. Grabbing whatever was closest to him he left as quickly as he could without being seen. It was only when he had reached the relative safety of the upper levels did he look down to see what he had grabbed. 

Which was…something. Bilbo inspected the obsidian rectangle at all angles, noting the two golden squares on either end. Curiously, he pressed down on the embossed silver square in the middle of one and nearly jumped out of his skin as eight identical slabs of obsidian sprung out from underneath it. 

What in Yavanna’s name was this thing? Some favored toy, perhaps? Bilbo bit back a frustrated groan. How embarrassing, to go to the king and have nothing better to offer him than a child’s plaything. 

The hobbit dragged himself to the throne room and gloomily waited for the dwarf to arrive. When the king finally came into the room, dressed in his fine blue robes as usual, Bilbo slunk out of the shadows, already ready for this to be over. 

“Ah, Master Burglar, you’ve returned,” he said in his annoyingly smooth, deep voice. “What have you brought for me this time?”

“I’m afraid,” Bilbo looked away from him, biting back no small amount of embarrassment as he placed down the item, “That this trinket was all I could bring you today.”

When the king didn’t respond right away, Bilbo let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, just go ahead and mock me already. I know you want to. But for the record, I was off my game and-”

“Where did you find this?”

Bilbo turned back to the dwarf and was shocked to see him holding the trinket with trembling fingers, his face ashen and his mouth slightly open in shock. Bilbo took a hesitant step forward. “Your majesty?”

“Answer the question, Burglar!” The king’s switch from shock to anger was so sudden that the hobbit let out an involuntary yelp, jumping backwards. 

“It-it was in the lower levels,” he stammered out fearfully. “Deep within the mountain.”

It wasn’t technically a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. It seemed to satisfy the king for the moment as he collapsed onto his throne, absentmindedly clicking and unclicking the object. Bilbo found himself squirming at the uncomfortable silence. 

“I should go-”

“Do you know who this belonged to?” The dwarf sighed, interrupting the hobbit. “It belonged to Thror. His son is Thrain. And his son…is Thorin.” He pointed a finger at himself. “That is to say, this belonged to my grandfather. It was buried with him.” 

“Um..uh..ok..” Bilbo stuttered. He frantically searched his mind for a change of topic so he wouldn’t have to admit to robbing the graves of the king’s own family members. “Um, what is it, your majesty?”

“It was an ornament for his beard. He wore three of them,” Thorin answered, looking away from him again and staring into the distance pensively. “They were meant to represent the mountain kingdoms, or was it the veins of ore in the rock? I cannot recall the specifics.”

Another sad sigh before the dwarf looked back at him. “I suppose you’re wondering how he passed on. Have you heard of the dragon of the north?” When Bilbo shook his head, Thorin continued in a husky murmur, “How fortunate for you. The red dragon Smaug came to lay waste to our kingdom many years ago, but my grandfather…” Thorin clicked the ornament, “he was prepared.”

“He had some intuition, some prior knowledge that Smaug would come. He’d commissioned black arrows, thousands of them, and rained them down upon the dragon until he was forced to retreat. Two of the arrows had even managed to lodge themselves in the creature’s eyes, rendering him sightless. But in his blindness as he thrashed and clawed about, he caused the battlements of the front gate to come crashing down. My grandfather was standing upon those battlements at the time. He was…”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, grief overtaking his features. “Crushed. So many brave dwarrow died that day, Master burglar. Even my brother,” the last word came out as a choked sob, “Who so bravely and recklessly tried to distract the wyrm, and was clawed to death for his efforts. He was so young…”

Unbidden, the tapestry of the young dwarf from the second tomb floated to Bilbo’s mind. He pushed it away, alongside the sharp pang of guilt that accompanied it. 

“Frerin was his name, the strongest warrior I have ever known,” Thorin continued, still clicking the ornament open and closed again. “These are my people’s stories of war. We speak not of our own accomplishments but of the accomplishments of those fallen in battle. Only when we fall ourselves shall our own tales be sung.”

Another uncomfortable silence fell between them, filled only with the clicking of that damn ornament. Finally, Bilbo spoke, his voice feeling very small, a meager response to the king’s tales of his family. 

“Your people are incredibly noble,” he began, hoping his tone conveyed that he actually meant his words. “You must be incredibly proud to be a part of such an accomplished family.”

Thorin’s eyes snapped back to him, narrowing, as if to assess whether the thief was mocking him. Finding no insincerity, he turned away again. “Accomplished…yes, that is something they all are. As for pride, what use is pride in the face of death? What use is nobility?”

Bilbo didn’t have an answer for him. Instead, he offered a clumsy bow. “I..I will be more careful of what I bring you in the future, your majesty,” he said, trying to ignore the king’s bright blue eyes, which had turned back to him and seemed to be piercing into his soul. “An apology spoken from the lips of a thief is worth little, but I will give you one nonetheless. I am sorry.”

Bilbo took the slight inclination of the king’s head as his cue to leave. Disappearing into the shadows again, he heard a soft exhale from behind him and he tried to suppress the shame rising within his throat. 

…

Remorse wasn’t an emotion Bilbo wore well. It didn’t suit him, or his profession. He was a thief, he did what it took to survive. He always had. In the end, there was no length the hobbit wouldn't go to get his ring back. 

But why?

Why did he hang on so tightly to that heirloom? Why did thoughts of it fill his every moment, spurring him on to make stupid decisions? Why did he insist on playing the king’s game to get it back, even if that meant abandoning his family every morning? Even if it meant risking his life? Why didn’t he just take Gandalf’s advice and flee?

As much as Bilbo hated to admit it, he needed to talk to the wizard again. Strangely, he hadn’t seen him around town lately. Had he already left? Bilbo hoped not. He could use some advice and a free meal certainly wouldn’t go amiss. 

Slipping into the library, the desk where Gandalf had sat several nights earlier was empty, the candles cleared from it and the books and scrolls back in their proper places on the shelves. Bilbo approached the librarian, a member of the race of men who peered down at him with no small amount of suspicion. 

“Who are you?” She asked, fixing her spectacles onto her sharp features. “Are you a halfling?”

“No,” the lie slipped easily from his lips. “I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine. Long gray beard, pointy hat, rather tall. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

“I had a library book stolen from my archives about a week ago,” the librarian answered his question with one of her own. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

“Gandalf was here the last time I saw him, did he say-”

“Where is my book, halfling?”

The two settled into a tense silence before a softer, younger voice piped up. “Your friend said he was going west.”

Bilbo looked up to see a teenage girl with brown hair and kind eyes. “He was awfully nice, too. Gave me a coin for finding the books he wanted. I used it to buy my sister Tilda a new doll, and you should have seen her smile-”

“That’s enough, Sigrid,” the librarian gave her a stern look. “Does that conclude your business here, halfling?”

Bilbo nodded, shooting the girl - Sigrid - an appreciative smile as he turned to leave. So Gandalf had run off, had he? It had to be on the one occasion that he actually desired his company. Bilbo shook his head in annoyance. What was the old wizard up to now?

….

High upon the cliffs of the misty mountains, a solitary gray figure climbed a set of narrow stairs up the steep, rocky mountainside. When he reached the top, a door of iron bars twisting like the hands of the dead greeted him with an unnerving creak in the wind. Gandalf considered the darkness beyond it with grave determination. 

“In time, our troubles shall be over,” he murmured, recalling his conversation with Galadriel. “Well. We shall soon see.”

Chapter Text

The grey wizard began to descend the stone ramp of the high fells tomb, one hand on the wall to stabilise himself. The steepness of the ramp caused him to nearly slip, thankfully he just managed to keep his balance as he reached the edge of the platform. Below him, a gaping hole reached deep into the ground. 

“This is a time where my staff would have come in handy,” Gandalf thought out loud, reflecting sadly on how Saruman had confiscated the conduit for his power many years ago. “Oh well, I suppose I shall simply have to make do.”

Searching through his robes, the wizard found his tinder box and lit one of the scones on the wall. The flickering orange flames cast an eerie light over Gandalf’s shoes as he carefully made his way over the narrow steps inset into the side of the shaft. 

Arriving at the broken tomb door, a spike of alarm shot through Gandalf at the sight of the stone sarcophagus, which was cracked open. This alarm only doubled at the faint scratching noise coming from inside the tomb. Desperately, he scrambled for his sword Glamdring, which he had found after defeating a group of trolls. Drawing it in front of him defensively, he crept slowly towards the sarcophagus. 

As he did, a bat, black as night, flew out in a blur of wings and teeth. Gandalf swiped at it instinctively and it let out an unnatural shriek, disappearing out of the tunnel from whence he came. Rattled, Gandalf let out a breath and peered inside the stone structure. To his horror, he found it completely empty, devoid of any traces of the remains that were once stored there. 

What did this mean? Had the enemy finally returned? Only one could summon the nine. If Sauron had returned, he would be amassing an armada. He would be looking for the ring. 

Solemnly, stiffly, Gandalf walked to the edge of the shaft and threw his torch down. As the light fell, it illuminated broken, gaping holes. Gandalf counted them, drawing in an anxious breath as he got to eight. It seemed in his mind he could hear a chorus of voices, echoing and overlapping each other in terrible unison: 

Three rings for elven kings under the sky, seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone…

“Nine for mortal men doomed to die.” the words left his mouth and hung in the air, weighing upon him like a death sentence. With newfound determination, Gandalf began to make his way back out into the sunshine. He could stay here no longer, he had to seek out the enemy for himself and destroy him, for good this time. 

He would begin in Mirkwood, where Galadriel had spoken of a necromancer. He still had some friends he could rely upon - there was one he could ask to lead him to the dark fortress and fight by his side. Though he could not understand his friends' loyalty to him, he was grateful for it nonetheless. 

As he moved to descend the steep steps, a flutter of movement caught his eye. It was the bat from before, perched on a nearby branch and staring at him in an uncannily intelligent way. Their eyes locked - dilated red pupils meeting steely grey blue ones - and the creature took off. Not taking his eyes off of the bat, Gandalf carefully caught a moth fluttering nearby. 

“Go, follow the creature,” he whispered to the fluffy, orange and gold insect in the language of Valinor (which all birds and beasts could understand). “Tell me whether it serves evil as you serve good.”

With an almost imperceptible nod of its furry head, the moth took off. It flew as high as its tiny wings could carry it, away from the safety of the one who sent it and after the bat. The tiny oak eggar braved the fierce winds of the mountain tops and the bitter chill of the shadowed wood to follow the bat, never letting it out of its sight. Eventually, the two creatures found themselves before a mountain, below which lay a wide lake and a bustling city. Closer and closer they flew to the summit before the moth lost sight of the bat, just as they reached the rocky slope. 

The tiny creature flitted about uselessly, searching helplessly for its quarry. Too late, it recognised the wind at its back as the jaws off the bat closed around it…

…

Thorin watched in disgust as a bat ate a moth outside his window. 

“How vile,” he muttered under his breath. 

Bats were not common in Erebor. It was too cold for them here, and with all of the mountain's caves converted into dwarven halls, they had nowhere to live. What few bats Thorin had seen in his lifetime he had always found unnerving, and this one was no different, with its beady red eyes and face set in a permanent scowl. Thorin turned away as it gruesomely ripped one of the moth’s wings off, chomping down on it with all the charm of a dying slug. 

The regent king wasn’t going to let this ruin his day, however. He had finally earned some time off, thanks to the dwarven festival of Lomil Zatamaradu. It was a day of mourning and remembrance, and for Thorin, a chance to get some much needed rest. Making his way through the halls of his mountain kingdom, he relished the way none of the other dwarves dared to bother him on such a sacred occasion.  

His mood soured, however, as he wandered into the hall of tapestries to see a crew of dwarves taking down one of the large arrases that lined the chamber hall. Thorin ran past the intricately embroidered likenesses of his ancestors to where the workmen were pulling down a six meter tall* tapestry of a young dwarrowdam. 

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” He snapped, glaring at the dwarves on the ground around him, then shooting an equally withering look at the dwarves on the balcony above, who were helping lower the massive arras down. “Who told you to do this?”

“Your…your father did, your majesty!” One of the workers above him called down. “Before you took over as rege nt king, Thráin expre ssed intent to take the tapestry of your sister down.”

Thorin looked across at the woven threads depicting Dis and sighed. How sad her midnight green eyes were, despite being only stitches in a tapestry. It was almost like they understood that even now, the dwarven princess was being torn away from her family - in this case, literally so. 

“It’s Lomil Zatamaradu. You should all be taking the day off,” Thorin muttered, before tearing his eyes away from his sister’s and raising his voice. “I said, you should be taking the day off!”

“We’re getting paid extra,” one of the workers nearby shrugged. “We don’t mind, your majesty.”

“Well, I do,” Thorin growled. “Put Dis’s tapestry back up at once. Consider that a command.”

The worker on the balcony opened his mouth as if to protest, only for Thorin’s stormy glare to silence him. With a sigh, he gestured in iglishmêk** for the workers to do as the king said. Thorin ignored their grumbles as they began to pull the tapestry back up again, his focus intently on the woman in front of him. She had been depicted wearing a gown of deep cobalt here, but he could hear her voice in his mind, young and cheerful as she said:

“They always dress us up in blue, brother. But you know, I find these days that I actually prefer green.”

Unbidden, he heard his own voice reply: “But sister, that is only because Vili said that you look best in that colour.”

A laugh as she flicked back her twin braids. “Oh, shut up!”

Shaking his head to clear it of her voice, and of painful memories, Thorin left the hall, continuing on until he reached the throne room. Sitting down upon the throne, he tried hard to push all thoughts of Dis out of his mind while he waited for his burglar to appear. 

“Where is everyone today, Thorin?” 

Smiling, the king looked up to see he hadn’t had to wait long - the copper haired halfling stood in front of him, fidgeting with his cloak. “It’s so strangely quiet in here.”

“There is a reason for that, little halfling,” Thorin replied, and the thief twitched his nose in what Thorin guessed was annoyance at being called little. “Today is a day of great importance to us dwarves.”

“Oh?” Despite himself, the halfling seemed rather curious. 

“Indeed. Tonight we celebrate Lomil Zatamaradu, or in the common tongue, Night of the Kill,” Thorin explained, a surge of satisfaction flowing through him at how easily he had captured the thief’s attention. “In a few hours, me and a group of my finest warriors shall go out into the wilds to hunt for a stag. When we return, we shall give the meat and hide of our kill away to others and eat only small provisions ourselves.”

“Interesting,” The burglar rubbed his chin thoughtfully, instinctively moving closer to the king to hear his words. “But that doesn’t explain how creepily empty this place is.”

“Lomil Zatamaradu is a time of remembrance. Most dwarrow are given the day off to mourn those they have lost, though some still choose to work,” Thorin answered. “The entire festival is dedicated to those who have left this world to join our creator Mahal in his halls.”

“I see,” the halfling had moved to stand beside him now. “But why the hunting party, Thorin?”

“We spill blood to honour the blood of lost warriors, spilt defending us in battle,” The dwarf replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And I see you’ve done away with referring to me by my title?”

The thief opened his mouth to reply, most likely in a sassy, obnoxious way, only for the door to the throne room to burst open. Quick as a flash, Thorin threw the burglar to the floor, stepping in front of him and shielding him from sight. 

“Thorin?” Dwalin called out, looking around before spotting his friend. “Ah, there you are. There’s someone here to see you.”

“I’m busy,” Thorin replied, glancing behind him only to find that the halfling had disappeared. 

“Oh, well..” Dwalin scratched his head awkwardly. “She’s not going to take no for an answer, I’m afraid.”

“She?” A spark of hope flickered in Thorin’s heart as the image of Dis from earlier flashed in his mind. “Send her in, then.”

Dwalin opened the doors, and the hope died in his heart when he saw the dwarrowdam who stepped through them. She had deep brown skin and silky black hair, and she was decidedly not his sister. Balin walked beside her. 

“My king, may I present Princess Jensia of Ered Luin, daughter of Queen Ábria and King Jarthrasir of the blue mountains,” he announced, his tone entirely too smug for Thorin’s liking. “She has travelled a long way, so I trust you will offer her our finest hospitality.”

Thorin felt a wave of rage flow through him. He thought he had made his opinion on courting this woman abundantly clear!

“Of course,” he hissed through gritted teeth, barely restraining his anger. “Abnâmul tada abdakhizu, princess.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the dwarrowdam smiled, walking closer to offer Thorin her hand. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to receive your invitation to spend the festival together. I have brought my finest hunters for the occasion.”

Thorin fought back the urge to scream at Balin. Invitation? How dare he! That meddling old dwarf had gone too far this time. Thorin knew that if he met his eyes he’d lose his composure, or perhaps more accurately, his temper, so he focussed instead on the woman in front of him, who was still holding out her hand expectantly. 

She was beautiful, he had to admit, with her well kept goatee and her hair woven in a headband which neatly crowned the rest of her hair. As he brought her hand to his lips, they brushed against golden rings, which matched the golden maang tikka*** adorning her hair. Despite being from the blue mountains, Jensia wore all red, her saree made from crimson silk and her ruby encrusted blouse complimenting her amber eyes, which seemed to flicker like the flames of a roaring fire. 

Yes, she was definitely beautiful, most Khazdûn would be pleased to be betrothed to her. But ever since he was little, Thorin had known that he simply wasn’t like other Khazdûn.

“How long do you intend to stay, Princess Jensia?” He asked flatly, dropping her hand. 

“Why, only until after Yuleblot, when the snow has begun to thaw,” She replied, sending a fresh wave of anger through Thorin. Five months? That was nearly half a year! As if sensing his irritation, she continued: “Master Balin has advised me that travelling through the storms of winter would be unwise. He said that you would be delighted to entertain me for any amount of time.”

“Delighted...yes, that’s one word for it,” Thorin practically snarled. “Balin, can I speak to you for a moment? Alone?”

“Of course. Princess, why don’t you let Dwalin here lead you to where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up before the hunt,” Balin responded smoothly. “And please, if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Master Balin,” Jensia gave him a nod of appreciation, before glancing back at the king. “It was such an honour to finally meet you, your majesty. I look forward to getting to know you further this evening.”

As soon as she left, Thorin turned to Balin, furious. “You! How dare you! I told you-”

“How dare I? Thorin, you are responsible for the well being of the people in this mountain!” Balin interrupted, unflinching as the regent king loomed threateningly over him. “If you won’t watch over them with wisdom and responsibility, then I have no choice but to bring in someone who will!”

“You would seek to use the chains of marriage to force me into a union I am ill suited for? We would tear each other apart within hours of the wedding!” Thorin yelled. “How could you do this? Bringing her here as if you were some kind of matchmaker, forcing us together like oil and water. Think about how I feel-”

“I do not need to, you do enough of that for the both of us!” Balin shot back. “Every single action, every single decision I’ve watched you make has been inspired by your own massive sense of entitlement. I should think of you? No, you should think of the kingdom for once! Ever since your sister’s banishment-”

“Do not speak to me of my sister,” Thorin growled dangerously. 

“We have no heir,” Balin continued, ignoring him, “And our alliances are thin. I don’t expect you to love Jensia but if you can just try to get along with her-”

“I will not! I cannot!”

“Then you are a child!” Balin exploded. “Enough of this, Thorin. We both need to prepare for the hunt. You and Jensia are going together, and that’s final.”

“I should have you killed!” Thorin screamed at his back as the older dwarf began to walk away. 

“Go ahead!” Came the bitter reply. “At least then I could finally take my leave of serving you!”

…

Thorin waited grumpily in his hunting clothes, pacing around the entrance to the wilds north west of the mountain. Nearby, a group of his best men stood ready for the hunt, but only Dwalin stood close enough to hear his grumbling.

“She’s late,” Thorin snapped at him. “And Balin thinks she’d make a good queen? Unbelievable.”

“Give her a chance, Thorin.” Dwalin replied, shuffling his axes awkwardly on his shoulders. 

Thorin turned to him with a scowl. “Did you know about this?”

Before Dwalin could reply, the princess arrived with a group of around ten warriors. Jensia had done her long hair up in a fishtail braid that was entirely too elvish for Thorin’s taste, and had outfitted herself in leather armour and boots. Balin walked beside her, and the sight of the two of them chatting amiably filled Thorin with a fresh wave of rage. 

“Greetings, your majesty!” Jensia called out, and Thorin spotted a hawk upon her shoulder, its deep brown feathers and cold black eyes magnificent to look upon. Noticing his gaze, Jensia smiled, using a gloved hand to hold the bird out to Thorin. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend. This is Khajam, he’s a hunting hawk bred in the blue mountains.”

“I prefer ravens,” Thorin replied coldly, causing Balin to roll his eyes. “Have you brought a weapon, your royal highness?”

“Of course,” Jensia had this annoying way of keeping her smile on her face, even if it never quite reached her eyes. She turned to one of her men, who handed her a strange contraption that Thorin had never seen before. It was not dissimilar to the windlances of Erebor he’d seen shoot black arrows in his youth, but it was far smaller. It could be easily carried by Jensia, who herself was a few inches shorter than him, and had only one strung bow rather than two. “This is the latest in weaponry in Ered Luin. W e call it an ibdakhbedak, or a crossbow in the common tongue.”

“Should we enter into an alliance with the Blue Mountains, these are some of the weapons that they would be willing to trade,” Balin added, earning a scowl from Thorin. “Anyway, It is time we start the hunt. The royals shall be one team, Dwalin and I another, Gloin and Bifur can be one as well..”

They were quickly organised into several groups of pairs. The hunt of Lomil Zatamaradu would take place the same way it did every year, with each pair going out into the forest to catch whatever birds and small game they could find, while keeping a lookout for a deer or a boar. If one of the groups found one, they would call the others with their horn and the hunting party would come together to kill it. 

“It certainly is colder here than Ered Luin. I’m sure you must be used to it, though,” Jensia commented, sending her hawk into the sky - presumably to scout ahead - as the pair made their way to a lake where Thorin knew a good amount of ducks resided. When she got no response, Jensia tried a different approach. “Do you enjoy hunting, your majesty?”

“It’s alright,” Thorin replied curtly, cocking an arrow onto his bow and fixing his gaze away from her and on a duck instead. “I prefer to spar, or smith weapons and armour.”

“Is that so? I’m partial to falconry, myself,” Jensia’s voice was accompanied by a series of annoying clicking sounds which were messing with the regent king’s concentration. “Do you play any musical instruments?”

Thorin let his arrow loose, which splashed into the water beside the duck, causing it to fly away. Letting out a frustrated grunt, he replied: “Yes. The harp.”

“I see,” The annoying clicking had finally stopped. “I too have been taught music, my instrument of choice is the dilruba****.”

Thorin ignored her, trying to focus on another duck. He hated bows, hated having to hunt with them, and most of all, hated having to entertain this annoying princess with her fake half smiles and irritatingly diplomatic small talk. He let loose another arrow, which missed again, causing the flock of ducks to take off into the air. 

Twang! A sharp sound, louder than any bow pierced Thorin’s ears. Turning, he saw Jensia had her crossbow mounted on her shoulder. Following her eyeline, Thorin bit back a curse at the sight of a bloodied carcass of a duck. Of course she had to get it right on the first try. 

“Don’t despair, your majesty,” Jensia petted his arm in such a patronising way that he very nearly ripped hers off. “Not everyone is naturally a good shot. You’ll get better in time, given enough practice.” 

Thankfully, the call of a horn saved him from saying something he’d regret. Meeting up with the others, they found out that Nori’s hunting partner - his young cousin Ori - had seen a stag. Thorin made sure to congratulate the nervous boy, though he seemed overwhelmed at all the attention he was receiving on his first hunt. 

“We’ll do a pincer manuever,” Jensia announced to the group, and Thorin felt a spark of annoyance as everyone else nodded. “If we create three groups, two of them can chase the stag into the waiting arms of the third group.”

Both royals opted for the third group, patiently waiting as the others chased the stag towards them. Thorin readied his sword, his favoured weapon, as the gallop of hooves grew closer and closer. The stag burst through the thicket, and Thorin drew his blade back, ready to cleave the its head clean off-

Only for a crossbow bolt to land in its neck. The stag collapsed at his feet, and Thorin swung his sword uselessly. The animal was already dead. 

“What a beauty!” Jensia practically sang, kneeling down to pull her bolt out. She shot Thorin another diplomaticly sympathetic smile. “My apologies, your majesty. Perhaps you’ll be the one to kill it next year?”

It was at that moment that Thorin decided: he hated her. 

The king didn’t finish brooding the whole way home. His sour mood was a stark contrast to the cheerful attitudes of the rest of the hunting party, who were buzzing with excitement around the iron red stag, which Jensia’s men were carrying back. Everyone else’s happiness only seemed to irk him further, driving Thorin to leave them as soon as he returned to the mountain. He stalked into the throne room, collapsing onto the throne with an angry sigh. 

Once he had sat down, he noticed something on the armrest of his chair - a glittering gold and ruby brooch. He almost threw it across the room, thinking it was from Jensia, before he noticed a tiny note tucked underneath it. 

“Here is today’s contribution to the debt I owe you,” the note read. “And pushing me to the ground like that hurt, by the way. Regards, your burglar.”

Thorin chuckled, feeling the tension on his shoulders lift somewhat. His burglar? Well, at least something good happened today. 

…

The sun had nearly finished setting by the time Bilbo made it back to Dale. The hobbit rolled back his shoulders, trying to ease the lingering pain from when the king had pushed him to the floor earlier that day. 

Why had he done that? Bilbo wondered to himself. The whole point of their game was to see whether Bilbo would get caught or not, and Bilbo would have been caught fair and square. He’d been careless, stupidly curious about Thorin and his dwarven customs.

But curiosity was the first step towards an early grave, as his mother used to say. Bilbo was a thief, not a scholar. He didn’t get to learn things, not unless he could use them to his advantage somehow. Sighing, the hobbit swiped a loaf of bread as he passed the bakery. Seeing the fauntlings excited about getting to eat it would surely cheer him up.

When he returned to his temporary home, however, what he found was not a stable full of delighted children but rather an entire family of hobbits in a state of panic. All of the fauntlings were crying, some of the older hobbits were trying to quiet them while others were crowded around Drogo, pestering him about something. Still others seemed to be trying to calm down Falco, who had his hands tangled up in his auburn hair and was breathing in shallow, sharp breaths. 

“What’s going on?” Bilbo asked, but nobody heard him over the din of the chaos. He tried again, louder. “I said, what’s going on?!”

When still nobody heard him, he resorted to using his title. “Silence, all of you! The ringwearer is speaking!” 

Immediately, everyone fell silent, turning to face him. Bilbo gave them a nod. “That’s better. Now, will someone please tell me what’s going on?” 

“Bilbo, thank goodness you’re here,” Drogo began. “It’s Poppy, she-”

“She’s been taken!” Falco sounded hysterical, leaping forward and grabbing Bilbo by his cloak. “Please, cousin, you have to help me get her back. She’s everything I have!”

“Calm down!” Bilbo gently but firmly pulled Falco off of him. “Who has taken your daughter?”

“The men of Dale,” Drogo spoke for Falco, who had begun to shake again, unable to articulate his words. “Poppy, she…oh, she’s so young, Bilbo. Young and reckless. She tried to steal something for the first time, without telling the rest of us. Before we knew it, she was in jail, and Falco is beside himself with worry.”

“That foolish fauntling,” Bilbo sighed, placing down the bread. “I will speak to the guards. Is Falco able to come with me?”

Both hobbits glanced at Falco, who was leaning on Primula for support, looking dizzy and disorientated. Drogo slowly shook his head. 

“Very well. Share the bread with the others,” Bilbo gestured to the loaf. “Take care of Falco. I’ll be back soon with Poppy beside me.”

Blasted girl, Bilbo thought grumpily as he made his way back to Dale. If she wished to learn our trade, she should have asked her father, rather than attempting to steal something all on her own. 

Even so, they wouldn’t dream of training any of the fauntlings until they turned twenty at least. Poppy was still a child, she shouldn’t have been trying to steal at all. What possessed her to get herself caught by the people of Dale?

Sighing, Bilbo walked into the guardhouse, where he was greeted by a tall man with a handlebar moustache and cauliflower ears. Picking at his teeth, the guard gave him a once over, unimpressed. 

“Whad’ya want?” 

“I’m here for Poppy Chubb-Baggins,” Bilbo began, as smoothly and charismatically as he could. “I understand you apprehended her earlier today. I’m willing to pay her bail so I can return her to her family.”

“Poppy? Don’t remember taking in no poppies today,” the guard replied, bored. “Get lost, shortstack.”

“He means the halfling, Halof,” Another guard appeared, a mug of ale in his hands. “Who are you? Her father?”

“No, she’s my first cousin once removed.”

“Huh?” The other guard scratched his head. “Well, only her parents can get her out.”

“I have money to pay you,” Bilbo felt his jaw clench. “Just accept it and Poppy will be out of your hair, permanently.”

“Nah,” The guard with the ale smirked, “I figure I have a better idea. There’s a couple who live on a farm not far from here. They’ve always wanted a child. Maybe we should hand this Poppy over to them.”

“What?” Bilbo felt the colour drain from his face. 

“Yeah, why not? That way she can grow up with a good influence in her life,” the guard continued. “A little experiment in nature vs nurture. With any luck, she won’t end up a dirty thief like you.”

Bilbo could feel himself shaking with anger. “Now see here-”

“Scram, halfling,” the guard with the mustache - Halof - shooed him out. “We’re not handing Poppy over to you.”

Bilbo watched the door slam in front of him with a growing sense of dread and anger. Falco would never forgive him if he didn’t return with his daughter. But he had no way to get her out, after all, his ring was gone…

“But when I was done shelving all the books, I got to read one of them,” a feminine voice from behind him pulled Bilbo out of his thoughts. “The tale of Girion and the dragon Smaug.”

“Our ancestor,” Turning, Bilbo saw the girl he’d met at the library speaking to an older man wearing fine clothes. “An excellent choice, my dear. So I take it you are enjoying your job at the library?”

“Yes, very much!” The girl - Sigrid - beamed. “The old librarian is the only person who doesn’t seem to care that I’m the daughter of the lord of Dale.”

Daughter of the lord of Dale? Bilbo glanced back at the jail. Surely they would let Sigrid bail Poppy out, then? 

“Hey! Hey, wait, stop!” Bilbo called out to her, causing the duo to pause. He gave Sigrid his friendliest smile as he approached. “Hello! Do you remember me? You helped me in the library a few days ago?”

Sigrid looked momentarily surprised, then smiled back. “Yes, I remember you! You were looking for Gandalf, weren’t you?”

“Yes! Gandalf! We’re very close friends,” Bilbo lied. “Always have been.”

“Come, Sigrid, your siblings are waiting,” the man beside her said, looking at Bilbo with suspicious brown eyes. “Good day, Master halfling.”

“Just a moment!” Bilbo pleaded as they turned to go. As Sigrid turned back to him, he let himself drop his mask a little, hoping his desperation would move her to compassion. “My cousin’s child has been arrested, and I can’t get her out. I’ve offered to pay her bail, but the guards won’t accept it. She’s only nine. I know she’s made a mistake, but she doesn’t deserve to be separated from her kin.”

“Only nine?” Sigrid lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, that’s awful! Da, can we help?”

Da? Bilbo’s eyes flicked to the man beside her, who was staring at him reproachfully. So this was the lord of Dale. He looked it, too, with a simple golden band adorning his shoulder length brown hair and his moustache and goatee neatly trimmed. 

“What was her crime?” He asked Bilbo, his arms crossed. 

“I..I don’t actually know,” the hobbit admitted. “Her father was in such a panic that I couldn’t get it out of him.”

Sigrid gave her father an earnest look, and he sighed. “Fine. Lead the way, Master Halfling.”

As soon as the Lord of Dale opened the door, the guards jumped up, straightening their posture and hiding the ale they were drinking. 

“My lord! We had no idea you were coming!” Halof spluttered. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There is a halfling here, a little girl,” Sigrid’s dad began. “For what crime is she imprisoned?”

“Erm, theft, my lord,” Bilbo felt the lord’s eyes flick to him. “From the bakery. I believe she stole a cinnamon roll.”

“A cinnamon roll?” Bilbo interjected angrily. “This is all over a damn cinnamon roll?”

“Peace, halfling,” the lord of Dale sighed. “Guards, let this man pay her bail and take her home. We are not animals.”

The guards grumbled under their breath as Bilbo emptied his pockets, dumping Ereborian gold, Laketown currency, and Dale coins alike into Halof’s hands, while the other guard disappeared into another room. Halof didn’t move from in front of Bilbo until he was sure he had given him everything he had. 

“Here’s the little troublemaker,” the other guard had returned, dragging Poppy by her arm. “I still think she’d be better off with human parents.”

“Uncle Bilbo!” Poppy had tear streaks across her freckled cheeks, and chunks of her auburn hair were missing, as if they had been pulled out. As soon as she was released, she ran into his arms, crying. “Uncle Bilbo, are we going home? Please say we’re going home!”

“Yes, shh, of course we’re going home,” Bilbo soothed, glaring at the guards over her shoulder. “Your father is waiting for you there.”

Sigrid and her father walked back outside with them, while Poppy clung to Bilbo’s hand as if she never intended to let go. 

“Thank you for your assistance,” Bilbo said to the lord of Dale, touching his free hand to his heart. “I’ll make sure Poppy stays on the right side of the law.”

“See that your whole family does,” the man replied, suspicion still lingering in his eyes. “The people of Dale are under my protection. Anything done against them is done against me.”

Bilbo nodded, and, with one final smile to Sigrid, began to make his way home with Poppy. Once they were far enough away, Poppy began to speak, her voice shaky and small.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo,” she began. “I couldn’t help it, I was so hungry. I...I've been hungry for so long, Uncle Bilbo. Since before I can remember. Will the pain ever go away?”

Bilbo’s heart ached. He didn’t know how to explain that Poppy would always feel hungry, that the sickening ache in her stomach would never go away. Not so long as she was a Baggins, and lived in poverty. 

“Come on, little one,” was his only reply, as he scooped her up into his arms and carried her the rest of the way back. “Your father is waiting for you.”

As the two hobbits returned to their home in the stable, neither of them noticed the red eyed bat watching them from the shadows.

…

Thorin’s burglar seemed different the next day. Even as the halfling passionately scolded him for pushing him to the ground the day before, Thorin tuned him out, focusing instead on the bags under his eyes and the tired quality to his voice.

“Is something else bothering you, master burglar?” He eventually asked, and the halfling paused mid rant. 

“I-no. Well yes, I suppose,” He floundered for a moment, seemingly taken aback by the question. “But it’s not important.”

“Tell me,” Thorin insisted, moving from where he sat at his throne to stand in front of the halfling. Sensing his hesitation, he gently placed his hand on the thief’s shoulder. “I won’t judge you for it, whatever it is.” 

The burglar looked up at him then, his hazel eyes searching his face questioningly. Thorin realised with surprise that he would only find sincerity there. The regent king genuinely wanted to know what was on his burglar’s mind. When had he begun to care about the thief in front of him?

“It’s..it’s just family drama,” the halfling eventually sighed. “One of the fauntlings got herself in trouble with the law yesterday. I had to bail her out of jail.”

“What?” Thorin pulled back in shock. This thief, this criminal, had a family? And what was a- “Fauntling?”

“Yes, that’s what we call our children,” the burglar waved the question off as if it was common knowledge. “Anyway, I was bled dry by the Dale guard, who took full advantage of the situation. I had half a mind to keep the anklet I brought you today.” 

He gestured towards the sapphire trinket he’d given the regent king earlier and Thorin swallowed thickly. “I…you have a family, master burglar?”

“Of course I do. There’s no need to be so surprised,” the thief scoffed. “Did you think I grew out of the ground? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Thorin’s head was spinning. “How many of you are there?”

“Hmm. Well, let's see. There’s me, there’s my uncle Rudigar and aunt Belba, there’s my cousins, Falco, Posco, Prisca, Dora, Otho and his insufferable wife Lobelia,” the burglar began to count on his fingers. “Drogo and Primula, Aunt Rosa, Gilly, Dudo and his daughter Daisy, and of course there’s the rest of the fauntlings: Lotho, Ponto, Porto, Peony, Milo and Poppy.”

He finished with a smile. “So that makes twenty two of us altogether.”

“Twenty two?” Thorin’s mouth hung open. “I have never heard of such a large family! How do you care for them all?”

The thief’s smile immediately disappeared. “With my ring,” he answered solemnly. 

Thorin didn’t have anything to say in response to that. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them for a moment, the crown resting on Thorin’s head feeling heavy with the weight of privilege. Finally, the halfling broke the silence. 

“Your majesty, may I take my leave of you now?”

“Yes, of course, but..” Thorin floundered for the right words. “But..you were calling me by my name, earlier. Please…erm…please don’t stop doing that.”

The thief gave him a look of surprise, before the corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a repressed smile. “I won’t then, Thorin.”

…

Thorin couldn’t focus the rest of the day. Twenty two members of the burglar’s family, twenty two mouths to feed. It seemed to him that everything had suddenly and harshly been shifted into perspective. All of his teasing, his games, they seemed so needlessly cruel now that he was faced with the reality of the burglars' situation. Of course the halfling played along, he had no choice! 

Thorin remembered how, during their first meeting, he had overpowered him so easily. He remembered how he could fit his entire hand around his wrist, how underneath that cloak, the halfing wasn’t just small, he was skinny. How often could he afford to eat an actual meal?

“Your Majesty!” A sharp voice broke him out of his thoughts. Glancing up, he found his table of advisors looking at him expectantly. 

“What is it?” He replied moodily. 

“The hides and meat from the hunt last night, your majesty,” Eikar Ironfist supplied. “We wish to know who you will be sending them to this year.”

“Yes, it is customary for the king, ” Balin emphasised the last word, “To decide who to give it to. Traditionally, we send it to dwarves worse off than ourselves, though all of our own people are happy and well fed. We could donate it to the Stonefoot clan -”

“Give it to the halflings of Dale.”

A collective gasp of surprise came from around the table. Thorin nearly joined them, shocked at the words that had come out of his own mouth. Balin’s eyes went wide as saucers. 

“Um, your majesty,” he cleared his throat, “Are you sure-”

“You heard me!” Thorin insisted, more confidently this time. “Our own people are fine, so let us donate the meat and hides to those who actually need them.”

When he was met with stunned silence, he waved them all away. “Dismissed.”

“Your majesty, what are you thinking?” Balin followed Thorin as he made his way to one of the balconies of Erebor. This particular balcony was used to train archers, with dummies lined up against one wall, and bow and arrows on the other. As Thorin walked past them and leaned against the stone railing overlooking the lake, Balin joined him. “I know you may be mad at me, Thorin, but if this is your way of showing it, then-”

“Balin, I believe you yourself said to me, not so long ago,” Thorin interrupted, the ghost of a smile on his face, “That I need to be taking more of an active role in running the kingdom. Well, now I am.”

Turning to face the old dwarf, Balin looked horrified. “This is not what I meant!”

“Too bad,” Thorin was fully smirking now, going back to the view in front of him. “You’re dismissed, Balin.”

A little while after the dwarf left, a flicker of movement caught Thorin’s eye. Squinting, he realised it was a bat, the same bat from yesterday. It was staring intently at Thorin with its beady red eyes.  As he stared back at it, he heard Jensia’s mocking laughter echoing through his head: “Not everyone is naturally a good shot…”

“Is that so?” Snarling, Thorin grabbed a bow and arrow off the wall and aimed it at the bat. “I’ll show her…”

But as he let loose the arrow, the bat ducked away, dodging it easily. Deciding to take its leave of the mountain, it flew south, past the lake and Esgaroth and the fishermen living there. It veered east, into the wilds of Mirkwood, avoiding the elven king’s halls of light and beauty. It paused on the branch of a tree there, watching intently as a wizard dressed in robes of the forest wandered out of his tree house to greet a guest. 

“Gandalf,” the man in brown called out. “What are you doing here?”

“Radagast, old friend,” Gandalf replied. “We have much to discuss.”

The bat flew off then, flying further and further south until at last it reached its home. Twisting, overgrown spires of stone welcomed it as it flew into the crumbling structure of Dol Guldur. Deeper and deeper into the darkness it delved, until it finally landed on the shoulder of its master. 

Bolg looked up from his task of gutting and skinning a live boar as his faithful servant returned to his shoulder. Blood was splattered across his chest, his hands, and his hideously scarred face. Licking it off of his fingers, Bolg used his free hand to snap the boar’s neck, ending the animal’s cries of agony so he could hear the bat on his shoulder whisper to him in black speech. 

Once it was finished, Bolg gave it a grunt of acknowledgement and began to prowl through the fortress, the lesser orcs cowering as he passed. Eventually, he reached a large room, seemingly empty, but he knew better. 

“Master!” he called out in black speech. “My scout has returned.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the shadows around him pulsed, writhing and twisting into the shape of a figure. Terrible and mighty, the necromancer looked down upon him expectantly with empty eyes.

“What information has it gathered?” He asked with the voice of death itself. “Speak, Bolg of Gundabad.”

Bolg quickly summarised the details for him - how the dwarf king was lazy, and childish. How hobbits had moved into Dale. How the grey wizard knew of the nine. 

“Interesting…” his master circled him menacingly. “So, Olórin thinks he can undo what has already been set in motion. Wisest of the Maiar, indeed…”

“Olórin, my lord?”

“The wizard,” the necromancer brushed his question off with a note of irritation in his shadowy voice. “But that is none of your concern. Everything is still proceeding according to my design. Bolg, I order you to seek out your father in the depths of Khazad-dûm. Tell him I have summoned you both to hunt down and kill the dwarf king of Erebor. When his blood is spilt, and his people are in mourning, we shall invade the weakened mountain kingdom and claim it as our own.”

“Yes, master,” Bolg bowed to the shadow before him. “Everything shall be done as you command.”

“See that it is,” the necromancer hissed back. “Darkness has returned to Middle Earth, and the king of Erebor’s days are numbered.”

Chapter Text

There was no light in Khazad Dum, nor beauty to be found there anymore. The air lay heavy with the scent of death, the halls littered with the skeletons of dwarrow warriors and painted with their blood. When gazing upon such a miserable sight, it was easy to understand the mine’s new name, given to it after the defeat of Mahal’s children in the war of the dwarves and orcs: Moria. The black chasm. 

The quiet of the mine-turned-tomb was only broken by the hurried footfalls of a small, green skinned goblin. He ran desperately through the halls until he reached a large atrium, the massive expanse of which was held up by several dwarven pillars. Between these pillars there was a throne made up of thousands of dwarven skeletons, where a figure sat, his face obscured by shadows.

“S-ss-sire,” the goblin hissed out nervously in black speech, his cat-like pupils searching for the figure’s face. “Th-there is an intruder. He has-ss-s forced hi-his-ss way ins-si-side.”

“An intruder?” The goblin cowered as the figure got up from his throne. Bone crumbled under thick iron boots as he advanced towards his hapless quarry. “You expect me to believe one man fought his way into Moria, my kingdom, and is still alive?”

“He is-ss-isn’t a man, ss-sire,” the goblin gulped. “He is-iss a monster.”

“Is that so?” The figure stepped off his throne and light from a single window illuminated his terrible features. Pale as ice, and with eyes far colder, the orc bore hideous scars across his face, chest and arms. As he bared his teeth, he revealed row upon row of sharpened, yellow incisors. “Tell me, runt, is this intruder more of a monster than I am?"

“Of cours-ss-se not, Lord Azog!” the goblin stammered. “But he is-ss dangerous-ss. We mus-sst flee!”

“Flee?!” Azog roared, picking the goblin up off the floor and choking him with both of his hands. “I am the king of Moria! I strike fear into the hearts of all, and you suggest I run like a coward?”

“Father!”

Azog turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his son, Bolg. Snapping the neck of the goblin, he threw his limp body aside. “So it’s you. I might have guessed. Few are strong enough to get this far.”

He stepped forward to face him, glowering down at the slightly shorter orc. “Still, if you are here to take Moria from me, then I will kill you where you stand.”

“I bring news from our master,” Bolg did not meet Azog’s eyes, proving that the orc commander was still intimidated by him. Good. “He has summoned you to kill the son of Durin. The one they call Thorin.”

“A dwarf?” Azog turned away, picking up a skull from his throne and crushing it in his hands. “I have killed enough dwarves.”

“I know. That means you are the best among us to complete this task,” Bolg insisted. “Our master needs you to kill the king under the mountain. Then we will lead a force against it and Erebor will be ours.”

“Erebor? I have no use for such a small prize,” Azog laughed, walking up and sitting back down upon his throne, “For I already am the king under the mountain.”

“When we are done, you can return here,” Bolg asserted. “The time is coming, soon, when our master shall take over this world. The age of the orc shall soon begin. Do you not wish to be in the good graces of our master when this happens? If you do not help him now, he won't allow you to stay here, king of Moria.”

What Bolg said made sense, and Azog hated that. Leaning down, he grabbed an axe embedded within a dwarf’s skeleton and threw it as hard as he could at the other orc. Bolg dodged it, unfazed.

“Is that your way of saying yes, father?”

Azog didn’t respond, instead getting up from the throne and striding through the halls until he heard the snarls and growls of the warg pens. Bolg followed him until he reached the cage where his albino warg, Akul Mamog*, prowled. Letting her out, Azog let the she-wolf indulge in a throaty growl at Bolg before he mounted her. 

Bolg didn’t bother asking to borrow a warg of his own, instead forcefully subduing one of Akul Mamog’s daughters and mounting her. The pair of orcs rode their wargs out of the mountain and entered into the peaceful, twilit landscape of southern Rhovanion. Azog looked to the north east, where he knew the lonely mountain was waiting for them. 

“Perhaps our master was right to call on me,” he smiled, licking his teeth. “It has been far too long since I have tasted the blood of a dwarf.”

“Where we are going,” Bolg turned to look at him, “There is enough of it to quench your thirst a thousand times over.”

“Good,” Azog sneered, digging his heels into Akul Mamog and spurring her forward. “Let the hunt begin.”

…

A sharp knocking on the door to the stables woke Bilbo up. The sun was only just beginning to rise as he untangled himself from his cloak, which was his blanket most nights, and hopped off the windowsill that had been his bed for the past few days. The knocking had become more frantic, causing Bilbo to sigh as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Can’t you keep it down? You’ll wake the fauntlings,” he yawned as he opened the door. Before him stood Graphen, his…well, landlord he supposed, who had been lending them his barn in exchange for money. In his time living near the half dwarf, Bilbo had come to understand that Graphen would do anything for coin. 

“Ther’ are some things even I won’t do for coin!” Graphen hissed, immediately proving Bilbo wrong. “Ya promised me yer family would keep a low profile!”

“We have. Is this about Poppy?” Bilbo raked a hand through his messy curls. “You should know I sorted that out.”

“Then explain to me why the lord of Dale is at my door!” Graphen responded angrily. Bilbo’s eyes went wide and he pushed past the half dwarf and into the house, where, sure enough, the same man he had met a few nights ago stood at the doorway. 

“There you are. You know, you really didn’t make yourself easy to find,” the man greeted Bilbo, his hands on his hips. “Honestly, it was only through sheer luck that we did manage to track you down. People of tricksters indeed.”

“My Lord! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Bilbo hoped his voice didn’t betray the sense of alarm he felt at seeing the Lord of dale at his door. Worse, behind the middle aged man, he could see several guards. “You must forgive me, I was not aware you were visiting.”

“Indeed?” The Lord’s brown eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you have done nothing to merit a visit from me and my men?”

For an awful moment, Bilbo was suddenly transported back in time, to when he was just a fauntling. Sitting on the carpet of a dwarvish inn, he remembered playing with his toy dragon as the guards of Ered Luin asked his mother the same question. 

“I assure you I have not,” she had replied, stepping back as if to shield Bilbo with her body. “My family and I are just passing through.”

“Don’t lie to us, assassin,” they had pushed through the door, grabbing his mother by her long, copper hair. “Before the day is done, you’ll be hanging from the gallows -”

“No!” Bilbo cried out, causing the lord of dale to jump. Quickly, the hobbit regained his composure. “No. Like I said, your visit is a surprise to me, my lord.”

“Hmm. Well then, it seems we are both equally surprised,” The lord of Dale responded, and waved for the guards to come in. “I did not realise you had friends in high places, Master halfling.”

As the guards came in, Bilbo couldn’t hold back his gasp at the large pile of deer hide and duck meat, not to mention the entire skinned carcass of a stag that was presented to him. The amount of meat on that thing alone would be able to feed his entire family for the rest of the month. Beyond that, the hides would be perfect for leather armour. 

“I…I…” it was not often that Bilbo was rendered speechless. “...What? Who?”

“The king of Erebor,” the lord of Dale replied, causing Bilbo’s eyes to snap back up to him. He just shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Something about a festival. Lomil…Lomil something.”

“Lomil Zatamaradu?”

“That’s the one. He said it’s yours, he’s officially giving it to you as is customary according to dwarven tradition.”

Bilbo’s cheeks burned red with embarrassment. So that was what this was about. He had told Thorin about his family and now the king saw him as a charity case. A bitter taste began to develop in his mouth.

Usually, people only ever looked at him two ways. Either with pity, or with revulsion. But Thorin had been different. He’d never looked at Bilbo with either emotion, but with amusement, warmth, and the tiniest hint of awe that he probably thought the hobbit didn’t notice.

But that was all going to change now, and Thorin would be just another person looking at him with shallow sympathy in his eyes. 

“Bilbo? What in Yavanna's name…?”

Turning, Bilbo saw Primula, and a few of his other cousins who had woken up. They were gaping, open mouthed, at the bounty before him. A stab of annoyance pierced Bilbo. He had so desperately wanted to send it back, and tell the dwarf king that he didn’t need him or his pity, but he had no choice now but to swallow his pride and accept the gift. 

Although, if Bilbo was being honest with himself, he never truly had a choice at all. 

“Tell the king that the hobbits of Dale humbly ,” Bilbo choked on the word a little, “And gratefully accept his gift. Tell him that we are touched by his generosity.”

“Of course,” the lord of Dale nodded to him. “Good day then, Master hobbit. Keep out of trouble.”

Bilbo gave him a polite smile as he left. Behind him, he could hear Lobelia already arguing with Graphen about how much of the bounty he was entitled to. Bilbo wasn’t in the mood to join in, instead, he quietly slipped out of the door and began to make his way to Erebor. 

There was a certain dwarven king who he desperately needed to speak to. 

…

Gandalf watched with amusement as Radagast chased away the colony of centipedes that were taking up one of the wooden chairs in the brown wizard's home. As he moved to sit down upon it, he whacked his head on a tree root that was jutting out of the roof.

“Oh dear! Oh dear! I’m so sorry!” Radagast fussed. “Are you hurt, Gandalf?”

“Just my pride,” the grey wizard chuckled. “I haven’t been in here for quite some time.”

“Yes! You know, Sebastian and I have missed you,” Radagast responded, pulling a hedgehog out of his robes and unceremoniously plonking it on Gandalf’s lap. “But you’re too busy saving the world to bother with hermits like me, I’m sure.”

“Saving the world…” Gandalf gently flipped the hedgehog over so he could rub its tummy. “Yes, that’s what I have come to speak to you about, I’m afraid.”

“It’s about Dol Guldur, isn’t it?” Gandalf looked up sharply as Radagast spoke the name. “Yes, Gandalf, I may turn a blind eye to the world beyond these trees, but I keep a watchful one on what transpires within them. There are some who may tell you that the fortress is abandoned, but I know better. Isn’t that right, Clarence?”

He turned to address one of the birds that flitted about in his hair, and Gandalf leaned forward intently. “Radagast, there are rumours of a powerful necromancer in these woods. Do you think that Dol Guldur-”

“Necromancer? Maybe. Poison oozes from that place like a rotten carcass,” Radagast interrupted. “All of the trees there are dead, and the animals stay away from it. I suggest you do the same.” 

“I cannot,” Gandalf said solemnly, placing Sebastian down on the floor. “Radagast, old friend, I believe there is no necromancer, at least, not a human one. I visited the tombs of the nine, and they were empty, every last one of them. No mere mortal can summon such evil. No, I believe this is the work of Sauron himself.”

Radagast’s eyes widened for a moment, then softened. He leaned forward, placing his hand on Gandalf’s shoulder and tapping it. “Still got that old chip on your shoulder, I see. You know I speak to Yavanna every day. She has long since forgiven you.”

“I…” Gandalf fought back tears, struggling to keep his composure. “Even…Even so, I cannot allow Middle Earth to fall back into darkness. Will you guide me to Dol Guldur? If I find proof of Sauron there, I can summon the white counsel to destroy him, for good this time.”

“Even if you do find proof,” Radagast asked, “How can you be sure the white counsel will answer your call?”

Gandalf swallowed thickly. “I cannot be. I can only hope they will.”

Radagast leaned back then, considering. With a sigh, he stood up and began throwing things into a bag. “Well, if this is the only thing that will get you to stop hating yourself, then consider me on board. I’ll take you there, and fight whatever you encounter by your side. After all, there isn’t much you can do without a staff.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Gandalf smiled. “Once this is all over, I promise I shall visit you on a more regular basis.” 

“You’d better!” Radagast laughed. “You don’t want to see Sebastian when he’s angry!”

… 

“Your Majesty!”

Thorin flinched. He had done his best to avoid the princess of Ered Luin since the hunt, but it seemed she’d managed to catch him on his way to the throne room to meet his burglar. Jensia strode up behind him, demanding his attention with her irritating voice. 

“Your majesty, why have you been avoiding me?” She asked, her usual diplomatic smile replaced with a small frown (which was probably the angriest she would ever look, considering how perfectly poised she always was). “I do not believe I have offered you any insult during my time here.”

Your presence here is an insult in and of itself , Thorin thought, but he kept that to himself. “I apologise, Princess, I didn't mean to intentionally slight you. I have simply been occupied with other things of late.”

“With respect, what other things, your majesty?” Jensia rebutted. “Master Balin says you are always free around this time, and yet you are nowhere to be seen.”

“Master Balin is not always right, though he seems to think he is,” Thorin shot back. “I’ve already told you I am not avoiding you, so, with respect, please leave me be.”

Jensia’s amber eyes narrowed and she stepped in front of Thorin, barring his way to the throne room. “Prove it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you are not avoiding me,” Jensia folded her arms over the carmine fabric of her saree, “Then you should have no qualms with us spending this time together. In Ered Luin, we usually drink tea at this point in the afternoon. I would appreciate it if you would join me.”

“I-erm-but-” Thorin glanced desperately over Jensia’s shoulder at the throne room door, beyond which his burglar would surely be waiting for him. Jensia followed his gaze. 

“If your majesty prefers, we can have our tea in the throne room,” she offered. “I do not mind-”

“No!” Thorin exclaimed, then quickly cleared his throat. “Erm, I mean, that will not be necessary, princess. I am content to take our tea in your quarters.”

“Excellent!” Jensia’s characteristic smile had returned in full force. “Everything is already set up. Just follow me.”

Thorin let Jensia lead him back to her quarters, all the while thinking sulkily about his thief. He desperately wished to see him again, and he might have if he had taken his tea in the throne room. But for some reason, the idea of his burglar seeing him with a girl didn’t sit right with Thorin. 

“Here we are!” Jensia had made herself at home, with multiple sticks of incense creating a smoky haze that hung thick in the air, along with the pungent smell of sandalwood and frangipani. Thorin fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at it as Jensia led him to a table surrounded by cushions. “My lady in waiting will bring us our tea shortly. In the meantime, please help yourself to any of the refreshments.”

Sitting down, Thorin noticed for the first time the assortment of food on the table. Deciding to be polite, he reached for some kind of food that had been fried and shaped into a spiral. He was surprised to find it actually rather tasty - savoury and crunchy, with a hint of sesame and ginger. 

“They’re quite nice, aren’t they?” Jensia asked eagerly. 

“They’re alright,” Thorin replied. “I prefer the Shargla that we eat here.”

“Really? Then you’ll have to invite me to have tea with you sometime, so we can compare the two,” Jensia smiled, as an attendant walked into the room with a kettle. “Ah! Thank you, Elsuba.”

Thorin cursed himself inwardly for his verbal blunder as the princess poured two cups of steaming hot chai for them. Thorin took one sip of his and nearly spat it out.

“What on earth did you do to this tea?” He choked out, horrified. “Tea is not meant to taste…like that.”

“It’s simply spiced, that’s all,” Jensia replied over the rim of her cup. “You may not like it at first, but you’ll get used to it. You can grow to love anything, if you give it enough time.”

“Is that so?” Thorin set down the tea and fixed Jensia with a piercing look. So, that was what this was about. A thinly veiled attempt to get him to agree to court her. Well, he wasn’t having it. “I disagree. I think there are some things that simply cannot be forced.”

Jensia studied him for a moment with those calculating amber eyes of hers before she set her tea down, leaning forward intently. “Your Majesty, do you know much about my mother, Queen Ábria, or my father, King Jarthrasir?”

“No,” Thorin reached for another biscuit, this one a golden brown colour and dotted with pieces of fruit inside it. “I can’t say that I do.”

“Allow me to enlighten you, then,” Jensia began. “My mother Ábria hated my father before they were wed. She had always been a noblewoman known for her grace and elegance, but one night at a ball my father tripped while they were dancing. He had no sense of balance and everyone knew it, but still, he was embarrassed, and in order to save face he blamed his fall on her. My mother was furious. She despised him even as their families planned their wedding day.”

“But as the years went on, and she became queen, she grew to love my father. They never thought they would ever fall for each other but the strain of the crown brought them together. By the time they had me, my mother had long since forgiven my father and had found true happiness by his side. In fact, she loved him so much,” Jensia’s voice wavered just slightly, “That she died for him.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Thorin offered politely. 

“Don’t be,” Jensia let out a breath, quickly regaining her confidence. “My point is, your majesty, love can be found in the most unlikely of places.”

“Except for when it can’t,” The regent king had had enough of this ridiculous metaphor. “There are some matches that are doomed from the start, because love simply cannot exist between them.”

“Why?” Jensia pressed. “Do you believe yourself incapable of loving another person?”

“I believe myself incapable of loving you .”

Silence stretched between them, their gazes locked in an intense battle of wills. With his cold blue eyes meeting her burning amber ones, it had never been more obvious to Thorin how different they were to each other. They were fire and ice, and they would destroy each other in a vicious battle of flame and frost. 

“Very well,” Jensia leaned back, crossing her arms over herself once again. “You have my gratitude for attending this tea with me, especially considering how hard it seems to be for you to be in my presence. You are free to go.”

Ignoring her passive aggressive tone, Thorin immediately got up, giving her a polite nod on his way out. “Princess.”

She nodded back, her eyes never leaving his for a moment. “Your majesty.”

Thorin didn’t look back as he immediately turned on his heel and fled. He tried his best not to slam the door too hard behind him. 

…

Walking into the throne room, Thorin didn’t have time to duck as a golden bell struck him squarely in the head. A loud dong! echoed through the room.

“You absolute pigheaded idiot!” His burglar was yelling at him. Vaguely, Thorin realized through the brain fog and the ache in his head that he’d been the one to throw the bell at him. “You self-centered dwarvish prick!”

“Wh-what?” Thorin tried to interject, only to be peppered with a shower of golden coins. His burglar had remarkable aim, that was for sure.

“The meat and hides! Why in Yavanna’s name did you give it to me?” Having run out of gold coins, the halfling advanced forward with fury in his eyes. “Our deal was that I would pay off what I owed you with gold and treasure from the mountain! Are you trying to indebt me further?”

“No, of course not!” Thorin held up his hands in surrender. “I thought you might appreciate the hides and meat, that’s all. You need them more than anyone else I could give them to.”

“You think I don’t know that?” With no small amount of shock, Thorin noticed the tears of anger in his burglar’s hazel eyes. “Do you think I don’t realise how much my family is struggling just to make ends meet? Why do you think I accepted your stupid gift? Because I didn’t have a choice!”

He turned away, crossing his arms over himself as the tears ran freely down his cheeks. Thorin stood to the side, dumbfounded. 

“I..I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” the halfling responded bitterly. “Which is ridiculous, honestly. You would think that out of all the races of Arda, you dwarves would understand the concept of pride.”

“Pride…” the word left Thorin’s mouth and hung heavy in the air. “Is that what this is about?”

His burglar simply sniffed, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “I am not a charity case, Thorin.”

“Of course not!” Thorin took a hesitant step forward. He desperately wanted to reach out to the halfling in front of him, but fear of rejection stayed his hand. “I have never seen you that way, Master Burglar. You have to know that.”

The thief turned to face him then, his eyes still glistening with tears. Those eyes…there was something about them, something about the way they searched his face, read his emotions. Piercing would be too harsh a word to describe them, even though they truly seemed to gaze into his soul, reading him like a book, speaking to him without words. Captivating seemed the only description that came close to capturing the way those eyes made Thorin feel. 

“If I’m not a charity case, then don’t treat me like one,” All too soon, the burglar tore his eyes away from Thorin’s as he moved to leave. “I’ll be back here tomorrow with more treasure. Don’t forget, the only thing I need from you is my ring.”

“I understand,” the regent king didn’t mean to let his voice sound so pained. “Until tomorrow then, Master Burglar.” 

“Until tomorrow, Thorin.”

…

Khajam nestled into Jensia’s chest, his feathers soft to her touch. The black kite hawk may have been all grown up now but he still let out the same happy chirps that he did when he was just a tiny ball of feathers in her hands. He still radiated the same warmth, still enveloped her in that familiar feeling of comfort that he had always provided during all of the lowest points in her life. 

Her tea with the king had been a disaster. Stubborn as the stone of the mountain and twice as dense, he just would not recognise the opportunity in front of them! If the two kingdoms united, Ered Luin could use Erebor’s gold to mass produce more weapons and their separate militias would unite to create the greatest army the world had ever seen. 

An army with one goal and one purpose as they marched to the place that Jensia’s own mind always returned to: Moria. 

“Your highness?” Elsuba rapped her knuckles against the door. Jensia waved her in. “You sent for me. Is there something you need? More chai perhaps?”

“Not right at this moment,” Jensia smiled. “Though it is tea I am after. Just a…different kind.”

Elsuba caught on to her meaning immediately, rushing to the window and pulling it shut, along with the door. She sat down opposite the princess, who made sure to keep Khajam securely in her arms. He may have been domesticated but he was still a bird of prey, and the last thing Jensia needed was for her lady in waiting to get hurt. 

“My queen, I have done what you asked,” Elsuba began, smoothing her dusky pink kameez** with her hands. “The halls of Erebor are not silent, they echo with frivolous gossip and rumours. Most of it is worthless, but even gold can be found among stone.”

“Go on,” Jensia encouraged, still stroking Khajam. “What information have you gleaned that is so great you compare it to gold?”

“They say king Thrain has a double white beard***. He lies in bed mad, haunted by things that aren’t there,” Elsuba leaned forward eagerly, “And his son never wanted to become regent. He was forced to after his father began to lash out at his subjects and wander the halls mumbling to himself about curses, rings and a coming darkness.”

“Interesting,” Jensia replied thoughtfully. “What else can you tell me?”

“The princess of Erebor. She was banished from the kingdom in disgrace. Nobody will say what she did, but whatever it was, it was so terrible that her father gave her not one coin to take with her. Worse, he promised to execute her if she ever set foot in Erebor again,” Elsuba took a moment to adjust her braided bun before continuing, “I think it affected King Thorin more than he lets on. They say he locks himself in his throne room for hours everyday and will receive no visitors during that time.”

Khajam had become restless, fidgeting in Jensia’s lap and pecking at the rubies on her blouse. She gently flipped him over so she could run her fingers through the feathers of his tummy. “Anything else?”

“Just two final things,” Elsuba seemed a tad nervous. “The first is that his majesty is a, um, a Khazdûn umral. ”

Jensia rolled her eyes, having already guessed as much. “I see. What is the last thing you have to tell me, then?”

“Well…” Elsuba had begun to fidget with the rings on her fingers, not meeting the princess’s eyes. “There have been rumours, your highness. Rumours that gold from the treasury is being stolen by a burglar.” 

“That doesn’t concern me,” Jensia reached her free hand out to place it over her lady in waiting’s. “No one burglar could possibly steal all the wealth in this mountain.”

“But thats not the worst of it, your highness. In Dale, there have been sightings of…of halflings.”

Jensia’s breath caught in her throat, her body stiffening like a statue. Sensing her mood change, Khajam began to flap his wings, squawking loudly at her. Elsuba immediately jumped up. 

“I should go.”

“Yes, erm, thank you, Elsuba,” Jensia murmured as her lady in waiting left. She opened the window for Khajam and he promptly flew through it. Jensia watched him soar through the clouds, though her mind was elsewhere. 

Halflings…they were the most dangerous of Middle Earth’s creatures, save for perhaps orcs. They were treacherous beings that would stab their own family in the back if it helped them survive, Jensia was certain of that. Did the king know? Did he have some kind of plan for dealing with such a terrible threat?

Probably not, she thought as Khajam dived out of her view. The king didn’t take his job seriously, or perhaps he simply didn’t take her seriously. It wouldn’t be the first time someone underestimated her ability to rule, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

Khajam landed back onto the windowsill, a dead mouse caught within his talons. Glancing over at the wretched creature’s broken neck, an idea began to form in Jensia’s mind. She would prove herself to the king by solving this problem for him. She would hunt down the halflings, chase them out of Dale like rats out of a ship. Then the king would have to marry her. After all, he would be indebted to her. 

“Khajam, you’re a genius,” the princess giggled, pressing a kiss to the bird’s head. “We’ll hunt them down, just like we would any other beast. It’s a perfect plan.”

Jensia operated entirely on plans like these. Mechanisms and solutions to problems that would take her one step closer to her goal. Even though sometimes her goal seemed so far away - a quick glance at the faint outline of the misty mountains confirmed that - she had to keep going. It’s what her brother had taught her her entire life. 

So with every step, every plan, she moved closer and closer to Moria, and her revenge. 

Chapter Text

“Mahal’s beard, someone’s clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed. What's wrong with you today?”

Thorin looked up from where he had been moodily picking at his breakfast and shot Dwalin an annoyed look. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, come off it,” The bald dwarf rolled his eyes. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Thorin considered him for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. “Yes, of course we are.”

“Then tell me what’s bothering you, you lulkh .”

“I..it’s..” Thorin struggled to articulate the mess of emotions that had been plaguing him since yesterday. “There’s this person I know. A person who I think I might care about. But I did something careless, something that hurt them. And now...and now I've messed things up so much that I’m not entirely sure if there even is any way to fix our relationship.”

Dwalin nodded knowingly. “Well, why don’t you just talk to Balin about it?”

Thorin blinked. Balin? The old dwarf was not at all who he had in mind. No, his thoughts were focussed on his burglar and his explosive outburst from yesterday, ignited by a wounded ego. 

“He’s also pretty torn up about it,” Dwalin continued, oblivious. “My brother only wants what’s best for you, you know. Though I’ve often tried to tell him-”

“Enough,” Thorin cut him off, “I’m not talking about Balin.”

“Then who?”

“Uh..erm..” Thorin floundered for a moment, “Just a..a friend.” he finished lamely. 

“I wasn’t aware you had any other friends,” Dwalin cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“Very funny,” Thorin went back to stabbing noncommittally at his food. “I just…I insulted their pride. Made them feel inferior to me. And I don’t know what to do to make it up to them.”

“Their pride, hey?” Dwalin leant back in his chair thoughtfully. “Well, I might know a thing or two about that. It’s not exactly the same, but when we bring in new recruits for the army there’s always a couple shy ones. The best way to boost their confidence, I’ve found, is to give them a task they’ll ace. A little spotlight and a chance to show off does wonders for their pride.”

“A task?”

“Yes, it can be anything. Take sparring, for instance,” Dwalin continued. “That way this mystery friend of yours could gain the upper hand over you, too, if you let them win. That'll mend their ego and put you on even footing again.”

Thorin considered it. His burglar did seem pretty proficient with those daggers of his. If he could somehow convince him to show them off…

“Thorin?” Balin’s characteristically annoying voice echoed through the corridor. “Thorin, are you in here? Your meeting with the elven king is today!”

“You never saw me!” Thorin desperately said to Dwalin, scrambling out of his seat and towards the door. “I was never here!”

“Of course, I just happened to eat two plates of breakfast today,” Dwalin chuckled. “Good luck with your sparring match then, my friend.”

Pausing at the door, Thorin shot him a genuine smile. “Thank you, Dwalin. I’d be lost without you.”

His best friend just waved him off good-naturedly before Balin could arrive. 

…

Bilbo was not looking forward to his meeting with the king today. Silver and opal studded mirror from the treasury in hand, he made his way into the throne room with no small amount of dread, which was made worse by the way the king was already there waiting for him. 

Yesterday’s events were incredibly embarrassing in hindsight. Bilbo couldn’t believe he’d let himself cry in front of Thorin - he was meant to be unwavering, a paragon of unbreakable resilience and the ever confident leader of his family. To the rest of the world, he had to be an emotionless criminal, a thief hiding in the shadows with no remorse. Bilbo’s own mother's words, a mantra drilled into him since childhood, rang in his ears: 'What you hide, they can't take from you.’

Not that any of his mother’s advice helped her in the end. 

“Ah! Master Burglar, you’ve returned,” Thorin interrupted his thoughts, smiling at him in his usual, casual way, as if yesterday had never even happened. “What have you brought for me today?”

Bilbo remained silent, throwing the mirror to Thorin, who inspected it closely. According to Bilbo’s book, it was worth a great deal, which was proven by the way Thorin raised his eyebrows at it. 

“Not bad,” he said, placing it down. “You’ve proven the stories about halfling thieves correct a thousand times over. No one can say they’re exaggerated, for you are truly skilled in your craft.”

“Of course I am,” Bilbo replied curtly. If this was the dwarf’s way of making up for yesterday, it wasn’t working. “A thief who is bad at his job is a dead thief.”

“So I gather. But now that you’ve proven one legend correct, I wish you to prove another,” Thorin stood up off of his throne and gestured towards Bilbo’s daggers. “I hear you halflings are remarkable assassins.”

Bilbo paled, his mouth opening a little in shock. “You...you want me to kill someone for you?”

“What? No!” The king looked taken aback for a moment, then began to laugh. “I’m so sorry, let me rephrase that. I'm simply curious to see how skilled you are with those daggers of yours.”

“Oh,” Bilbo drew out his two weapons and said sarcastically: “Well, what do you want me to do? Fight you?”

“Exactly! I’d like you to spar with me,” Thorin’s bright blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Just to satisfy my curiosity. If you agree, you don’t have to bring me anything tomorrow. I’ll put money towards your debt myself to cover the loss of a day.”

Bilbo was sure his face had twisted into the most confused, puzzled and quizzical expression imaginable. An abundance of wealth certainly made people act strange! Still, he could hardly turn down a day off. 

“Um..very well, then. Bring it on, I guess?”

“Oh, we won’t fight here! Come with me,” Thorin grinned, opening the doors and striding through the halls of Erebor. Bilbo did his best to stay in the king’s shadow as he led them to what looked to be some sort of training grounds. The walls, made of stone, were inscribed with images of fierce battles and the floor was composed entirely out of soft, spongy moss. 

“So you don’t get hurt when you fall,” Thorin explained, catching his eye. “Also, you needn’t worry about people coming in. Dwalin assured me the room was ours to use for the day.”

Bilbo nodded, though he had no idea who this Dwalin was. He just hoped the moss wouldn’t stain his leather armour as he cast his cloak aside, drawing his daggers in reverse grip and settling into a well balanced stance. Opposite him, the king took off his fur coat and rich, velvet garments until he was only wearing a pair of trousers, boots, and his mithril chain shirt. He picked up a sword, twirling it in his hands a few times before settling into his own stance.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Bilbo insisted. “I won’t forgive you if you do.”

A smile tugged at Thorin’s lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They circled each other, eyes locked as Bilbo’s feet padded the soft moss. Then Thorin lept at him, moving fast, his sword arcing in a graceful strike at Bilbo’s shoulder. The hobbit jumped to the side, using his daggers to redirect the momentum of the dwarvish blade elsewhere. Taking advantage of the situation, he used his right dagger in a feint attack towards Thorin’s gut. When the king twisted to the left, like he knew he would, Bilbo brought the pommel of his left dagger up and connected it to Thorin’s jaw. The dwarf reeled back in pain. 

“Clever, halfling,” he laughed, blood dripping from his mouth. 

“I prefer to be called a hobbit!*” Bilbo responded, leaping forward to strike at him again. The king knocked his blades away and moved to slice at his shoulders once more, but Bilbo quickly brought his daggers back up to meet him. 

“Hobbit? I’ve never heard that before,” The king murmured, stepping closer as their weapons remained locked in an intimate embrace. Vaguely, Bilbo realised through his adrenaline rush that their faces were close enough to share oxygen. “Is it your name?”

“I have no name,” Bilbo hissed, ducking down and rolling to the side till he was behind the king. He jabbed at him twice with his blades, making sure to only aim for where the mithril armour protected the dwarf.

Thorin let out a grunt of pain, spinning around and bringing his blade down on Bilbo with ferocity. Bilbo only just caught it in the V shape of his joined daggers. 

“So hobbit is a term that your people use to refer to each other,” The king continued, adding more and more pressure to his sword, forcing Bilbo’s knees to begin to buckle. “Interesting.”

“Why are you so fascinated by me?” Bilbo asked through gritted teeth. 

“Because it’s impossible not to be.”

The king shifted slightly and Bilbo took advantage of it, kicking him in the shins and deftly rolling away from him. While Thorin was still reeling from his attack, Bilbo let out a flurry of blows, forcing the king backwards while he desperately tried to parry the onslaught of his daggers. Within seconds, Bilbo had him exactly where he wanted him - up against one of the stone walls of the room. 

The king could no longer use his sword in such close quarters. He dropped his weapon but the fight wasn’t over, not in Bilbo’s eyes. Kicking the king’s shins once more, Bilbo forced him to his knees, pressing one of his blades to his shoulder to keep him there. Pressing the tip of his other dagger against the underside of Thorin’s throat, Bilbo forced his chin up to look at him. 

“Well? Is your curiosity satisfied?” he smirked, taking in with no small amount of pleasure the startled look in the king’s bright blue eyes. 

“I..” Bilbo felt Thorin gulp against the blade at his throat. “You..you truly are remarkable, Master Burglar.”

“Your majesty?”

A voice from outside had Bilbo immediately scurrying away from the king, diving behind a shield leaning against the wall. He listened anxiously as Thorin opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Dori. I thought I made it clear that I did not wish to be disturbed during this time?”

“I’m sorry, your majesty. It’s just that the elves left this for you,” Bilbo heard the clink of metal objects being transferred from one person to another, “As payment for the white gems of Lasgalan.”

“I see. Thank you, Dori,” Thorin replied, and Bilbo heard the door close and the clatter of metal being placed down. Then his shield was moved away and the king was smiling down at him, amused. “You can come out now.”

Bilbo felt his face flush as he got up, brushing himself off. He ignored the enlivened glint in the king’s eyes and instead walked towards the pile of shining silver swords, inspecting them curiously. “I thought the elves and the dwarves hated each other?” 

“They do,” Thorin replied, picking up a blade with a leaf motif wrapped around the handle. “See, look at this one. This sword is far too small for any dwarf to use. An insult to our size, no doubt.”

“Too small? It looks like the perfect size to me,” Bilbo replied, feeling his nose twitch involuntarily. 

Thorin glanced at him, then back at the sword, before a slow smile, the kind that only comes when one has what they consider to be a good idea, spread across his face. “Well, it may be too small for me - but it is the perfect size for you.”

Bilbo caught his meaning and his eyes widened. “I told you I didn’t want anymore gifts-”

“Gift? This isn’t a gift. You’d be doing me a favour by helping me get rid of it,” Thorin laughed, placing the elvish blade into his burglar’s hands. “The best way I can get back at the elves is by giving away their gift to the one race they hold in even greater contempt than the dwarves.”

Surprisingly, Bilbo found himself nodding along. Though Gandalf insisted his elven friend treated hobbits well, Bilbo had only ever found the pointy eared folk to be a disagreeable bunch. Sure, the lady Galadriel let them travel through her lands, but they were never permitted to stay. Not to mention the elves of Mirkwood, who had arrested him and his family twice just for trying to pass through their forest. 

“I’ll accept it then,” Bilbo said, “But I don’t really know how to use it.”

“Let me teach you,” Thorin’s eyes lit up and he gestured for Bilbo to hold up the sword. As he did so, he elicited a low chuckle from the dwarf. 

“No, not like that. You don’t hold a sword in reverse grip,” he smiled, moving behind Bilbo and wrapping his hands around Bilbo’s own, correcting his grip. The hobbit tried to ignore the confusing way sparks of electricity shot through him at his touch. “There, that’s better. Try swinging it now.”

The dwarf continued to guide Bilbo through the motions, showing him where best to strike, how to use both hands to channel power in his blows, and how to keep his balance in new and different stances. Eventually, the king stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. 

“I think you’re ready,” he declared, picking up his own sword from the pile of elvish blades. “Feel like testing your skills in an actual fight?”

“That’s hardly a fair rematch, I’ve only been at this for about an hour or so,” Bilbo huffed, “But fine.”

This sparring match was slower and more hypnotic, almost like a dance. Occasionally, one of them would leap forward, their blades would clash, then they would draw back and continue circling each other, all while Thorin corrected Bilbo’s technique. 

“Don’t forget to keep your feet shoulder width apart,” He chided. “And don’t hold your sword so firmly, Master Halfling.”

Halfling? Irritated, Bilbo rushed Thorin, only to find Thorin’s blade ready to meet his with a loud clang of metal against metal. The king smirked at him, their faces inches apart. “Oh, and did I not mention? Don’t let your opponent antagonise you.”

Letting out a hiss of irritation, Bilbo moved to use the same flurry of blows he had used before, only to find his sword far heavier and more unwieldy than his daggers. Thorin easily parried his strikes, pushing him backwards until Bilbo tripped, falling onto the mossy ground. Thorin knelt over him, raising his sword to his chin. 

“Not bad,” he smirked, tilting Bilbo’s chin up in much the same way the thief had done to him earlier, “For your first try.”

Bilbo would not - could not - let this pompous dwarf get the last laugh. Pushing the sword aside, he grabbed the king by his hair and pulled him down to meet him. With a gasp of surprise, Thorin dropped his sword entirely, landing with his hands on either side of the hobbit’s head.

“You only won because I was using a sword and not my daggers,” Bilbo told him resolutely. “Like I said, this wasn’t a fair fight.”

The king only stared at him, wide eyed. With growing embarrassment, Bilbo realised for the first time just how close they were to each other. Thorin was leaning over him in an incredibly intimate way ( far too intimate for their current relationship, the hobbit thought) with their noses practically touching and their breathing hot against each other's faces. And Bilbo still had his hand in Thorin’s hair…

“Erm, ahem,” Bilbo cleared his throat and Thorin immediately leapt up, the two scrambling away from each other, their faces flushed. Bilbo fought to regain his composure. “Um, uh, thanks. For the sword.”

“You’re welcome,” The king sounded equally flustered. “Like I said, it wasn’t really a gift.”

“Right,” Bilbo smoothed back his hair nervously. “I should get back. The fuantlings…”

“Of course!” Thorin nodded rapidly. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Un-until tomorrow,” Bilbo stammered and the two went their separate ways, both with faces as red as the sunset outside. 

…

“Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me,” Jensia smiled over the rim of her wine glass at the lord of Dale. He sat opposite her, the window behind him illuminating the sunset over his city.

“Of course,” he smiled politely back. “I hope you don’t mind that I insisted we have it here. Ever since their mother passed away, I have endeavoured to spend as much time with my children as I possibly can.”

“And what delightful children they are, your grace,” Jensia simpered, turning to look at the three youngest occupants of the lavish table, who seemed to be engaged in a heated discussion. One of them picked up a potato and threw it at the other, who retaliated by splashing his glass of water all over her. “So excitable and…and passionate.”

“Yes, that’s them,” The Lord of dale chuckled fondly at their antics. “And please, Princess Jensia, you can call me Bard.”

“Very well then, Bard,” Jensia took a bite of her roast beef before leaning forward eagerly. “I imagine you work diligently to keep Dale safe in order to protect your children, and the children of your people.”

“I do,” Bard nodded, swirling his wine glass. “The armed forces of Dale are strong and well equipped to keep the peace. With our allies in the lonely mountain supplying us with their finest dwarvish weapons and military might in times of need, I truly believe we are prepared to face any threat to the people of our city.”

“That is good news,” Jensia replied coyly, “For I have heard rumours that dangerous creatures have found their way into your lands.”

Bard immediately stiffened. “What dangerous creatures?”

“Halflings.”

Bard looked surprised for a minute, then laughed. “Haha, is that who you are warning me about? Do not fear, Princess, they’re harmless, really.” 

“I assure you they are not!” Jensia insisted. “I have seen firsthand the terrible destruction that- that vermin can bring. Lord Bard, I can offer you my men to help you drive them out of this fair city. All you have to do is ask, and those demons will be purged from your lands, permanently.”

“Vermin? Demons? Halflings aren’t as bad as all that,” One of Bard’s daughters piped up. She looked to be the eldest, and most mature, given she wasn’t currently engaged in the food-based warfare that was occupying her brother and sister. “I met one, and he was really sweet! I’d even consider him a friend.”

“Then you are a fool,” Jensia said coldly. “He would betray you for half a piece of copper.”

“Princess!” Bard snapped, and Jensia remembered herself. She opened her mouth to apologise, only for the lord of Dale to cut her off. “Enough. Winter will be here soon, and I won’t cast out anyone from these lands until spring has arrived. No one, not even the halflings, deserve to be forced to find a new home during the cold months. That would be incredibly cruel.”

“Very well,” Jensia bit back her annoyance, fighting to keep the diplomatic smile on her face. “But you cannot say I didn’t warn you.”

…

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon, casting the streets of Dale in a dusky near darkness punctuated by the lights of taverns and various other storefronts. Jensia paced these twilit streets, her hands clasped tightly behind her back and a scowl marring her face.

“Um, what do we do now, Princess?” One of her men asked hesitantly. 

Jensia let out a huff of frustration. She wasn’t sure. Her plan had relied on getting the lord of Dale to agree to letting her men hunt down the halflings. Now she would have to change course and reconfigure her plan entirely, all because of that foolish, childishly stupid daughter of his. 

A familiar screech broke through her thoughts. She had sent Khajam out earlier that day to seek out halflings, and this meant he had found one. Hurrying over to where she could hear him, she found her hawk circling around a crying halfling child. 

With a quick whistle, she called Khajam off, and the boy looked up at her with big, tearful gray eyes. Jensia knelt down and gave him her sweetest, kindest smile. “Shh, shh, it’s ok. What’s your name, little one?”

“P-p-ponto,” the child sniffed. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, of course not,” Jensia soothed, wiping away his tears. “You just have to tell me where your family is, and I’ll let you go.”

The child shook his head resolutely. “I-I can’t.”

“Why not?” Jenisa asked, her tone going from warm to icy in an instant. 

“Because uncle Bilbo said I shouldn’t.”

“Your highness!” One of her men called out to her, but Jensia waved him away, her focus entirely on the child before her. “Who is this Uncle Bilbo? Is he your leader?”

“Yes. We-we call him the ring wearer.”

“Your highness, I must insist-”

“Ringwearer? What does that mean?”

“Jensia!”

Jensia turned to silence whichever irritating subordinate dared to address her by her first name, only for her breath to catch in her throat. There, against the horizon, stood two unmistakably large and terrifying shapes. 

“Wargs, your highness,” one of her men warned. “Rapidly approaching Dale. What should we do?”

Jensia considered it for a moment. She could fight, with her men and her crossbow she could easily take out the two beasts, even if she was wearing her saree and mojaris. On the other hand, perhaps a warg attack was exactly what she needed to prove to the lord of Dale that he needed her help against outside threats. Besides, if some of the halflings happened to be eaten by wargs in the process, that would be an added bonus. 

Turning back to face her men, Jensia froze. For a moment, she swore she had seen someone with copper coloured, curly hair. Was she here? No, that wasn’t possible. Jensia had watched her die herself, all those years ago. The princess quickly shook the sensation away, forcing bad memories aside. It was only her imagination, and she had more important things to focus on. 

“We ride for the mountain,” Jensia declared, causing some of her men to let out shocked gasps. “We are guests in these lands, and until an alliance is formed with Dale, their problems are not our concern.”

The dwarrowdam ignored the grumbling of her men behind her as she mounted her sand coloured nellore ram, calling Khajam to her shoulder. They could judge her all they wanted. They would never understand the sacrifices that the crown forced her to make.

…

“Ponto!” As soon as the dark haired dwarven woman had left, Bilbo ran out from where he was watching from the shadows. He moved his hands over the boy’s face frantically. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Ponto sniffed. “That big bird just came out of nowhere, and chased Porto and I. It’s like it wanted to attack us!”

“It’s ok, the bird’s gone now. Where is your brother?” Bilbo asked, knowing the twins were never far apart. Ponto pointed to a stack of barrels, and, poking his head in one of them, Bilbo found two sad grey eyes looking up at him. “There you are, Porto. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Porto sniffed in the exact same way his identical twin brother did. “Well, maybe. I scratched my hand crawling into that barrel.”

“What did that lady want with you, Ponto?” Bilbo asked while taking off his bandages and wrapping up Porto’s scraped palm. “Did she ask you any questions?”

“Yes, she wanted to know where we live,” Bilbo whipped his head around sharply and Ponto began to cry again. “I didn’t tell her, Uncle Bilbo, I swear! I was good!”

“Oh hush, I’m not mad at you,” Bilbo sighed. “Don’t worry about it, ok? Let’s just go home.”

Bang! Bilbo flinched as a door slammed shut. Then, a single scream pierced the air, causing the hairs on the back of his head to rise up. Had the streets always been this eerily empty? Another bang of a door slamming shut hurried his pace as a feeling of dread settled in his gut. More and more screams could be heard and he gritted his teeth, pulling at the twins to encourage them to walk faster. 

“Come on, boys,” he urged as they entered the creepily empty marketplace. “We’re almost home-”

Crash!

Looking up, Bilbo felt his veins turn to ice at the sight before him. A gigantic white wolf, easily three times his size, had leapt down upon the market stalls, smashing them beneath its great paws. It let out a hideous snarl as Bilbo pushed the boys behind him, his hazel eyes wide with fear. 

He had fought many wolves before on the road, but none like this. There was something so magnificently terrible about this one, so inexplicably evil, that Bilbo wondered whether this creature had crawled out from the depths of hell itself. 

Pivoting on his heel, with two tiny hands still grasping his, Bilbo went to go back the way they came only to stop dead at the sight of another wolf. This one was just as large, with dark brown fur matted with blood. Gulping, Bilbo desperately searched for another way out, his desperate gaze landing on one of the houses surrounding the market. Bilbo ran up to one and banged on the door. 

“Hey! Let us in!” He yelled. “There are fauntlings- I mean children out here! You have to let us in!”

No response, save a pair of hands pulling the curtains of the window shut. Bilbo hissed out a curse, turning to see the two wolves creeping towards them, licking their teeth hungrily. He pushed the boys up against the door, backing up as far as the three of them could go, and reached for his daggers - only to find they weren’t there. 

A memory, from only half an hour earlier, flashed into his mind unbidden. He had just left Erebor and wandered into the blacksmith of Dale. 

“That’s a mighty fine blade you got there, little guy,” The burly, dark skinned man had commented. “Elvish, if I’m not mistaken. Are you looking to sell it?”

“Um..” Bilbo looked down at the blade. He had walked in here intending to sell it, but now that it came down to it… the blade shone in the light of the forge beautifully and the hobbit simply couldn’t bring himself to part with it. What would Thorin say? Somehow, the thought of the dwarf’s disappointed face made up his mind. “No.”

“Fair enough! That thing is one of a kind,” the blacksmith replied cheerfully. “You looking to buy, then?”

“Umm…” Bilbo sheathed his new sword, and took a moment to consider his daggers. They were his mother’s, and one of the last things he had to remember her by. But they were also her downfall, and the sight of them brought back a slew of bad memories. “Well, how much are these worth?”

“Hmm, not much going on with those,” The blacksmith shrugged, running his hands through his dreadlocks. “Best I can do is to melt them down for scrap metal. I’ll give you three silver pieces** for the pair.”

Bilbo smiled and nodded, handing them over. The Belladonna Took he knew wouldn’t have hesitated to trade in her weapons for something better. Still, a small part of him wondered if he’d regret switching out his more familiar arsenal.

Facing the snarling maws of two vicious wolves right now, Bilbo definitely regretted it. His new sword felt too heavy in his hands, too foreign. But he had no time to dwell on it further as the dark furred wolf suddenly moved to bite his throat. Bilbo wildly slashed at its nose, causing the creature to let out another hideous snarl. 

The second wolf went for the fuantlings, biting at them and causing the two to scream, gripping onto their uncle and nearly knocking him off balance. Turning quickly, Bilbo slashed at the white one only for it to catch his blade in its teeth, and with a sharp yank, throw him to the ground. He only just managed to roll away before the other one bit down upon his face. 

Screams from Ponto and Porto forced him to whip his head back around, his blood turning to ice at the sight of Ponto in the beast’s jaws. Running up, Bilbo ran up and stabbed the white demon as hard as he could in its leg. Letting out a howl of pain, the wolf dropped Ponto. He fell, hitting the stone hard, and Bilbo flinched at the unmistakable sound of breaking bone. 

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo spun around just in time to see a dark furred foot bearing down on him. He had no time to duck or fight back as its claws tore through his leather armour like butter, slicing open his skin and causing blood to pour out in waves. 

“Uncle Bilbo!” The thief’s head swam for a moment as he forced himself not to give in to the overwhelming, excruciating pain. He could hear Porto calling for him, he couldn’t give up now. Biting back a scream of agony, he raised his sword again, eyes focused on the wolves. 

Having drawn blood now, they thirsted for it all the more. Bilbo could see it in their eyes, the way they licked their teeth hungrily. The white one moved first, but it was slower now, and Bilbo could keep it at bay with slashes from his sword. But the other was a different matter entirely. With his own blood dripping from its mouth, it lunged at him again and again. With every parry, every dodge, Bilbo could feel himself getting weaker. His breath was heavy in his mouth, the floor dizzyingly unstable under his feet and wet with his blood. The creature leapt for him, and Bilbo forced all of his strength into one last plunge of his sword -

Straight into the heart of the creature.

For a moment, it stood still, and Bilbo dared to hope that it had died. Then it growled, the vibrations of the sound traveling through his sword and causing the hobbit to shake. Tearing itself away from him and subsequently the blade from his hand, the creature sunk its jaw deep into Bilbo’s shoulder. 

So this was how he died, then. The great Bilbo Baggins, thief and ringwearer, son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, eaten alive by wolves. In the end, he couldn’t save his family. Behind him, the boys continued to scream, but he could hardly hear them anymore. As the creature dug its teeth further into him, Bilbo found his thoughts inexplicably drawn to that dwarven king he had tried to steal from all those weeks ago. Should he have told him his name? Thorin would have nothing to remember him by now. 

“For the people of Dale!” 

Who was that? He could swear he recognised that voice. Through the haze of pain and regret, he felt the wolf drop him, turning to face some other threat. His vision was beginning to blur now, fading to black at the corners of his eyes. Were those shapes men, fighting back at the wolves? Did he dare to hope that the white shape of the other creature was retreating?

“Stay with me, Master Hobbit,” someone had crouched down beside him, but Bilbo couldn’t see who. They seemed to be looking over his injuries before they turned away from him to yell: “Medic! I need a medic over here!”

“Uncle Bilbo!” Ah, so at least one of the boys survived. He hadn’t failed to keep them safe. With that sense of relief flowing through him, Bilbo allowed himself to slip into darkness. 

…

“Cowards,” Azog seethed atop a hill overlooking Dale. “Cowards, all of them!”

“And now they know we’re here,” Bolg added unhelpfully from where he was leaning against a tree, gutting a squirrel.

Azog turned to him, irritated. “This is your fault. You did not listen when I said we should have attacked the mountain outright.”

“Not even you can besiege a fortress with one man, Father,” Bolg met his eyes. “Sending in Akul Mamog and her daughter as a distraction to draw the dwarves out was a good plan.”

“And yet,” Azog waved an arm furiously at the mountain, “No dwarves have left their posts!”

Bolg walked over to where he was and squinted at the mountain. Azog was right, the dwarves hadn’t moved an inch, pointedly ignoring the screams of chaos and disruption in Dale. 

“At the very least,” Bolg shrugged, “We have caused them to question their faith in their allies.”

“That is not good enough, you uukeleukuk miukavake -” Azog lunged at him, but years of being raised by the pale orc had Bolg prepared. Most of the scars on his face were from Azog and he wasn’t about to get another. He ducked, following up with an uppercut to Azog’s jaw, who let out a roar of fury, trading blows with his son until Bolg tripped on a root beneath him. Azog immediately caught him in a headlock, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. 

“I should kill you right here and now, you pathetic runav ro avhe liavavas -”

A whine of a wounded animal interrupted Bolg’s father. Turning, the two saw their wargs staggering back into the thicket. Azog immediately released his son and strode up to Akul Mamog, who was limping badly. Bolg simply watched, stone faced, as his warg collapsed in front of him. The pale orc leant down, checked her pulse, and scowled. 

“A weak warg for a weak rider,” he hissed. “You have cost us dearly today, Bolg.”

“We will find another way into the mountain,” Bolg insisted. “We always find a way.”

…

“There’s a message for you, your majesty,” A brunette attendant announced to the regent king, who was once again attending breakfast with Dwalin. “From Dale.”

“Thank you,” Thorin waved her away, using his butter knife in a very unsophisticated way to break the seal. Dwalin raised his eyebrows at him. 

“Don’t let Balin catch you doing that.”

“I don’t intend to,” Thorin chuckled. As he began to read the words contained within the letter, however, his smile quickly faded:

“To His Majesty the acting king of Erebor, Thorin the second, son of Thrain, son of Thor, King under the mountain:

Where were your troops in my people’s hour of need? Do you consider alliances to only stand when they serve to be convenient for you? Trust me when I say that if you wish to keep ours, you shall have to attempt to make it up to me through a gesture of a grand nature. An extremely grand nature. Though, even as I write this, I realise there is nothing you can do that will heal my injured men, nor restore the city’s morale. My people looked to the mountain when the wargs attacked last night, and you stood by and did nothing. My disappointment is immeasurable and my patience is thin. I await your reply and your explanation (for you better have one) with great anticipation. 

Yours faithfully, Bard, heir of Girion and Lord of Dale."

Thorin read the letter thrice over, shock and surprise overcoming him. Wargs? In Dale? He had not been informed about this! Nor would he have ever, in his wildest dreams, kept his troops from aiding them!

“Dwalin!” He yelled at the head of Erebor’s military sitting across from him, his shock quickly giving way to anger. “What is the meaning of this? Why did we not come to Dale’s aid last night?”

Dwalin startled at his sudden outburst. “Um, I was going to, but then Balin-”

“Balin!” Of course this was his fault! “Where is he?!”

“In-in the hall of tapestries,” Dwalin stammered as Thorin stormed out the room, completely abandoning his breakfast. The bald dwarf hurried after him. “Thorin, wait! There’s something you should know-”

The regent king ignored him, striding through the corridors of Erebor until he burst into the large room, slamming the double doors open with enough force to make the whole mountain quake. Balin whipped his head around from where he was standing nearby Dis’s arras. There was a figure next to him with his back turned to Thorin, but the regent king barely even noticed them as he strode furiously towards the white haired dwarf. 

“Balin! Explain to me why we betrayed our oldest allies in their time of need!” He bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the entire room. “How dare you? What right do you have to order my troops to ignore the suffering of innocent people?”

“I-I didn’t, Thorin,” Balin stammered. “I wasn’t the one who gave the order.”

“Then who?” Thorin was face to face with him now. “Whose authority were they following? Answer me!”

“They were following mine.”

Thorin went pale. Looking to the figure he had ignored earlier, he felt the breath catch in his throat and the blood freeze in his veins. As the figure turned to face him, he revealed himself to be a dwarf clad in Durin blue with a wild, gray mane of a beard and crazed midnight green eyes. 

“Father,” Thorin gasped as he looked upon the rune marked face of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the mountain. 

Chapter Text

“So this is Dol Guldur,” Gandalf breathed as he and Radagast emerged from the shelter of the forest and came into view of the fortress. 

Most stone, when left to the hands of time, erodes into smooth remnants of what it once was. Not so the fortress of Dol Guldur. The edges of the stone were sharp as broken glass, forming hideous spikes that reached up into the grey skies, a veritable claw of decay grabbing at the clouds. 

“Charming place. It brings down the property value,” Radagast joked as they got off his sleigh, but his heart wasn’t in it. He looked to his friend worriedly. “What exactly are we searching for, Gandalf?”

“Proof,” Gandalf reiterated, “Of any kind, that Sauron was here. Perhaps a Morgul blade from the nine. The white counsel is not so foolish as to think a mere mortal could summon such evil.”

“That’s a tall order,” Radagast sighed. “You forget, my friend, that you don’t have your staff to protect you anymore.”

Gandalf hadn’t forgotten. Walking onto the crumbling causeway, he drew Glamdring from its sheath, the blade shining under what little sunlight made it through the suffocating grey clouds. 

“I think I shall manage, old friend.”

The two wizards made their way carefully through the ruins, Radagast reciting a spell in valinorian quenya. His usually timid voice seemed loud in the face of such oppressive silence: 

“ Ké ná ulko sís nurtaina - I ettuluvas kaninye. Kanin i sá tanuvakse! ”

He slammed his staff down, and a cloud of insects flew out of it, their shimmering, iridescent green wings filling the air. Gandalf watched in awe as they flew through the ruins, shining beacons of hope and light in the darkness of the fortress. 

“I shall never tire of watching you do magic, Radagast,” he smiled, but the brown wizard only sighed. 

“Parlour tricks, Gandalf. Lifting the concealment spell is the least of our worries,” he replied gravely. “I fear neither of us is powerful enough for this endeavour.”

“Are we not still Maiar of Eru?*” Gandalf stated firmly. “You are Yavanna’s favoured. I know she will protect us.”

“ The lady of life cannot protect you if you step into the realm of death. ”

The wizards spun around at the sound of the shadowy voice but only echoing laughter greeted them, seeming to come from everywhere at once. The clouds shifted from grey to black, blotting out all sunlight entirely and casting the pair, who had pressed their backs up against each other and drawn their weapons, in shadow. 

“Show yourself, servant of Morgoth!” Gandalf cried out, and in reply, a thousand voices took up a terrible chant, a chant from long ago that he had hoped to never hear again: 

“ Shre nazg golugranu kilmi-nadu… ”

“No, no!” Gandalf cried, Radagast going pale behind him. 

“Ombi kuzddurbagu gundum-ishi…”

“No!”

His cry meant nothing, as in that moment nine figures emerged from the shadows, hideous phantoms of forgotten kings and men that were too proud, too vain, to stave off the madness of the rings. They circled them, and Gandalf heard Radagast complete the chant in a terrified whisper: 

“Nine for mortal men doomed to die…”

The wraiths leapt at them then, screaming in their unholy voices and lashing out fiercely with their Morgul blades. Gandalf fought back desperately, he could hear Radagast behind him hurriedly gasping out spells, commanding legions of fireflies and twisting vines from the earth. 

But it wasn’t enough. Gandalf could feel their foes overpowering them. It was only a matter of time before they would be in one of those twisting iron cages hanging from the fortress. 

“This was a mistake,” He yelled to the brown wizard, choking on his words - whether out of fear, shame, or just plain exhaustion, he didn’t know. “Let us abandon our hopes of finding proof and leave this place. You were right - we cannot hope to overpower him.”

Radagast didn't have a chance to reply as the wraiths pushed them both up against the edge of the fortress. Far below them, the trees of Mirkwood had withered into thorns, reaching out from jagged rocks like pikes. Radagast looked down in despair, then up at his friend, shaking his head.

“Leave this place?” He laughed bitterly. “How, Gandalf?”

“I…” Gandalf blocked another Morgul blade with a growing sense of helplessness. “I do not know.”

“I see,” Radagast sighed. “Well, perhaps it’s my turn to try being a hero over a hermit for once.”

Gandalf turned to him, horrified, only for his friend to shove him off the edge of the fortress. Falling through the air, the grey wizard watched with growing horror as one of Radagast’s vines whipped a Morgul blade from the hands of a wraith, sending it flying down after him. 

Gandalf landed, hard, on what wasn’t thorns or rocks, but wood - a branch that had leaned out from the forest a few metres away and caught him in its arms. Above him, Gandalf watched as Radagast continued to fight back against the creatures. 

“Run, Gandalf!” he cried. “You must warn the white council!”

“I cannot abandon you!” Gandalf yelled back desperately. 

Radagast looked back at him, and for a moment, the brown wizard resembled what he had looked like in his youth. His eyes glowed green and spectral antlers formed around his head as he bared his sharpened teeth and hissed: “ Leave!” 

Shaking, Gandalf took the Morgul blade and ran, leaving his one last friend alone in the clutches of darkness. 

…

“So this is what the line of Durin has come to,” Thrain hissed. Thorin could feel his heart desperately trying to escape his ribcage, his entire body twitching with the urge to flee. “A one hundred and ninety five year old throwing tantrums in the hall of tapestries as if he were still a snot nosed pebble, crying about everything.”

Biting back - what was it? Fear? Trepidation? - Thorin squared his shoulders, taking advantage of the way he was taller than his father to regain some semblance of self worth. “Father, what are you doing out of bed? Oin said that you needed rest -”

“Do not speak the name of that despicable underling!” Thrain roared, causing everyone else in the room to flinch. “He keeps me locked up in that room as if I were an ANIMAL!”

The more Thorin watched his father, the more his anxiety melted into grief. Where was the king he had once known, the father he had so admired? Gone, forever perhaps. This terrible illness had him in a chokehold, leaving the once even tempered dwarf volatile and unstable, prone to fits of wild rage or biting words as cold as the winter frost. 

“Oin is doing what is best for you, my liege,” Balin’s soft, calming voice gently interrupted both Thorin’s thoughts and Thrain’s outburst. “My cousin is only trying to help. You know that.”

“I do?” Thrain snarled as if Balin’s words were a challenge. The old dwarf simply nodded. 

“You do.”

“I…” Thrain seemed to flounder for a moment, confused. Then he nodded back numbly. “Yes. I do.”

“Shall we go back to bed, then?” Balin offered with a carefully constructed smile. 

“Yes…wait!!” Thrain slapped Balin’s hand away, turning back to the tapestry of Dís they were standing beside. His tone switched again - back to ice cold anger. “I thought I had specifically asked my workers to have this taken down?”

Dwalin and Balin exchanged a worried look as Thorin stepped forward. “Well, I specifically asked them not to.”

Thrain’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t toy with me, boy. You should know better than to turn against me.”

“Dis is still a part of this mountain!” Thorin could feel his voice begin to grow louder. “She is still a part of this family! Damâm uru 'aban! ”

“Do not quote your pretty little phrases at me! Dís is a disgrace, and she will always be a disgrace!” Thrain yelled, back to volatile, loud fury. “She is exactly where she belongs, in the gutter with all the other common whores-”

“You shut your mouth!” Thorin screamed, grabbing one of Dwalin’s axes from him and pointing it at his father, who immediately switched back to cold, cruel anger. 

“What are you going to do with that, boy?” he leered. “Kill me? Don’t make me laugh. You need me alive because you’re too much of a coward to rule on your own. You know, your grandfather was right about you. You really don’t have what it takes to be king.”

Thorin pressed the axe forward towards his chest, determined to prove him wrong, but the more he looked into Thrain’s maddened midnight green eyes, the more his hands trembled until he dropped the axe. It clattered to the ground loudly. 

“I thought so,” Thrain scoffed, but there was no real mirth in his voice. “Soft as the snow, weak as melting ice.”

The words hit Thorin hard, sending him spiralling back in time to one hundred and seventy years ago, when he had walked the halls of Erebor as a young dwarf. The prince, hearing the murmurs of his grandfather and father’s voices through an open door, had stopped to listen in. 

“Thorin must fight with us. This may be his only chance to prove himself as a warrior to his people!” Thrain had declared resolutely.  

“No…” Thror had replied, in his slow, slurred manner of speech that he had grown to use. “He is...too young.”

“Frerin is half his age, and you are letting him fight!”

“The boy has…grit. A…spark that your eldest lacks,” Thorin bit back a gasp as his grandfather’s words drove a spear of hurt into his heart. “Thorin..he is too soft. Soft as the snow…weak as melting ice.”

A hand on his shoulder brought the regent king back to the present. Balin was gently leading his father away, and Dwalin’s hand was gripping onto him tightly, grounding him. “Are you ok, Bâha-ê ?”

Thorin just shook him off, turning to speak to Thrain again. “Wait.”

Thorin saw his father turn to him out of his peripheral vision, his eyes unable to meet those terrifying, crazed ones. “You abandoned Dale. Why? They are our oldest allies, and you betrayed them.”

“Perhaps when you become a real king, you might understand,” Thrain replied coldly, “That what you are sworn to protect is not out there, but in here.”

“You mean our own people?”

“No. I mean the gold of Erebor.”

“How can you say that?” Thorin gasped, horrified. 

“One day you will understand,” Thrain merely repeated, as Oin, waiting nervously at the door, moved to take him away. “A treasure such as this…cannot be counted in lives lost.”

Silence hung heavy in the hall in the wake of his departure. Each of the three dwarves - Balin, Dwalin, and especially Thorin, seemed shaken by his words. Eventually, the eldest of them spoke. 

“I have seen this before,” Balin sighed. “Some call it dragon sickness. A fierce and jealous love for all that glitters under the mountain.”

“Love? I would not call it that,” Dwalin huffed. “It’s madness, plain and simple.”

“Do you see now why everyone is so insistent on you becoming our king?” Balin turned to Thorin, who realised he was still staring at the door Thrain had disappeared out of. “Your father is no longer fit to rule. Is a gold crazed king on the throne of Erebor truly what you want?”

“What I want…” Thorin felt his feet guiding him towards the door, “Is to get some fresh air.”

…

The morning sun shone down on Jensia’s skin, warming her and only adding to her already good mood. Before her stretched fields of green grass and streams of clear water, and below her, the city of Dale hummed with the sounds of people going about their days. Behind her, she knew that she was framed by the lonely mountain, but her focus wasn’t on it right now. Her focus was on Khajam, perched comfortably on her leather glove and chirping excitedly at the chance to stretch his wings.

Scanning the ground around her, Jensia smiled at the sight of a field mouse hidden within the grass. She let out a sharp whistle, and Khajam flew into the air, climbing higher and higher until if he continued any further, he would be out of earshot. Walking slowly towards the mouse, Jensia stopped just short of it and let out another whistle. 

Khajam dived, picking up speed as he launched towards the ground, his talons out to snatch up the creature. But just as they closed around its brown fur, the creature slipped out of his grasp, running away with a series of terrified squeaks. 

“That’s alright, Khajmel **, ” Jensia was determined to remain in a good mood as she scooped up her forlorn bird and placed him on her shoulder. “There’s no need to look so sad. We’ll get them next time.”

Making her way back to Erebor, Jensia saw she was not the only person of note entering through the doors - the lord of Dale was dismounting his horse, his expression grave. It didn’t take a genius to know what he was there for. 

“Princess Jensia?” He had spotted her.

“Lord Bard of Dale,” her hands moved to curtsy, as had become her second nature, but at the last second she remembered she was wearing her leather hunting clothes and instead clasped them behind her back. “I am so terribly sorry to hear about the tragedy that befell your fair city last night.”

“Not sorry enough to do anything about it,” Bard’s momentary surprise shifted to sour bitterness. “We had just had dinner together. I know you and your men were in the area.”

“We were,” Jensia didn’t see the point in denying it. “However, I’ll remind you that I did offer my assistance in dealing with threats to Dale. But, if I recall correctly, you refused it.”

“Right. The halflings,” Bard’s face twisted into an expression halfway between indignation and irritation. “Well, you can forget about that. After last night, their kind will always be welcome in Dale.”

“What?” Jensia gasped, horrified. 

“Their leader fought bravely, he nearly managed to kill one of the wargs before help arrived,” Bard stated, his every word sending sensations of shock and surprise through Jensia’s entire body. “Which is far more than you did. So I would like to reiterate that I shall not be taking you up on your offer - not now, not ever. Good day, Princess.”

He pushed past her, leaving Jensia thoroughly shaken, her good mood shattered like someone had taken a hammer to a pane of glass. Storming back up to her quarters, she locked her door and collapsed onto her bed. Khajam let out an angry squawk as he flew away before she accidentally crushed him - she had completely forgotten he was still on her shoulder. 

How could she allow this to happen? Unbidden, the image of the mouse just escaping her hawk's claws earlier rose to mind and she bit back a scream of frustration. This felt personal now, she knew it was illogical but she felt as if the halflings were making her life difficult on purpose. Whoever this Bilbo was, he was a master tactician and he was running circles around her. 

Sighing, Jensia got up from her bed and took down an intricate wooden box from her shelf. Walking to her balcony, she opened the box and began to set up her chaturanga*** set. Feeling the well worn wood of the pieces between her fingers, Jensia felt herself calm down. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back in Ered Luin, the warm sunlight against her neck, and her brother Rasir smiling across from her.

Rasir…he seemed so real in her mind, as if she could still reach across the table and hug him. She watched as he smoothed back his long, black ponytail, scratching his stubble as he considered the board game before him. Then, an achingly familiar grin broke out across his kind features.

“Seems I win again, Jens,” he laughed, moving his carefully carved dwarven chariot to take her oliphant, leaving only her king on the board. “The problem is, Nan’ith , you come up with all these careful plans, but then one thing doesn’t go the way you thought it would and everything falls apart.”

“If you want my advice,” Rasir continued with a smile, placing her king in her hand, “You have to make contingency plans for your contingency plans. Know what to do when things go wrong and you will succeed.” 

Opening her eyes again, Jensia considered the wooden piece in her hand. The king. Yes, he was the catalyst for all of this, wasn’t he? She had lost sight of the reason she was pursuing the halflings in the first place. She had to find another way to win him over. Glancing around her room, her eyes locked on her dilruba, giving her an idea.

She quickly unlocked her door, and called for Elsuba, who hurried over right away. “Yes, your highness?”

“Schedule an audience with the king. Tell him I won’t give up until he says yes,” Jensia stated plainly. “I hear that there are a series of caves here that have the perfect acoustics for music, echoing the sounds so beautifully, they say Mahal himself listens. Tell him to meet me there this evening. Oh, and to bring his harp.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Elsuba scurried off, and Jensia turned back to Khajam. Walking out with him onto her balcony, she scratched the top of his head absentmindedly. Another memory floated to her mind, this one of her brother doing the same thing.

“The little ball of feathers is all grown up now,” Rasir had sighed fondly, the sunlight shining off of his golden battle armour and bringing out the brown in his dark eyes. “But then, so are you, Jens. I know you’ll be alright while I’m away.”

“I’ll miss you,” she had whispered back, clutching his free hand tightly in her own.

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone,” he replied confidently. “Promise me you’ll take care of our mother? ' Amad needs you, now more than ever -”

Jensia shook away the memory. It was too painful. Placing Khajam down on the balcony, she let out a sigh, which turned into a determined hum. 

“Listen to me, we aren’t giving up on the halflings. You are going to scour Dale for any sign of this Bilbo,” She ordered her hawk. “Find out whatever you can about him. I wish to know my enemy.”

Before she could send him off, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A mouse had found its way onto her porch. Nodding to Khajam, he moved to catch it with his talons, and with a squeak, it ran - straight into the waiting hands of Jensia. Picking it up by its tail, she considered it smugly. 

“You may have won the battle, Master Bilbo,” She smirked. “But I intend to win the war.”

She fed the mouse to Khajam, and there was something so truly satisfying in the way its bones broke under his beak. 

…

Consciousness eluded Bilbo. The hobbit felt as if he was floating in an inky black sea, the pain that had once overwhelmed him now no more than a distant murmur in the waves. At some point, the ocean seemed to still, perhaps washing him onto soft sand shores. Bilbo couldn’t know for certain, for no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t open his eyes. 

After what felt like an eternity trapped in this waterlogged purgatory, he began to hear a voice through the whispers of the waves. It was deep and warm and welcoming, the kind of voice that one might liken to hot cocoa on a snowy day, or a heartfelt hug after years spent apart. 

“You’re going to be alright, master hobbit,” It soothed. “I’ll take care of you now.”

Bilbo felt himself hum in contentment. He wanted to be cared for by the owner of that voice, held in his arms forever. This was especially true when his tired brain matched the image of a handsome dwarf to the sound of the voice. Bilbo felt as if he could see him now, feel his hand wrapped around his own as he continued to speak:

“You’ve gotten yourself so badly hurt. Anyone else would have run from that fight, but not you. Not my hobbit.”

The sweet words made Bilbo even more tempted to wake up, but he was still struggling to open his eyes. His brain stumbled trying to connect the dots before it supplied him with a name. Thorin - so beautiful and melodic. The syllables sounded too harsh on his tongue as he croaked them out in his pitiful voice: 

“Thorin?”

“Thorin?” The voice sounded different now - sharper and more feminine. “Who’s Thorin?”

Forcing himself to open his eyes, Bilbo found himself in bed in a brown canvas tent. Sitting across from him was a tan woman with bright green eyes and curly blonde hair. A wave of disappointment hit him that she wasn’t Thorin, then an even greater wave of embarrassment overwhelmed him as he realised what he had just said, out loud. What was he doing? Calling out for the king of Erebor from his bedside like some kind of dog whining for its master? His cheeks burned red, prompting the woman who he assumed was his nurse to check his forehead. 

“Oh dear, you might have a fever,” she said worriedly. Vaguely, Bilbo realised she was holding his hand and he tried to snatch it away, only for streaks of pain to move through him at the movement. “Careful! You’re badly hurt!”

“Who are you?” Bilbo spat out bluntly. “Where am I? What happened?”

“I’m Angelica,” The woman smiled, revealing dimples in her cheeks. “I’m a nurse at the almshouse**** in Dale. The building wasn’t large enough to hold all the injured, so Lord Bard set up additional tents outside. As for what happened, well, it’s a long story.”

“I remember most of it,” Bilbo replied, recalling the vicious fight he had had with the two wolves. “Tell me everything that happened after I fell unconscious.”

“Well, the men of Dale rallied. They drove both of the wargs away,” Angelica placed her hand over his again and Bilbo stifled a groan. “Once we were sure they were gone, we set about tending to the injured. It may not be humble of me to say, but I am the best nurse in Dale. That is why I was entrusted to care for you.”

“I’ll consider myself lucky, then,” Bilbo gave her his best attempt at a smile, which would have been more sincere had it not been for how uncomfortable he was with her looking at him like…like that. “Thank you, Angelica.”

“No, I should be the one thanking you,” She gushed, and suddenly her other hand was on his chest. Bilbo made a show of flinching and she quickly moved it back. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry! I nearly forgot about your injury. I’m afraid it's going to leave a series of scars. But I wouldn’t worry too much, Master Hobbit. All women find battle scars attractive.”

Bilbo considered informing her that he had never once worried about whether women found him attractive, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get a word in as Angelica continued to yap. 

“Yes, everyone is talking about you, Master Hobbit. We’re all in awe of you,” she said in an undeniably flirty tone. “We all think you’re so handsome, and brave too. Surely someone as amazing as you must have a wife?”

“No. I have no intention of getting married.”

“Are you sure?” Angelica looked at him with pleading eyes. “Marriage comes with certain…benefits.”

“Benefits?” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. 

“In Dale, marrying someone means sharing half their wealth,” She smiled, lifting a necklace up from underneath her apron to reveal what Bilbo was sure was some kind of noble sigil. “Marry rich, and you would live in comfort, never having to worry about where your next meal was coming from. You’d be respected, honoured, adored - one little yes and you could live in paradise for the rest of your days.”

Angelica paused to blush, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I-Um, I mean, your wife could be your chance to live a better life, Master Hobbit.”

Bilbo considered her offer. It was tempting, he had to admit, to live a life of comfort and security for the small price of pretending to love this girl. But there was only one problem: “And my family?”

Angelica blinked. “Your family? What about them?”

“My kin are as numerous as they are needy. Would this wife be generous enough to let them also reap these so-called benefits?” Bilbo wanted to cross his arms over himself, but he figured that would hurt too much. He settled for a glare. “Anyone who marries me marries my family as well. We’re a package deal.”

“Oh…well,” Angelica seemed taken aback, “I didn’t think…I wasn’t planning to…they seem like a lot of work…”

She trailed off, seemingly accepting defeat. “Oh, forget it. Since you care about them so much, I’ll just send them in, shall I?”

“That would be ideal,” Bilbo replied curtly, “Thank you.”

Angelica left the tent, and shortly after, a gaggle of hobbits burst in, crying out in unison: “Bilbo!”

“Hnrgh!” Bilbo bit back a curse as the fauntlings jumped onto the bed, sending more streaks of pain through his body. He quickly counted them, his heart dropping as he came up two short. “Where is Ponto and Porto?”

Gilly smiled, moving her cloak aside to reveal the twins, who were hiding behind their mother nervously. “Go on. Don’t you have something to say to your uncle Bilbo?”

With a flash of brown hair, the twins leapt onto the bed as well, wrapping their little arms around Bilbo tightly. “Thank you,” they whispered tearfully.

“That’s quite alright,” Bilbo smiled, only to fight back a gasp of alarm as they drew back. Ponto had his arm in a sling and Porto… “What happened to your eye?”

Porto brought his fingers up to his face, where his left eye had been bandaged up. Poking out from underneath the linen, Bilbo could see scarring flesh, the tell tale signs of claws raked across his face. 

“When you fell, the creature swiped at me,” he murmured. “The doctor says…I won’t ever see from this eye again.”

Bilbo felt tears well up in his own eyes - whether they were tears of sadness for his family member’s fate, or tears of frustration that he couldn’t have prevented it, he wasn’t sure. Gilly, as if sensing his feelings, quickly added: “It’s alright, Bilbo. At least now, we can finally tell the twins apart.”

Everyone laughed and Bilbo forced himself to laugh along with them, pushing away the sinking feeling in his gut to crack a joke of his own. “Well, if I was a dog person before, I certainly am not now.”

“Perhaps I should give you a cat to adopt then,” A warm, kind voice from the opening of the tent said. “Then you may come to eat those words, Master Hobbit.”

The laughter immediately died on the group's lips as they turned to face the visitor, their expressions careful and guarded. Bilbo strained to see around them. “Who is it?”

“Just someone,” his family parted to let the visitor approach, revealing a strikingly familiar face, “Who is very grateful for the service you did for his city.” 

“Lord Bard,” Bilbo breathed. He quickly waved his family away. “Erm, would you give us a moment, please?”

Bard took a seat next to his bedside as his family filed out. Lobelia mouthed don’t trust him as she passed and Posco nervously hid his hands behind his back so Bard wouldn’t see his stolen bracers. However, the lord of Dale didn’t seem to be regarding them with any sense of suspicion anymore. 

“How are you feeling, Master Hobbit?”

“Still rather confused,” Bilbo admitted. “My nurse said the men of Dale rallied?”

“Yes, I rallied them,” Bard replied. “And led the charge to attack the wargs and drive them out of our city.”

“You’re the one who came to my aid?” Bilbo gasped, shocked. 

“Of course!” Bard looked at him as if the idea of him - aristocracy from the race of men - helping a lowly hobbit thief was no big deal at all. “You collapsed just as I got to you. I was able to call for a medic, who tended to you afterwards. I am sorry that I couldn’t get to the little one in time to save his eye.”

“You did more than I could have asked for, you have no reason to feel guilty,” Bilbo replied, his head still reeling at Bard’s revelation. “I-you said wargs, earlier. What do you mean by that?”

Again, it seemed he had surprised Bard. “Surely you do not think those colossal beasts were normal wolves, Master Hobbit? They are at least twice the size!”

“I don’t know, size is hard to gauge when you’re as small as I am,” Bilbo joked, and was surprised to hear a hearty chuckle from the man beside him. “I..thank you, Lord Bard. There are many who wouldn’t have stepped in like you did.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Bard replied, a spark of something genuine in his eyes. “You defended us. That is more than Erebor did.”

“It is?” Bilbo questioned. “Aren’t you allies?”

“We’re supposed to be. I spoke to their royal advisor. Gave me a load of ridiculous excuses,” Bard leant back with a sigh. “Something to do with their regent king and their real king butting heads. But I should let you get back to rest.”

Patting his shoulder lightly, Bard left Bilbo alone in the tent to ponder his words. Was Thorin in some kind of trouble with his father? Did he need his help in some way?

And what help would that be, anyway? He chastised himself. He was injured and hurt, and Thorin was a king. He didn't need him and he would never need him. When had Bilbo allowed their business relationship to grow into something more in his mind? When did he let this pompous king take up so much space in his head? He had dreamt of him. How embarrassing! As if the king of the richest kingdom in Arda had time to sit by his bedside and comfort him!

With a huff, he screwed his eyes shut grumpily, willing himself to fall asleep and dream of anything other than the dwarven king and his irritatingly beautiful voice.

Chapter Text

“Your Majesty!” A young voice with a thick Ered Luin accent called out to Thorin. “A moment of your time, if I may.”

“What is it?” the regent king scowled, turning to face the dwarrow before him. He was indeed young, not quite yet eighty if his sparse beard and short black hair tied into a bun was anything to go by. “If you’re here to tell me that your insufferable princess has scheduled for me to meet with her in the Cavern of Echoes* this morning, I already know. Balin was insistent that I attend.”

“Oh! I, uh, she…well, she just sent me to make sure you were coming,” the young dwarf’s deep brown skin seemed to pale at Thorin’s snappy tone, making him feel a little guilty for taking his anger out on this poor servant - no, soldier, he realised, spotting his scale mail armour. Durin’s beard, did Jensia really think she had to send a soldier to drag him, kicking and screaming, to meet her?

Thorin didn’t need to be dragged along, he was more than happy to get this over with. With his golden harp tucked underneath his arm, he hoped that whatever music Jensia insisted he play with her wouldn’t take too long. Anxiety over his burglar’s fate was eating him alive and he desperately needed to find out what had happened to him. He didn’t know what he would do if his copper haired thief didn’t meet him at their usual time later that day. 

“Um, your majesty? Can I ask you something?” The young dwarf beside him interrupted his thoughts, wringing his hands nervously. At the regent king’s nod, he continued: “If-If you saw something bad happening to someone, but they weren’t your ally, would you still help them?”

“Unless they were my enemy, of course I would aid them,” Thorin replied, falling into step with the younger dwarf as they walked towards the caves together. “Why do you ask?”

“I..well…it’s just…um…I shouldn’t say…” 

Sensing his hesitation, the regent king placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You can tell me, Khemar. ”

“Well…” the young dwarf still seemed hesitant, but Thorin’s steady hand on his shoulder spurred him on. “When the wargs attacked Dale, we were there. Princess Jensia and I and half a dozen others. We could have helped defend the city, but we didn’t. The princess ordered us to return to the mountain and leave the city to its fate.”

“Is that so?” Cold fury bit through Thorin’s words. 

“Yes,” the dwarf drew back, likely due to the regent king’s now stormy demeanour. “I-I’m really sorry. I wanted to help, I really did! And I wasn’t the only one, either, the others too-”

“Relax. I do not blame you, Khemar,” Thorin interrupted gently, giving the hapless lad his best attempt at a comforting smile. “Thank you for telling me. I will certainly be discussing this matter with your princess today.”

Having reached the Cavern of Echoes, the dwarf offered him a clumsy bow before moving to guard the door. Thorin shot him one final warm smile before letting his mask drop, sweeping angrily into the cave system like some kind of harbinger of death. He barely glanced at the green tinged gray stalactites and stalagmites of the cavern, striding past the natural pillars of stone and the glittering blue glow worms that made their home there. 

The cave system was not called the Cavern of Echoes for nothing. No noise produced here did not split into a thousand reverberations, and Thorin’s angry footsteps were no exception, the cave amplifying and repeating them until it seemed as if a thousand dwarrow strode through the chamber with him. His mighty army of footsteps easily drowned out the melodic scales coming from within the center of the chamber, and no small amount of satisfaction filled Thorin as he turned the corner to see Jensia looking up at him with alarm.

“Your majesty!” She greeted quickly, hurriedly but gently placing down her dilruba and swiftly getting up to face him. “It was good of you to come.”

“You abandoned Dale,” Thorin spat, towering over her. “My oldest ally. You were right there in their hour of need and you did nothing!”

“Should I have done something?” Jensia didn’t flinch. “I had no reason to.”

“No reason?” Thorin spluttered. “They nearly died! Not to mention they are allies of Erebor-”

“Exactly. They may be your allies, but they are not mine,” Jensia crossed her arms over herself, her tone maddeningly even. “I am a guest in these lands, so I took my cue from you. The lonely mountain did not aid Dale, so neither did I.”

“But-I-you-” Thorin stammered angrily. He couldn’t argue with that. 

Jensia gave him one of her irritatingly smug smiles, picking her Dilruba up again and settling comfortably back onto the carpet she had placed on the cavern floor. 

“Well! Now that all that business is sorted,” she said cheerfully, “Let us do what we came here to do and play some music together. Are you familiar with Mahal Shumru, or The Last Lament?”

Thorin responded with a glare, and Jensia shrugged, beginning to play anyway. As she drew her bow back and forth, pulling notes and tones from her instrument both foreign and familiar at the same time, she produced an achingly familiar, forlorn tune. Though Thorin had never heard it played on this kind of instrument before, there was no mistaking the mourning song of his people. Soft and sad, The Last Lament was only ever played to honour the passing of a warrior as they were laid to rest, and joined Mahal’s guard in the great forges. Jensia played the melancholic song beautifully, her dilruba singing sorrowfully into the cave, which echoed her notes back to her like the dead themselves were singing along. 

Thorin snatched her bow from her fingers, instantly snapping Jensia out of whatever spell the music had cast over her. “Hey!”

“You have no right to play that after what you have done!” The bioluminescence of the glowworms in the cave cast his furious features in a ghastly light. “What cause do you have to mourn? The people of Dale should be the ones grieving, not you!”

“I have just cause to grieve!” Jensia yelled back, jumping back up to glare up at him. 

“You are no dwarf in my eyes!” Thorin’s shouts echoed through the chamber, amplifying his fury. “No true child of Mahal would ever turn their back on those in need!”

“Then you are no dwarf either!” Jensia shrieked back. “For you abandoned our people at the gates of Khazad Dum, leaving my brother to die at the hands of orcs!”

“I-wait, what?” Thorin’s anger suddenly subsided, replaced with confusion. “But..Khazad Dum prospers. What are you talking about?”

“Prospers?” Jensia laughed incredulously. “Around a hundred years** ago, the entire mountain was overtaken by legions of orcs and goblins! It was up to my father, King Jarthrasir, and my brother, Rasir, to lead the effort to reclaim our ancient halls.”

“What?” Thorin’s head was reeling.

“Oh, that’s not all! Our forces, facing imminent defeat at the hands of the orcs, desperately sought the aid of the Lonely Mountain,” Jensia continued to lash out. “But did Erebor come to their aid? No! They did nothing! YOU did nothing!” 

“I did not know!” Thorin yelled back, stunning her into silence. He repeated it again, softer: “I swear, I did not know.”

Jensia searched him with those piercing amber eyes of hers before her lips twisted into a scowl. Snatching her bow from his hand, she pushed past him roughly. “Then you are an ignorant fool.”

Thorin listened to the click of her heels echoing through the cave as she left, his mouth slightly agape at this new information. Had his father, the king he had so admired in his youth, truly abandoned their own people in their hour of need? And had he been lying to Thorin about it for all of these years?

…

Bilbo made his way to the throne room with no small amount of pain. 

All of his family had begged him not to leave his bed, but it couldn’t be helped. His one day of rest was over and Thorin would be expecting him to arrive with something stolen from the treasury. And wargs be damned, he wasn’t about to lose their bet. 

Still, his injuries left him with smaller spoils than usual. A handful of gold coins was all he had managed to swipe, thanks to his body screaming in protest everytime he hid, or crouched, or made any sharp movements. He had tried not to be entirely reckless, doing everything in his power to avoid opening up the stitches along his chest and shoulder. Of course, this had nothing to do with the idea of blood soaking through his clothing and showing the king he was injured. Definitely not. 

Arriving in the throne room, a spark of surprise shot through Bilbo at the worried expression of the king, who was pacing the room anxiously. As soon as the hobbit made himself known, Thorin gasped out: “Master Burglar!”

“Yes, I’m here,” Bilbo sighed, trying not to let fatigue stain his voice. “I don’t have much today, but-”

His words were suddenly muffled as Thorin pulled him into a fierce hug. Pain shot through his shoulder and chest causing Bilbo to bite back a scream of agony before Thorin loosened his grip, holding him gently with one hand on his waist and the other one on his thankfully uninjured shoulder. “I heard about Dale. Were you hurt at all?”

“Not a bit,” Bilbo lied, blushing at their proximity now that the pain had died down and he could appreciate how the dwarf was holding him. “Why, were you worried about me, my king?”

Thorin snorted at his sarcastic tone, pulling away from him. “Well, I’d hate to lose my burglar, even if his sass knows no bounds,” he teased back. “I’d have to find a replacement - and where would I find another with such boundless charm and wit?”

“Mmm hmm. Not only that, but you'd never be able to find someone who matches my skill,” Bilbo hummed cheekily, dumping the gold coins on the throne. “I'm in a league of my own, a rare talent even among other hobbits. Admit it, Thorin, I’m the greatest thief in the entirety of Middle Earth, which makes me irreplaceable.”

“The greatest, you say?” Thorin chuckled. “And yet, I still caught you that day you tried to take the Arkenstone.”

“That was a fluke!” Bilbo objected, waving his finger at the rock in question. “It wasn’t my fault that damn thing was embedded within the chair. Name anything else in this mountain and I could easily steal it!”

“Truly?” Thorin raised an eyebrow, his voice taking on a more curious, and perhaps even hopeful, tone. “If I asked you to steal something for me, would you do it?”

Bilbo considered his proposal for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t see why not. Technically, I’m already stealing things for you. I’ll want another day off, though. As payment.”

“Of course,” A warm hand enclosed over Bilbo’s, causing him to jump. Thorin was gently leading him towards one of the statues in the hall which the hobbit often used as a hiding place. “This is Thrain.”

“Yes - your dad.” Bilbo quickly recovered his hand from Thorin’s grasp, looking up at the stone monolith. 

“You have a keen memory. Indeed, Thrain is my father,” Thorin clasped his own hands behind his back. “The real king. However, I have reason to suspect he is keeping important political information from me.”

Gazing up at the stone dwarf’’s scowling expression, Bilbo nodded. “I can believe that.”

“He has fallen ill,” the dwarf continued sadly. “Terribly ill - mad, some say. Yet even in his insanity, Thrain keeps a journal. This book lies by his bedside, morning, noon and night. If my father has betrayed my trust, as I suspect he has, he will have recorded it there.”

“You want me to steal this journal out from underneath his nose?” Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“If it can be done.”

“Hmmm…” Bilbo hummed thoughtfully. A heist would be taxing on his still injured body, but the day off he gained could help him recover. 

“Two days,” the hobbit eventually declared, holding up two fingers. “One to do the heist, the other to serve as an actual day off. I’ll get you your book tomorrow, and I want a meal waiting for me when I get there. Sounds fair?”

“That is beyond reasonable,” Thorin replied gratefully, offering his hand for Bilbo to shake. It seemed to Bilbo that their momentary touch lingered just slightly beyond what was necessary before they pulled away. “I shall see you soon then, Master Burglar.”

“Till I see you next,” Bilbo smiled back, turning to go. 

“Wait! One last thing,” Thorin’s voice drew his eyes back to the king’s piercing blue ones. “Be careful, Master Burglar.”

“I always am,” Bilbo lied with a smirk, pulling his hood up and disappearing into the shadows. 

…

Walking through the door to the stables that served as the hobbit’s home, Bilbo was surprised by Posco grabbing his arm and pulling him inside, his face knit with worry. “Cousin! We have to leave this place immediately!”

“Why?” Bilbo gently pried Posco’s fingers off of his arm, freeing himself. “What happened?”

“People…” His cousin’s face was ashen. “People are being nice to us!”

Bilbo looked stunned for a moment, before barking out a laugh. “I don't,” he paused to let out another chuckle, “I don’t see the problem?”

“It’s unnerving! Besides, we’re thieves, Bilbo,” Gilly explained, wringing her hands, “So it’s better if people don’t notice us. But now that everyone is being so friendly, we can’t slip past and steal from them anymore. Not without us getting stopped and praised for your heroics.”

“Yes, you’ve become something of a celebrity,” Drogo added, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’ve even heard a rumor that some of the stonemasons want to put up a statue in your honour.”

“By Yavanna! I hope you dissuaded them from that,” Bilbo exclaimed, horrified. Making his way to the windowsill that he’d designated as his own, he gathered his family around him. “Listen. I know this might seem like a problem now, but trust me, garnering respect from the people of Dale is not necessarily a bad thing. We can use their trust and goodwill to our advantage.”

“I don’t know about that. I’d feel awfully bad betraying them,” Otho objected, causing Bilbo to shoot him a harsh look. 

“Empty words and empty gestures from the people of Dale are not going to put food on our non-existent table,” He scolded. “No, I believe we should use this to our advantage and take a page out of our friend’s, the Brandybucks, books.”

He paused to gently guide Primula, who was standing beside him, into the middle of the circle. “I defer to your expertise in this area, cousin in law, as you were formerly a member of that family.”

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Primula beamed at him before turning to address the other adults. “As many of you know, before I married Drogo, I was Primula Brandybuck. My old family specialised in cons and scams, preferring to trick their victims into willingly parting with their coins rather than simply stealing them, like we do.”

“Now, the Brandybucks run both short and long cons, but we’ll primarily do short cons. Which means we’ll be aiming to get all the money the victim has on their person at that specific time. It's an opportunist scam that isn't pre-planned to any great deal. My family has several go tos - pumpkin drops, ring rewards, beer splashes***,” Primula stifled a giggle at the confused looks on the other’s faces, “But in the interest of playing to our strengths I suggest not using any of those. We’ll pair up, one person will distract the mark while the other pickpockets them for all their worth.”

Primula proceeded to guide the rest of the family through the motions, showing them how to act, how to lie, and how to get others to trust you easily. All the adults listened attentively, save Rosa, who waved Primula off self assuredly. 

“I’m an old woman, and I’ve run many a con in my time,” she chuckled. “You should help the others, dear.”

And help the others Primula did. As she carefully instructed everyone, smiling and gently teaching them all she knew with patience, respect and kindness, it struck Bilbo how different she was today to her usual self. Granted, he hadn’t known her for long, but the Primula he knew was shy, hiding behind her long blonde hair and letting her husband Drogo speak for her. Yet the Primula he saw before him now was confident, self assured, assertive and strong. Bilbo wasn’t sure whether him letting her take charge for a moment had led to this change in her, or whether it was something else entirely, but he knew one thing - 

She would be perfect for his heist tomorrow. 

As the meeting wrapped up, his family retired to their different areas of the barn, chattering excitedly about what they’d learned. Bilbo pulled both Drogo and Primula aside, causing the couple to look up at him questioningly. 

“First of all, well done, Primula,” he began, “You did very well tonight. Consider me impressed.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Primula waved him away modestly, resting her other hand on her stomach. “My father was a great teacher, so all of my skills are really thanks to him.”

“Well, I pulled you aside to ask you if you’re willing to use those skills to help me. And not just you, Primula. I need your help too, cousin,” Bilbo nodded to Drogo as well. “I have a heist tomorrow, a big one, and it's going to require both of you.”

“You want us to go on a job with you, alone?” Drogo bit his lip nervously. “Just the three of us?”

“I don’t know about this, Bilbo,” Primula replied, wrapping both of her arms around her stomach, “Shouldn’t I stay and help the others with their cons?”

“Listen,” Bilbo’s tone turned insistent, “Drogo, besides me, you are the best thief the Baggins family has to offer. You are silent, careful, and remarkably skilled at lockpicking. Primula, you and your silver tongue can talk your way out of anything. I need both of you tomorrow.”

Primula and Drogo exchanged a look before Drogo finally nodded. “Alright, we’re in. What’s the job?”

Bilbo smiled. “We’re going to steal from the king of Erebor.”

…

Bilbo had snuck into Erebor enough times by now for him to know his way around. He guided Primula and Drogo through it, frustratingly pulling the gawking hobbits away from the grandiose architecture, which only proved more and more difficult as they got closer to the royal quarters. While the other hobbits excitedly whispered to each other about the magnificent dwarvish statues and shining gold decorating the walls, Bilbo focused on ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder and chest. All three thieves had grown so distracted that Drogo nearly walked into a pair of dwarves, with Bilbo catching him just in time and pulling him into the shadows.

“How is he doing, Oin?” One of the dwarves asked while Bilbo watched tensely from around the corner. “His altercation with Thorin has me concerned he is progressing backwards rather than forwards.”

“Towards? Towards what, Balin?” The other dwarf seemed to be hard of hearing, which was a relief, considering the soft panting coming from Primula. How was she so tired already? He and Drogo had barely broken a sweat, and out of the three of them, Bilbo was the one who was actually injured!

“Towards madness, my friend,” the other dwarf sighed. “Has his condition changed at all?”

“A fall? No, the king is in no pain,” As if triggered by the word pain, Primula bit back a whine, wrapping her arms around her chest as Drogo watched her worriedly. “Not physical, anyway. He is still raving about King Thorin and the former princess. I had to use some of the strong stuff to put him to sleep just now.”

The dwarves moved on, and the hobbits continued to creep forward silently, save for the same soft panting from Primula. Finally, they reached a grand door which Bilbo was sure led to the king’s chambers. The massive door was twice the size of the thieves and decorated with gold to resemble the face of a dwarven warrior, his expression furious and his mouth open, presumably screaming out a war cry. Nestled within this open mouth was an intricate lock system. 

“Drogo, I need you to get to work on that,” Bilbo ordered, his cousin immediately pulling out his lock picking tools and standing on his tiptoes to reach the mechanism. Bilbo then turned to Primula, who had somehow turned her soft peach skin into a nauseating shade of light green. “What in the world is wrong with you today, cousin in law?”

“N-nothing,” she stammered, leaning up against the wall and wrapping her arms around her stomach. “I’m fine.”

“You most certainly are not fine,” Bilbo asserted. “Ever since we entered the mountain, you’ve been exhausted and in pain. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“I said I’m fine!” Primula snapped back, causing Drogo to wince, dropping his tension wrench. The lock made an awful clicking sound, completely resetting.

“You guys need to be quiet,” Drogo whispered. “This thing isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s incredibly intricate and I need complete silence and a lot more time to get it right.”

“We don’t have time,” Bilbo replied, his ears twitching as he picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. “Hurry up!”

Drogo frantically returned to his work, and Bilbo turned back to Primula. If she was light green before, she was practically an avocado now, with her hands tightly covering her mouth. With growing horror, Bilbo realised she was fighting the urge to throw up. 

“I’m…getting…closer…” Drogo muttered, but so were the footsteps. With every second, they grew louder and louder, and Primula’s eyes told Bilbo she couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

In a split second, Bilbo grabbed Drogo, pulling him away from the lock and pushing open the door opposite them. He pulled Primula into the room as well, shutting the door on the three of them just as a patrol of guards walked by. 

Bilbo let out a sharp exhale, collapsing on the empty four poster bed in the thankfully empty room. His ears twitched at the sound of Primula vomiting out of the window, but he had his own problems to worry about. He could feel blood beginning to soak through his shirt underneath his armour, meaning his stitches had come undone. Carefully taking his clothing from the chest up off, Bilbo fished in his pocket for a needle and thread, gritting his teeth as he sewed his flesh back up again. More than anything he wished he had some alcohol, to either clean his wounds or take a good swig of. When he was done stitching himself up and his clothes were back on, he hopped off the bed and turned to the other hobbits.

“You still think you’re fine?” Bilbo asked irritably, glaring at Primula, who was wiping the sick from her mouth. She at least had the decency to look embarrassed. 

“I thought I would be, I really did,” she muttered as Drogo put his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “Nobody told me I would feel this sick. And I didn’t want to disappoint you. I’m still so new to this family, you know? I didn’t want to turn down a heist, just because I…just because I’m…”

“Just because you’re what?”

“Just because I’m pregnant.”

“You are?” Drogo exclaimed, delighted. 

“You are?” Bilbo exclaimed, horrified. 

“I..I realised about three days ago,” Primula’s hands hovered over her stomach before moving to play with her long hair nervously. “I was going to make a formal announcement, but then you asked me to help you yesterday, Bilbo, and I…I don’t know. I’ve struggled to fit in in with this family for so long, I guess I just liked feeling important, or useful, I guess. I didn’t want that to end.”

“But my bloom, this is amazing,” Drogo said joyfully, kneeling down to place his hands over her stomach. “Am I truly going to be a father?”

At his wife’s nod, Drogo burst into tears, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her close. Watching the two of them, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel his anger melting a little.

“You should have told me, Primula,” he began, his tone halfway between gentle and stern. “Not just about your pregnancy, but about your struggles to fit in. After you married Drogo, you became a Baggins, and your wellbeing fell under my care. If you ever feel out of place again, I want you to come to me first, and I will see what I can do, alright?”

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Primula beamed at him, before turning back to her husband. Bilbo left them to their excited chatter, pressing one pointed ear on the door to ensure the patrol had moved on. Satisfied, he led the others outside, having to gently pull them out of each other's arms so Drogo could get back to work on the lock. 

“Any idea if it will be a girl or a boy?” Bilbo casually asked his cousin in law, who giggled. 

“That’s really not how it works, Bilbo,” she responded, her bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I hope it’s a boy, though. And I hope he has his father’s warm brown eyes.”

“Then I hope he has his mother’s beautiful bright blonde hair,” Drogo responded warmly, flicking back his own black hair as he continued to fiddle with the lock until a satisfying click! was heard. “That’s it! We’re in!”

It took all three of them pushing against the doors with all their might to open them. Inside, they found an office, papers messily strewn across the stone desk. Primula eyed them worriedly. “How are we going to sort through all of those?”

“We don’t have to,” Bilbo whispered back, pointing out the door in the back of the room. “The score is through here, in the king’s bedroom.”

The door opened with a frighteningly loud creak. Creeping into the room, lit by the early morning light, Bilbo’s first thought was that the king must be dead, for his eyes were wide open, yet he lay still as stone in his bed. Then the soft snores of the monarch reached his ears, causing his shoulders to slump in relief. 

The trio crept forward, scanning the room for the book. After a moment, Drogo motioned to the king’s bedside table, where a deep blue, leather bound tome rested. Carefully, his bare feet falling silently on the cold stone tiles, Bilbo moved to take it, only to find it far thicker, and heavier, than he thought it would be. Unprepared for the extra weight, Bilbo dropped the book, causing the king to stir. 

The three hobbits froze in fear, time slowing down to seconds. Bilbo could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the dwarf snorted. Then the king rolled onto his side, his eyes, midnight green and terrifying, fixed on Bilbo, who held his breath, completely still.

A second passed.

Primula had gone green again, holding back another attack of morning sickness, but she dared not move. Drogo stared with wide eyes at her, as if willing his wife not to do anything that might give them away.

Another agonising second passed.

Finally, the king’s soft snoring filled the room once more, and Bilbo stumbled away from the bed. He hurriedly scooped up the weighty tome, taking great care not to drop it again. 

Just as he was about to close the door and leave the king to his slumber, he spotted the shine of something metallic under the bed. Quickly and quietly, he gave the book to Drogo and stealthed back in, snatching it up. It was a key of some sort, runes carved into the steel and a piece of metal dangling through a loop at the end. Bilbo pocketed it, figuring it might prove useful later on. 

Back in the empty room from before, Bilbo flipped through the book while Primula threw up outside the window. It certainly looked like the notes of a madman - scribbled in both runes and common, erratic and unorganised, the sentences seeming to almost threaten to spill from the pages. Flipping to the back, he tore out an empty page on which he drew a quick map of Erebor, which he handed it to Primula, who had collapsed back against the wall with Drogo attentively at her side. 

“Use this to get back home,” Bilbo told the couple. “You clearly need to rest, Primula. I’ll deliver this book to our contact myself.”

“Of course. I-Listen. I’m really sorry, Bilbo,” the blue eyed hobbit apologised, her voice stained with guilt and regret. “I nearly ruined everything.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Primula. You did incredibly well, as did you, Drogo,” Bilbo replied warmly. “Oh, and, um, congratulations. To the both of you.”

They smiled back, and Bilbo felt a strange ache in his chest as he watched them leave, hand in hand. He hoped that what he felt was something reasonable, like worry about having another mouth to feed, and not something unreasonable, something truly stupid , like jealousy over their relationship. Over the way they both had someone to hold hands with, someone to share their joy with, someone to care for them when they’re sick. Bilbo shook his head irritably to get rid of these thoughts. 

Some people get to fall in love , he reminded himself inwardly, And some people have to follow a different path. 

…

Thorin was in no mood to eat his lunch. Instead, he had his meal sent to one of the dining rooms that happened to be closest to the throne room and ordered none to interrupt him there. He also told his attendants to leave the door open, hoping his burglar would recognise the invitation to meet him there instead of their usual spot. However, before he could begin pacing the room until his thief arrived, Balin pulled him away to sign trade agreements and treaties. 

When he finally wrangled himself free at about one o’clock, he returned to the room to find his hobbit was already there. The thief sat comfortably on the table itself, his back partially turned to the door as he munched on an apple. He was flipping through what Thorin instantly recognised as Thrain’s journal. 

“I doubt you’ll find any kind words about me in there,” he said loudly, startling the hobbit who looked up at him with wide eyes. He gave him a smirk to assure him he wasn’t mad. “What does he say? That I’m a disappointment? A failure? A sorry excuse for a dwarf?”

“I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have read it,” Came the hurried reply. “I was just-”

“Curious?” Thorin smiled as he gently took the book from his hobbit’s hands. “Of course you were. Master Burglar, during our time together, I have found that to be one of your defining traits.”

The thief’s face flushed with embarrassment as he hopped off the table. Drawing a sack out from underneath his cloak, he began to sweep the food laden on the table into it, much to Thorin’s surprise. 

“What in Durin’s name are you doing?”

“You agreed to give me a meal once this was over,” the hobbit replied, cocking an eyebrow at him as he tossed a leg of ham inside the sack. “I’m claiming it.”

“You’re not going to sit down and eat?” Thorin asked, resisting the urge to add: like a normal person.

“Oh, this isn’t for me,” His burglar laughed, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m giving this to my cousin Drogo and his wife Primula. She’s pregnant now, so she’ll need to eat twice as much.”

“She is with child? Truly? That is incredible news!” Thorin replied, bewildered. “Please, pass my congratulations on to her.”

“Well, thanks for the sentiment, but,” the hobbit paused to grunt as he lifted his sack full of food onto his back, “I don’t think she’ll believe me if I tell her the king of Erebor wishes her well with her pregnancy.”

Thorin chuckled, though his laughter died on his lips as his burglar moved to leave. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To enjoy my weekend off,” the thief called back, using his free hand to wave goodbye. “Till next time, Thorin!”

“Till we meet again,” the dwarf muttered back, wandering into the adjoining room and collapsing onto the throne. Opening up the journal, he began to try to make sense of the ravings of a madman. 

…

This proved to be no small feat. The journal was not chronological, skipping days or even entire months only to come back to them later, and the journal switched from Khuzdul to common to back to Khuzdul pretty irregularly, sometimes even mid sentence. The regent king wasn’t sure how he felt knowing that his burglar would have been able to understand some of it after all. 

Still, Thorin continued to scour through the notes, wincing as he turned to a page where his name was written at the top. He skipped it, only to find himself flipping back to the page despite himself. He had to know what his father thought of him. Sighing, his eyes scanned over the words:

Thorin. 

His name shall be Thorin. After Thorin the king of Erebor, dashatu Thráin, a mighty descendant of Durin who ruled over our people and watched them prosper throughout his reign. 

I hope the same will be true for my newborn son. 

Thorin balked, checking the date above the page. Sure enough, it was the date of his birth, all those years ago. A smile twitched at his lips, but promptly vanished as he spotted a smaller, newer note scratched into the bottom of the page:

He is nothing like his namesake!

With a tired sigh that held more emotion than he would have liked to admit, the regent king continued through the notes until he spotted the unmistakable runes spelling out Khazad Dum. Pulling the tome closer to him, he studied the page, reading the passages written there with growing horror and fury: 

Khazad Dum calls for aid. I have refused. 

Why should I fight Jarthrasir’s war? It is a fool’s errand. The Longbeards shall not suffer Blacklock**** stupidity, though our ally, the lord of the Iron Hills, says otherwise. He sides with Jarthrasir, and speaks of honour and loyalty. Loyalty to what, I say. Loyalty to the crumbling halls of a dying kingdom? 

I will not send my troops to reclaim what little we might have lost in the misty mountains. For we stand to lose far more by weakening the greatest dwarven kingdom of middle earth - Erebor, the pride of Mahal’s people. 

Thorin turned the page:

Jarthrasir floods my skies with messenger hawks, begging me to send my troops. He speaks of his family, of his son who leads the charge. ‘Everyday he comes closer to death’, he writes. Ha! Does he think he can so easily sway me to pity? Not only has my child died in battle, but my father too. The pain of their deaths have only left me stronger, showing me that life is cheap. I have lost much, so by Mahal, I will do whatever I must not to lose this gold. 

Gold…Erebor glitters with it. The mountain shines with the treasure of our ancestors, our halls overflowing with riches beyond measure. How could any dwarf ask me to leave my post? To leave all this unguarded? Have they so quickly forgotten the dragon that came for our lands? I have not! I will not lose this treasure, not even if the entire world burned would I leave it unguarded!

Horrified, Thorin continued onto the next page: 

Jarthrasir’s son is dead. Tada a'lâj.

I care not. Our alliance with Ered Luin has been severed, perhaps forever. The Blacklock line lies with his daughter now. I hope for Jarthrasir’s sake she is better behaved than my own wayward child, Dis. 

I do not regret what I have done. Because of me, the mountain remains, and the treasure within it. I do not care for Khazad Dum, or Ered Luin, or anywhere else. So long as the gold of our kingdom remains safe and within my grasp, nothing else matters. 

“Nothing else matters…” Thorin muttered under his breath, shocked. “Nothing else matters?!”

Fury coursed through his veins as he strode through his halls until he reached his fathers door, which he banged on angrily. 

“Um..did you wish to see the king, your majesty?” Turning, Thorin saw Oin standing nearby, holding a medicine bottle in one hand and a key in the other. Snatching it from him, Thorin hissed:

“Dismissed, Oin. No one - not even you - is allowed to disturb me and my father for the next few minutes.”

With a terrified nod from the healer, Thorin unlocked the door and strode through the king's office and into his chambers, slamming the door behind him. The sharp bang! it produced immediately woke his father up. 

“What are you doing here, boy-” the old man began, only for Thorin to immediately interrupt him. 

“How could you abandon the troops of Ered Luin in their hour of need?!” He cried, throwing the journal to the ground. “How could you sit by while our brothers and sisters through Mahal suffered at the hands of orcs?!”

Thrain narrowed his eyes, looking down at the book. “Where did you get that-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Thorin screamed. “What matters is that you are a terrible king! You have no honour and no loyalty!”

“Do not speak to me of loyalty!” Thrain yelled back, getting up to glare at his son face to face. “You have done nothing but oppose me and cause trouble for my kingdom! If I am a terrible king, then you are the most pathetic, immature pebble to ever sit upon the throne of Erebor!”

“At least I would never abandon our alliances! Your madness has blinded you, twisted you into a monster beyond comprehension-”

“You are an insolent child who cannot understand what it means to rule!” Thrain’s face formed into an expression of true fury. “You are soft as the snow, and weak as melting ice. You are a pathetic king who cannot understand that the gold of this kingdom is more important than anything else-”

“Even the lives of other dwarves?” Thorin shot back, “Of your people? Of your family?”

“I will not stand for this insubordination any longer!” Thrain picked up his bedside table and hurled it at his son, who dodged it just in time as it crashed into the wall. “I shall have you banished from here! I shall order you to be killed should you ever step foot in these halls again, just like your whore of a sister and her bastard child!”

That was it. Striding forward, Thorin seized his father by the front of his tunic and pulled him closer so Thrain could see the hate in his blue eyes. “Go ahead then. Banish me. But tell me, who will rule when you pass on? You favourite son? He lies dead below our feet. Your daughter? You sent her away yourself. Admit it, old man. I’m your only option. So unless you want to lose the only heir you have, I suggest you do as I say.”

In an instant, Thrain switched from fiery fury to cold, simmering anger. His bluff had been called, he had nothing to hold over Thorin anymore. No leverage, no power, just the hate embedded deep within his own midnight green eyes. 

“And what,” he drawled out sarcastically, “Does the great Thorin the second have to say?”

“I want you to swear by your beard and your blood that you will not keep anything from me again,” his son hissed. “I refuse to be kept in the dark any longer.”

Thrain considered him for a moment before letting out an irritated huff. “Fine. I swear by my beard and my blood, to Durin or Mahal or whoever it is watching over us, that I will not withhold anything from you any longer.”

“Good,” Thorin released his father, pushing him away as he turned to go. Just before he left, he heard his father whisper under his breath:

“Your mother lives on in you.”

Thorin turned to him, wide eyed, hoping to see a glimpse of the man he once knew, only for Thrain to wave him away irritably. “What are you still waiting here for? Get out!”

With a sad nod, Thorin left, locking the door behind him. 

…

Thorin watched the sunset from the balcony outside his room, mulling over the day's events. The soft metallic click of his bedroom door opening interrupted his thoughts, and he turned, expecting to see Balin, or Dwalin. 

He did not expect to see a certain copper haired thief looking up at him with a sympathetic smile. 

“Drogo and Primula enjoyed the food,” the hobbit filled the silence between them, walking up to stand next to him on the balcony. “They had an announcement of their pregnancy, and used the meal you gave us to throw a party of sorts. But I slipped out early - parties aren’t really my thing, you understand.”

“I did not think I would see you again today,” Thorin replied. 

“Well, it’s like you yourself said. Curiosity is one of my defining traits,” the thief replied wistfully. “I couldn’t help it - I simply had to know what happened between you and your father.”

Thorin remained silent, so the hobbit continued: “Luckily for me, when I returned, you were sitting right where I left you. You know that means you would have been studying that journal for three and a half hours?”

“It’s a thick book,” Thorin shrugged.

“I know,” his burglar laughed. “I had to carry it.”

Thorin couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that before the two settled into silence once more. Eventually, Thorin turned to the hobbit next to him. “How much of my conversation with my father did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it,” came the reply, laced with a tinge of guilt. “Does that anger you?”

Thorin surprised himself by shaking his head. “No. Strangely, it doesn’t. I can’t help but feel like I would have told you anyway.”

Silence stretched between them again before his burglar spoke. 

“You’re a good king, Thorin.”

“What?” The dwarf laughed incredulously, “No, I’m not. Didn’t you hear my father? I’m too soft. Soft as the snow, weak as melting ice.”

“That's a stupid saying,” his burglar huffed. “It doesn’t even rhyme. We hobbits have a much better one - soft as the snow, strong as the daffodils that grow.”

“What does that mean?” Thorin asked.

“Daffodils? They grow in the wintertime. They’re known to be the most resilient of flowers,” his copper haired thief explained, shrugging. “The phrase is used to describe someone who is strong and resilient, but chooses to treat the world with kindness and empathy. Someone who is still kind, despite facing life’s challenges.”

“That is commendable,” Thorin murmured. “Still, your respect for me as a ruler is misplaced. I haven’t done anything for my people. I’m not even a real king.”

“But you care,” the hobbit insisted, warm hazel eyes looking up at him with what Thorin might have called admiration if he wasn’t sure he knew better. “You love your people, and though you say you don’t do anything for them, you just stood up to your father on their behalf and the behalf of your allies. I don’t care what you say, I think that was brave of you.”

Brave? Thorin was anything but brave. He had never once excelled in anything in his life, he’d always been a pathetic lonely dwarf running from his responsibilities. But this hobbit - this being who had only ever known struggle in his own life, this person who had devoted himself entirely to his family to the point that he risked his life for them every single day - believed in him. Thorin gulped, leaning closer to his burglar until their faces were only inches apart. 

The thief gave him a quizzical look, confused at their proximity. Thorin found himself confused too as he drew back, unsure why he felt the need to do that. Blushing a little, he retreated into his room, rifling through his liquor cabinet until he found a bottle of blackberry wine and two glasses. Filling both of them to the brim, he returned to the balcony and handed his burglar one. 

“To bravery, then,” he smiled, raising his glass in a toast.

“To bravery,” his hobbit grinned back, “And to a successful heist.”

The pair clinked their glasses and drank, and as they chatted and continued to sip their wine, neither of them noticed a deep brown feathered hawk watching them keenly from the cliffs above them. 

Chapter Text

“Copper coloured curls?” Jensia questioned the blacksmith in front of her. “You’re sure?”

“Course I’m sure!” The dark, burly man chuckled, plunging the sword he was working on into the fire of the furnace. “I may not be a dwarf like you, miss, but I know metal alright.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Jensia gave him her best attempt at a polite smile, despite inwardly reeling from this new information. “So just to reiterate, a few days ago, a short man - even shorter than me - with copper coloured curls, came into your shop and refused to sell you an elvish sword?”

When chasing down leads on the halflings, Jensia had not expected the local blacksmith to be such a wealth of information, no matter how friendly the other citizens of Dale claimed he was. She certainly hadn’t expected her first real clue about this mysterious 'ringwearer' in days.

“That’s right!” The blacksmith cheerfully returned to banging at the metal in front of him, now red hot and hissing. “Curious fella, that one. I swear I saw his nose twitch just like a mouse! Isn’t that adorable?”

“Mhm,” Jensia fought to maintain her smile. “Did you get a name? Bilbo, perhaps?”

“No, he wasn’t the talkative type,” the blacksmith shook his head, threatening the structural integrity of his ponytail of dreadlocks. “He came in here to trade some daggers for a bit of silver.”

Jensia’s ears pricked up. “He did?”

“Yep! Just give me a moment and I’ll fetch them for you,” the smith doused the sword in water with a cloud of steam and disappeared into an adjacent room, coming back with a cloth wrapped bundle. He handed it to Jensia. “Here you go, miss. If you like them, they’re yours for four silver. I was planning on smelting them down for scraps.”

Jensia bit back trepidation as her hands hovered over the cloth hiding the weapons. This was the pivotal last piece of the puzzle, the last piece of evidence she needed to separate reality from unfounded anxiety. Depending on what those daggers looked like, this was either all a remarkable coincidence or a situation straight out of her worst memories. 

“Thank you for your time,” Jensia gave the blacksmith a large purse of gold alongside a tight lipped smile. She left the shop, gesturing in iglishmek for her men outside not to follow her as she found a quiet place in a back alley to open the bundle. 

Fingering the edges of the fabric, she wished desperately that Khajam was here, but she had sent him to watch over (not spy on, that was beneath her) the king and report back on anything of note. But now she was alone, alone to unwrap this parcel and come to terms with whatever was inside. With a quick, sharp exhale, she drew back the cloth to reveal the daggers. 

And instinctively drew back in horror, the weapons falling to the cobblestones with a terrible crash. The daggers were crude, rudimentary, non symmetrical and unbalanced, with one significantly longer than the other. They were just how she remembered them. These blades were the exact same ones that had been dug deep into her mother’s back all those years ago.             

Jensia felt as if she was a terrified little girl again, staring wide eyed in horror as her mother collapsed onto the dining room table. Her blood spilled out onto the silverware, the life draining from her body as she desperately tried to choke out her daughter’s name. Jensia was frozen, unable to look away as a masked woman clad entirely in black pulled the weapons out of her mother’s corpse. She then looked directly at her, and Jensia could never forget those cold, cruel green eyes that seemed to pierce through her just as sharply as those daggers could. The dwarven princess had stumbled back as the figure stepped forward, cocking her head to the side like a fox eyeing its meal. As she did, her hair came loose from her hood, spilling out onto her side in a cascade of copper curls. Jensia screamed and the figure fled, disappearing out the open window as palace guards flooded into the dining hall. 

“ Uzbadnâtha Jensia ?” A voice speaking calming Khuzdul brought her back to the present. One of her higher ranking soldiers knelt at her side, his arm hovering hesitantly over her shoulder, concern writ across his face. “My lady, we heard you cry out. Are you alright?”

“I…yes, I’m fine,” Jensia muttered, smoothing back her long black hair. She hadn’t even realised that she had called out out loud. “Let us return to the others.”

Leaving the alleyway, the dwarrowdam felt her mood soar at the sight of her beloved hawk perched on another one of her men’s arms. “Oh, Khajam! You’ve returned!”

“He has only just arrived,” the soldier explained, carefully handing the bird to Jensia who lovingly buried her nose into his feathers. “He seemed quite frantic to see you.”

“Do you have news for me, Khajmel ? Please, my friend, tell me it’s good news,” Jensia smiled, only for her bird to shake his head at her. “Oh. Oh, Mahal’s beard. How bad is it?”

Khajam ducked his head guiltily. Whatever knowledge he had to impart, it was sure to be dire news indeed.

…

The day after the heist on the king was a rainy one. The constant deluge of water from the miserable grey sky washed away the good spirits Bilbo was in on his day off. His slight irritation at the weather only grew into outright annoyance as the cold autumn wind kicked up, biting at his wet clothes and hair. Sulkily, he told the rest of the working hobbits whom he felt obligated to join in the streets to go home early for the day. 

“But we haven’t conned nearly enough people to cover the cost of our food yet!” Otho argued. 

“He’s right! Bilbo, we don’t mind a bit of rain,” Primula agreed. “We can keep going.”

“No. I won’t let any of you get sick on my watch,” Bilbo shut them both down resolutely. “Especially not you, Primula*. As for the money, I’ll stay out and earn it by myself.” 

Unfortunately, that proved difficult as foot traffic slowed down due to the miserable weather. After what was surely hours of waiting in the cold and wet for a suitable mark, Bilbo spotted the same blonde nurse who had helped heal him. Angelica, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter. The hobbit tugged his hood up and pushed past her, slipping his hand into her pocket as he did. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, commoner!” she hollered at his retreating form, and Bilbo smirked under his hood. Slipping into a back alley, he counted out the contents of her coin purse. Twenty gold pieces! That would be enough to feed his family for at least another month! 

The momentary feeling of triumph within him was immediately squashed as, distracted by the gold, the hobbit tripped on a stray cat. Landing face first onto the mud covered cobblestones with a vicious meow from the damned creature, Bilbo hissed out a curse as he spat out the dirty sludge. Putting the coin purse away, the thief tore off his deeply soiled cloak, tucking it under his arm as he stormed off in the direction of his lodgings. 

“Damn this rain and damn this town,” he muttered bitterly under his breath. “They almost make me understand why the dwarves choose to live under the mountain, all cosy in their undergrou-argh!!”

Without warning, something with sharp talons dived down and was attacking him, clawing viciously at his scalp. Bilbo twisted around in surprise, thrashing and flailing his hands at his assailant who he couldn’t even see. The pain reached a climax as the talons tore a chunk of his hair out, and with a flurry of what felt like wings, it disappeared. 

Bilbo rubbed the small, aching patch on his head where the missing lock used to be, squinting up to try and see what had attacked him. He swore he saw a bird flying off - it looked like a hawk of some kind, but he couldn’t be sure with the rain falling into his eyes. In that moment, the hobbit was so focussed on the skies above him that he walked smack bang into a tall stranger. 

“Ow! Watch it, you cretin!” He snapped up at them, despite knowing full well he was the one in the wrong. 

“Bilbo?”

With a growing sense of shock, Bilbo looked up and realised the man was no stranger at all, but was in fact Gandalf, soaked through with rain and looking significantly worse for wear. His long grey beard was disheveled and his eyes had a tortured, haunted look to them.

“Where have you been, grey wizard of the west?” Bilbo wondered aloud, reaching out to touch his robes which were definitely more torn and damaged than the last time he’d seen them.

“Never you mind,” Gandalf pulled away. “Listen to me, old friend. Things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I fear you are no longer safe here, you and your family must leave with me to Rivendell at once. A terrible storm is on the horizon, the only shelter you have left is to live with the elves until this grave danger has passed.” 

“Rivendell? Really, Gandalf, do I look like a Gamgee to you?” Bilbo rolled his eyes, referencing the one and only family that had taken Gandalf up on his offer to stay there. “You’re being overly cryptic, as usual. Care to fill me in on what this “terrible danger” is?”

“Firstly, there is nothing wrong with being a Gamgee,” Gandalf chastised him. “Secondly, the danger I speak of is a being of ancient evil that has returned to hunt down a powerful relic he lost long ago. I am on my way to call on the only people I can think of who have the greatest chance of sending him back to the shadows where he belongs, but first, I…I had to make sure that you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo waved away his concern. “This is all awfully dramatic, Gandalf. Who are these people you’re meeting, anyway?”

“One of them is Elrond, the lord of Rivendell. He is kind and welcoming,” Gandalf replied, before his voice took on a more pleading tone. “Please, Bilbo, the last homely house is the safest place you could possibly be. For the sake of your family, I implore you to-”

“No.” Bilbo held up his hand firmly. “Things have just started to look up for us now. People actually appreciate us here. Don’t you get it, Gandalf?” he let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve finally found a place where I am respected!” 

“Is that so?” Gandalf replied evenly, “Tell me, Bilbo Baggins, how long do you truly think that will last?”

Bilbo opened his mouth as if to reply, then promptly shut it again. Pushing past the wizard, he stormed off, ignoring Gandalf’s call for him to stop and come back. 

…

“We have received a message,” Bolg told his father, his hands wet with blood up to his elbows as the sun set through the twisting branches behind him. 

“From the one you call master?” Azog asked, tearing his teeth into the still beating heart of the young stag they had killed together. Bolg nodded from where he sat beside its antlers, periodically snapping bits of them off, eliciting twitches throughout the creature**. 

“Correct. It came this morning, through a messenger bat,” he recounted, going on to explain how the creature had flown to him, and opened its maw. From its mouth came the necromancer’s voice, terrible and hideous. 

“News of the dwarf king’s death has not yet reached my ears, Bolg of Gundabad. Understand that this leaves me greatly disappointed in you both. My army will arrive in Erebor during the first days of winter. If you wish to live to see the world reborn, see to it that the mountain is little more than a ruin when we arrive.”

“He is impatient. Does he not know that there are other ways to weaken a kingdom besides killing its leader?” Azog mused, squeezing blood out of the stag’s heart and pouring it into his mouth. 

“What do you propose?” Bolg questioned, picking at his sharp teeth with a piece of antler. 

“We starve them,” the pale orc grinned. “Slaughter their livestock and burn their fields. Poison their wells. Make their lives miserable until our forces arrive.”

 “It’s not like you to avoid the hunt,” Bolg challenged, raising a scarred eyebrow.

“Avoid the hunt? I’m starting it,” Azog laughed, low and guttural. “Nothing will draw the dwarves out of their mountain faster than their own hunger and desperation. And then, as soon as their little king shows his face…”

The pale orc crushed the heart in his hand, splattering blood across his hideous features. “We will strike.”

…

Something was definitely off with Princess Jensia. 

Truthfully, she had been in a foul mood ever since her fight with the king of Erebor. Kabir desperately hoped that she hadn’t figured out that he had been the one to tell the king about what happened in Dale. Or rather, what didn’t happen. But he couldn’t help it! The king had just been so...so warm and so kind. He was not at all cold and officious like Kabir had come to expect of royalty.

The young dwarf really wasn’t shaping up to be the soldier he’d hoped to be. Barely three months in on the job, and he was already ruining his princesses’s diplomatic relations. If he wasn’t immediately fired when they got home, it would be a miracle for sure. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to make it up to her, though. He’d even gotten up at the crack of dawn this morning when she had called on them. He did his best to hide his yawning as they made their way to Dale, for what, Kabir wasn’t sure. The princess’s hawk had been sent to scout ahead, or maybe just stretch his wings, and the young dwarf could no longer see him in the early morning mist. 

A sharp wind blew through their ranks, sending terrible shivers down Kabir’s spine. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t wait to go back home to Ered Luin where it was always warm and sunny. He also couldn’t wait to return to his amad’s cooking, which actually contained spices in it and wasn’t tasteless like the stuff they served here in Erebor. Not only that, but he had only just started courting a girl before they left. A sigh escaped his lips at the memory of her dimpled cheeks and warm brown eyes. He hoped Durita was still interested in him. Letters from home took so long to arrive…

Just at that moment, a flutter of wings whacked his helmet out of place as Khajam returned, flying over to Princess Jensia. Fixing his headpiece, his eyes widened at the expression of pure horror on her face. 

“Follow me,” she ordered, gesturing for them to change direction. As they continued to walk east, they quickly found themselves in a valley. From the rolling green pastures, Kabir reasoned that this must be where the people of Dale kept their livestock. This suspicion was confirmed as he spied fuzzy white shapes in the mist. They were sheep, surely, though they all seemed to be lying down - Kabir gasped as he grew closer to one and realized why. 

The sheep had been shredded, terrible claw marks raked through its flesh, its head torn gruesomely from its body and thrown unceremoniously to the side. Jensia bent down to examine it further and Kabir realized the entire field of sheep had been mutilated this way. And beyond that, the next field, and the next, an unending vision of carnage as far as the eye could see. 

What could have done this? The shocked young dwarf thought to himself, carefully sidestepping what looked like intestines near his feet. 

“What are we looking at here, your highness?” His commander asked, clearly wondering the same thing as him. 

Jensia turned around then, and smiled, much to everyone else’s surprise. “An opportunity, commander. We are looking at an opportunity.”

Taking out two daggers, she handed them to Khajam, who flew up and over the pastures. Kabir thought he saw the hawk plunge one into a sheep near the middle of the field, and the other in one near the edge. As if this wasn’t strange enough, Jensia then pulled out from her cloak what looked like a lock of curly hair. It shone like copper in the early morning light as she disdainfully threw it over the sheep’s corpse. 

Khajam flew back to her shoulder and Jensia gave them a triumphant grin. “Let us return to the mountain, gentlemen,” she announced. “Our work here is done.”

…

Bilbo was busy putting on his armour when the stable door opened with a sharp bang! Guards from Dale poured in and grabbed his family members, pinning their hands behind their backs painfully. He heard screams from the children as they were picked up roughly by their hair and thrown over the shoulders of the guards. 

“Don’t fight them!” Bilbo yelled over the chaos as some of his family members drew their weapons. Drogo looked like he was about ready to slit the throat of the guard who had Primula. “Just do what they say! I can fix this!”

Bilbo’s attempts at remaining calm himself took a turn for the worse as he was pulled away from his family, marched in a different direction as the others were dragged into the jail. “Wait! Stop! Why aren’t you taking me with them?”

“Lord’s orders,” one of them grunted, taking Bilbo by his collar and pulling him away from his family. 

“Lord Bard? What are you talking about? He thanked me not so long ago!” Bilbo spluttered, confused, as he was led, stumbling, through the city towards the pastures to the east of it. “Please, this all must be some kind of terrible misunderstanding. If you would just let me talk to Bard, I am sure he’ll understand-”

“Well, you can talk to him now.”

Bilbo was thrown painfully to his knees, making his still recovering body ache. In front of him stood Bard, looking every bit the imperious and mighty lord as he gazed out into the distance. 

“Lord-lord Bard,” Bilbo stammered out. “I don’t understand. When last we spoke, we were on good terms-”

“That was before this,” Bard swept his hand out, and Bilbo felt his breath catch in his throat as he took in the scene before him. Slaughtered sheep lay scattered in the fields around them, drenched in their own blood. “Care to explain?”

“You cannot possibly think I did this!” Bilbo protested, moving to get up only for a soldier to force him down to his knees again. “This was wolves, the same ones that attacked us, wargs, you said-”

“That is the narrative you would have me believe, and believe it I did, at first,” Bard replied coldly, “It makes sense, of course, except for the fact that those wolves were dying when they ran from my city.”

“They could have recovered!” Bilbo protested. 

“Oh, just drop the act, Baggins,” Bard sighed in frustration. “My men have already found these.”

He threw two bloodstained daggers at Bilbo’s feet, and the hobbit felt his veins run with ice as he recognised them as his own. “I..I sold those to the blacksmith, you can ask him if you like-”

“The same blacksmith who has left town to visit family?” Bard narrowed his eyes, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Because he has recently come into a large amount of money? Do you think I don’t find that suspicious at all?”

“What? If I had money, I would spend it on my family!” Bilbo implored. “Why would me and the other hobbits do this? What could we possibly stand to gain?”

“These sheep have been mutilated beyond repair. If one or two of them are missing, we would be none the wiser,” Bard snapped. “And your family would be well fed for the winter.”

“Are you crazy?” Bilbo practically yelled at him. “We could never do anything like that!”

“Couldn’t you?!” Bard yelled back. “Because I explicitly told you to stay on the right side of the law and you deliberately disobeyed me!”

He angrily gestured for one of his men to come forward. “Cad! What did you say happened to you yesterday?” 

“Some halfling girl, all cute with her curly hair and sweet smiles, came up to me and asked if I wanted to buy flowers from her,” An irritated guard told them. “Next thing I knew, my coin purse was gone and so was my pipe!”

“And didn’t you have a complaint too, Horatio?” Bard called forth another one of his men. 

“Yes, I do. I had only just bought a new bag to carry my things. It was embroidered with Ereborian gold thread,” the brunette guard griped. “When I bumped into a halfling who asked if I wanted to share an ale with him. After just two drinks, my brand new bag was gone, and the belt I’d tied it to as well!”

“And you, Ben?” Bard seethed, calling a burly man over, the only one not in a guard’s uniform. 

“They stole the tools of my trade, all of the equipment that I need to be a stonemason,” he muttered bitterly. “They took it from right under my nose as they spun me stories of faeries and never-ending sunsets.”

“You see, master Baggins?” Bard hissed down at the hobbit. “Do you really expect me to believe these incidents are all connected through some kind of ridiculous coincidence?”

Bilbo gulped, feeling the sweat beads on his forehead despite the crisp autumn weather. “I…” he stumbled out. “I…we…may have been responsible for some of those…misunderstandings. But we were not responsible for this.”

He gestured out at the fields. “Look, fine, I’ll admit it. I am a thief and so are my kin. We always have been, trickery and subterfuge runs through our blood like a family heirloom. And let me tell you something, Lord Bard," Bilbo's voice took on a note of shaky determination, "When you have lived in poverty for as long as I have, you learn to do what it takes to survive. But needless, cruel, unthinking slaughter? That is not something my family and I would ever do. It is not something we are even capable of doing.”

Bard gave him a hard, long look. “I want to believe you, master Baggins, I really do,” he eventually sighed. “But you left something else of yours in these fields.”

The lord fished out a lock of copper hair from his coat and Bilbo felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Bard held it up to the hobbit’s head and scoffed. “It’s a perfect match.”

“I swear, my lord, a bird took that from me,” Bilbo practically begged, his voice breaking. “It was some kind of hawk, it tore the hair from my head -”

“Do you realise how absolutely ridiculous that sounds?” Bard laughed humourlessly. “I have had enough of your lies, Master Baggins. My mind is made, you and your people have committed this crime and shall be punished accordingly.” 

All the fight left Bilbo then. There was no coming back from this. Fighting to hold back the tears in his eyes, he clasped his hands together and looked up at Bard almost as if in prayer. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice strained, “Please don’t execute my family. I beg you, if you have any mercy at all-”

“I am not unreasonable, nor unjust,” Bard looked down at him without a shred of pity in his eyes. “You still did Dale a service when you defended it from that warg, though I see now that that was for selfish reasons. Nevertheless, I owe you a favour and that favour will be your freedom.”

A collective gasp went up from the men around them at that, which was quickly silenced by Bard holding up his hand. 

“But do not think you are so easily forgiven, Master Baggins. From now on, I declare any and all members of the halfling race banned from entering my city’s doors. You are banished. Should any of you ever dare to step foot in Dale again, you will be thrown into jail for the rest of your lives. Understood?”

Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat. “I understand.”

“Good,” the hand on Bilbo’s shoulder dragged him back onto his feet as Bard turned his back on the hobbit. “Now get out of my sight.”

Chapter Text

“Your majesty!”

Thorin turned around to see a young dwarf hurrying after him, wearing scribe’s robes caked with dust. The king immediately recognised him as Ori, the young cousin of Nori, who had spotted the stag they’d killed on the evening of Lomil Zatamaradu. It felt like an entire lifetime had passed since then. 

“Your majesty,” the boy skidded to a stop in front of him. “The west wing of the archival library has collapsed! Thankfully, no one was hurt, but a vast treasure trove of information is now buried under piles of stone and rubble! I’ve been sent to find you to fix the matter.”

Thorin forced himself not to let out an irritated sigh. He didn’t have time for this, he was just about to meet his burglar in the throne room, and that was more important than a pile of crusty old books.

“Find Balin,” He dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. “He will deal with your concerns.”

“But your majesty!” Ori whined. “Don’t you care about this at all?”

The phrase sparked a memory that sent a shock of electricity down Thorin’s spine. Wasn’t that what…hadn’t that been something his burglar claimed to have seen in him? The thief’s voice echoed in his head, as if Thorin was still on that balcony, sipping blackberry wine, the hobbit’s eyes shining with the light of the setting sun. 

“You care. You love your people.”

“Very well,” Thorin spun on his heel. “Firstly, evacuate the area entirely of librarians, archivists and scribes. Send one of them to fetch Bofur, leader of the mining guild, and request that he bring a team of his most trusted workers to clear out the rubble. Then, ask them to collaborate with our best engineers to identify the cause of the accident and ensure it doesn’t happen again. Do you understand?”

Ori nodded, wide eyed, seemingly taking notes in his head. Thorin gave him an encouraging smile. “Good lad. Follow my orders, handle this responsibly, and you’ll rise through the ranks of our royal scribes quickly.”

The young dwarf scurried off again, eliciting a chuckle from Thorin. Well, if his burglar truly thought he was a good king, he supposed he ought to start acting like one. 

Speaking of his burglar, Thorin quickened his pace so he could still meet him in time. Closing the throne room doors behind him, he turned and swept his arms around dramatically. “Fear not, my friend, for I have arrived!”

He was met with silence. 

Thorin cocked an eyebrow. Was his hobbit hiding? He supposed it wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Come out, come out,” he smirked, peering around the statues in the hall. “You know you can’t hide from me, little mouse.”

Evidently he could, for his burglar was nowhere in sight. The king decided to try a different tactic. “Pfft, well, it seems like that scoundrel of a halfling has run off! I guess I’ll just have to forfeit our deal and keep his ring for myself, then.”

When even goading didn’t work, Thorin’s smile faltered. “Listen, Master Burglar, I’m sorry I was late,” he called out into the darkness. “Won’t you reveal yourself now that I am here?”

His words echoed in the room around him, and suddenly, that same sense of pathetic smallness he’d felt on the day he first met the thief returned to him. The same sense of insignificance, the same biting, aching, isolation. 

“Please?” his voice broke a little as he called out again. 

He was met only with the disapproving cold stone glares of his ancestors, and his own desperate voice reverberating back to him across the room. 

…

The regent king spent what ended up being two hours waiting in that throne room. When he thought about it now, perched on the edge of his bed in the royal quarters, his stomach twisted with an ugly mixture of resentment, wounded pride, and embarrassment. 

What had Thorin expected? His burglar had obviously grown tired of Erebor - grown tired of him - and had run off with his family to nest elsewhere. Their relationship had clearly meant nothing to the thief. For Mahal’s sake, of course it didn’t! That damned creature hadn’t even told him his name!

“Argh!” Thorin hurled a pillow across the room, watching it collide against the metal door with an unsatisfyingly soft thud. He glared at it on the floor, his breaths coming out short and sharp as blades.

Finally, he got up. Picked the pillow up off the floor. Cradled it in his arms. Collapsed back onto his bed. 

It wasn’t fair of him to judge the hobbit. Their deal was never fair to begin with. Maybe it was better this way. The copper haired criminal could return to a life of freedom, or at least a life dedicated to his family, who clearly needed him. It had been selfish of Thorin to take him away from them, to use the thief for his own twisted amusement and separate him from his duty. 

Duty…the one concept the regent king never could quite seem to grasp. 

“Thorin!!” 

A desperate voice startled him out of his thoughts, making him drop the pillow. Had he imagined it? 

“Thorin!!” No, it came again, this time with a bang on his balcony door to accompany it. Startled, the dwarf unlatched the doors and swung them open. 

His burglar stumbled in, pushing past him and collapsing onto the bed. Thorin felt his mouth hang open a little as the hobbit winced, digging his hands into his leather armour where blood was beginning to soak through. The dwarf wasn’t sure what he expected to find on his balcony, but it wasn’t this. 

“Listen, Thorin,” the thief wheezed, curling into a ball, “We need to discuss the terms of our deal-”

“Be quiet!” Thorin snapped, his shock shattering and reforming instantly into cold, hard, concern. “You are bleeding. You are bleeding , master burglar.”

“Oh really?” the hobbit chuckled sarcastically, holding up a crimson dyed hand to his face. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Thorin grunted in response, pulling his burglar up into a sitting position and practically tearing off his cloak and armour. Peeling away the layers of leather and linen, Thorin was met with a terrible sight. 

The hobbit’s torso was marred with terrible claw marks. If that wasn’t bad enough, the stitches running through them had been recently reopened, letting deep red blood seep through. Thorin was no doctor, but even he could tell that whatever healing that had taken place here had been abruptly halted and perhaps even reversed now that the stitches had come undone. 

“How?” The regent king eventually asked, gesturing helplessly at the scars. 

His burglar was looking away from him, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall. His face was flushed, red colouring his cheeks in such a way that Thorin worried he might have a fever as well. “Wargs. But if you’re asking about how I reopened my stitches, I did that by climbing up here. I had no choice, your door was locked-”

“We need to get a medic,” Thorin interrupted, jumping up and striding towards the door. “Oin is the royal physician. I’ll call for him-”

“No, no! Please don’t!” The thief protested. “I’m not even supposed to be here, remember? What do you think his reaction will be when he finds a bleeding hobbit sitting on your bed?”

The dwarf paused, his fingers twitching over the door handle anxiously. “What would you have me do, then?”

“Find me a needle and some thread - silk, preferably*,” came the reply. “And fetch me some gin, too. I’ve stitched myself up a hundred times before. I can do it again.”

Thorin hurried to follow his instructions, fetching thread and a needle from his sister’s old embroidery cupboard. He ignored the way his heart twisted painfully at the sight of her room. Returning and grabbing some gin from his liquor cabinet, he handed it and the rest of what he’d found to his burglar. The hobbit then began to carefully pull the needle through his flesh as Thorin watched with a mixture of anxiety and morbid fascination. 

“You know, my mother used to say that if you leave your mouth hanging open like that, an insect might fly into it,” the thief broke the silence with a joke, biting off the end of the thread with his teeth. 

Thorin turned away, embarrassed. “You didn’t attend our meeting today.”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. When we made our…arrangement, it was under the assumption that I would have access to Erebor on a daily basis. That I would be close enough nearby.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore,” the thief grimaced. “My family has been framed for a crime we didn’t commit and now we’ve been chased out of Dale. I didn’t meet you at our usual time because I was too busy trying to set up camp with my family outside the city walls. But that isn’t a permanent solution. We will have to leave soon, and seek shelter elsewhere.”

“They chased you out of your own home?” Thorin turned back to him, aghast. 

“Hobbits don’t have homes,” the burglar replied, a note of sadness in his voice that was quickly hidden underneath a businesslike tone. “It’s fine, I’m used to the nomadic lifestyle. What isn’t fine is our deal. I will not be able to keep my word if I am far away.”

The hobbit paused, clearly expecting the regent king to reply. Only Thorin couldn’t. He just felt sick. Sick. The thought of his burglar - his trusted confidant, his friend, leaving him now - after they had grown so close - it made his stomach churn like a restless sea. How could this have happened? Hadn’t they both suffered enough?

“You cannot go,” he eventually announced, as if it was a royal decree. “You will not go.”

“Thorin…” a strange mix of irritation, resignation and pity flashed across the hobbit’s features all at once. “It’s not that I want to. It’s that I have to.”

“Leave it to me,” Thorin implored, taking his hands in his own. “I will find a way to keep you here. Just…just trust me. Please.”

The thief twitched his nose, as if considering it. Finally, with a sigh, he nodded. 

“Good. You shall remain here for the night. No, I will not hear a word of protest!” The dwarf silenced his companion before he could even open his mouth. “Your family will be fine. Stay here, and allow yourself a chance to recover for once.”

“What, and share a bed with the king of Erebor?” the thief joked, pulling his hand free to tuck a stray strand of copper hair behind his ear. “How scandalous.”

Thorin turned bright red, rushing to the door. “I will sleep in my sister’s room. Rest well, Master hobbit.”

He heard a tired chuckle in response behind him. “Goodnight, Thorin.”

…

Bilbo had never slept so soundly in his entire life. The soft linen sheets seemed to wrap around him like an embrace, warm and inviting and so, so easy to get lost in. It was no wonder the hobbit slept in till the late hours of the morning. Gradually, his hazel eyes blinked open at the golden light streaming in through the glass balcony doors. 

“Stupid king,” Bilbo murmured, the events from the night before returning to him in a haze. “Overly generous…m’ not a charity…”

Click! The door opened and the hobbit’s sleepiness disappeared immediately as he scrambled to sit up, grabbing his sword from the bedside table and pointing it at the dwarf who opened the door. 

Who didn’t miss a beat, chuckling as he set down a tray laden with breakfast foods at the foot of the bed. “Ah, so that’s why the king’s been in such a good mood recently.” 

Bilbo felt his heart rate slow down as he took stock of the dwarf. He was more than a little chubby, with thick orange hair braided in a loop from one side of his face to another. He wore a chef’s apron, but more importantly, a reassuring smile. Bilbo slowly lowered his weapon. 

“Thank you,” the dwarf returned his inquisitive stare. “Forgive me, but what are you? You seem far too small for an elf, unless you were a kid, but King Thorin would never-”

“I’m not a child!” Bilbo snapped, reaching for the tray.

“Woah! No need to get hissy!” The dwarf held his hands up defensively as Bilbo stuffed a cinnamon roll into his mouth and munched on it angrily. “There’s no reason for you to worry. I know full well it’s none of my business who the king chooses to have relations with.”

Bilbo had to down the tea on the tray to keep himself from choking on his cinnamon roll. 

“Speaking of his majesty,” the dwarf continued, obliviously fishing in his pocket as Bilbo continued to gasp for air, “He asked me to give you this, and to tell you to read it as soon as possible.”

With a bow, which Bilbo had never had directed at him before, the dwarf returned to the hallway, leaving a very confused hobbit behind with a letter in his hands. With a huff of irritation, Bilbo tore open the envelope to read its contents:

“You shall never have cause to doubt me again, Master Burglar! Not only have I managed to pull some strings, I have woven them into the perfect solution to our problem. Be at the entrance of Erebor at noon today. Your family will be waiting for you there.”

“Cryptic,” Bilbo muttered, biting into his second cinnamon roll. A glance at the sundial on Thorin’s balcony told him he had just an hour to finish his food and get to the gates. Wolfing the rest of the meal down and hopping out of bed, he found his shirt, cloak and armour on the dresser table, cleaned and polished. 

A blush crept involuntarily up his neck as he remembered the events of the last night. How many more times was Thorin going to catch him off guard? He had expected anger from the king, not gentleness, or kindness, or warm hands peeling away his clothes…

He coughed, shaking himself out of his thoughts as he finished getting dressed and began to make his way stealthily to the entrance of Erebor, where he was surprised to see his family really were waiting for him, excitedly whispering to themselves. To his shock, he even saw a few surprised smiles, and cautiously optimistic looks on their faces. 

“Bilbo, where have you been?” Lobelia demanded as he came into sight, but her stern tone seemed half hearted, distracted at best. 

“Busy,” Bilbo replied, counting the hobbits under his breath. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, cousin, it’s great news!” Falco beamed, Poppy in his arms. “The king of the dwarves is letting us stay in Erebor!”

“He what ?”

“It’s true,” Drogo added, one hand patting Bilbo on the back encouragingly, the other firmly intertwined with Primula’s. “We received a message this morning telling us that we, those formerly known as the hobbits of Dale, have been invited to live in the kingdom of the dwarves, by decree of their king.”

“Oh?” Bilbo bit out. “And what, exactly, are his conditions?”

“He actually only had two,” Drogo dropped the hand on his cousin’s back. “That we seek honest work, and that we record our names for a registry.”

Before Bilbo could reply, a cheerful voice interrupted him. “That sounds like a hell of a good deal to me!”

Turning, the Bagginses found themselves face to face with another hobbit family, who contrasted them dramatically. Unlike them, these hobbits wore boots, and where the Baggin’s family wore dull browns and greys to blend in, this family was decked out in bright colours to stand out.

This oddly dressed bunch was led by a golden haired hobbit of around seventy with grey green eyes. Upon seeing him, Primula immediately let out an excited squeal, running into his arms. “Daddy! Did you get my letter?” 

“Yes, my dear! Oh, it’s wonderful news!” the hobbit caught her in his arms, twirling her around in a spin. “I’m going to be a grandfather! Can you believe it, Master Baggins?”

“Barely,” Bilbo shot him a fond smile. “It is good to see you again, Gorbadoc Brandybuck.”

“As it is to see you, my friend,” Gorbadoc replied, releasing his daughter from their hug to shake Bilbo’s hand. “I hope you don’t mind if we capitalize on this con you’re clearly running. News travels fast around here - we were on our way back from the Iron Hills when we heard. When it comes down to it, will you vouch for us that we were in Dale instead?”

“Of course,” Bilbo winked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “The Brandybucks have always been friends to the Bagginses.”

“And what about the other half of your family, Bilbo?”

Both hobbits turned as yet another member of their race interrupted their conversation. Gorbadoc sucked in a breath and Bilbo felt himself stiffen at sight of the lone figure approaching them. 

The hobbit was clad in all black, a mask hiding the lower half of his face and bandages wrapped around his arms. Piercing blue grey eyes regarded Bilbo from underneath the hood of his cloak, which hid tufts of rust brown hair. Bilbo thought he may have been called Edmund, or Eddie, perhaps - but that didn’t matter. 

What mattered was that he was a Took. And wherever that family of assassins went, trouble soon followed. 

“I came all the way from Laketown, aren’t you going to greet me, second cousin?” Eddie asked with a smirk barely hidden by his mask, then shrugged. “Or is it third or fourth cousin? It’s so hard to keep track of my relatives these days.”

Gorbadoc barked out a nervous laugh. “I’ll, uh, let you two catch up.”

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Bilbo asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as the Brandybuck patriarch rushed back to his daughter’s side.

“Reconnaissance,” the smirk disappeared, replaced with a deep sense of seriousness. “The Tooks have been based in Laketown for over fifty years, but it hasn’t always proved the best place to run a business.”

“If you call a group of professional murderers a business,” Bilbo cut in. 

“Laketown is unstable, and lawless. Which mostly works in our favour, but the old Took believes in contingency plans,” Eddie continued on as though Bilbo had never spoken, “As one of our best assassins, I’ve been sent to see whether this king really is willing to let hobbits into his kingdom. If so, the family will be planting a branch here.”

“King Thorin will not abide by the ceaseless slaughter of his people by your hands,” Bilbo snapped, suddenly feeling defensive. “You can’t just take advantage of his good will like that!”

“Why not?” Eddie raised an eyebrow underneath his hood. “You clearly are.” 

Before Bilbo could reply, the fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the king. Bilbo quickly gathered his family into a somewhat neat circle. Gorbadoc did the same, shooting his friend a nervous smile, unaware that this wasn’t the thief’s first time meeting the king. 

Speaking of the king, he approached them with unprecedented regal splendour, decked out in fine dwarven blue robes with his crown resting comfortably on his head. His expression was guarded, careful, diplomatic even, his features painting a picture of the very epitome of a dutiful king. Next to him stood a shorter dwarf with a fork through his white beard who seemed familiar to Bilbo, but he couldn’t quite place him. He looked trepidatious, but there might have been a spark of cautious optimism hidden behind his eyes. On the other side of the king was a burly, bald dwarf, who met Bilbo’s gaze with such a fierce glare of distrust that the hobbit nearly had to take a step back. 

“My king, I present to you, the hobbits of Dale,” the older dwarf said, and Bilbo realised with a start that he was the same dwarf he’d nearly run into on his way to steal the journal. “Though they seem to have doubled since I left.”

“Thank you, Balin,” Thorin replied. His eyes met Bilbo’s, and for a second, his mask slipped, genuine warmth and happiness spilling through before it was quickly smothered again by professionalism. “My friends, I have gathered you here today to address the way Dale has cast you out and left you homeless while winter grows ever closer. I understand this is because of some crime Bard claims you committed, but -” once again, their eyes met, “those closest to me know I am a considerable advocate for second chances.”

“So, I am offering you - all of you - the opportunity to reform yourselves. Not as thieves or conmen, but as honest, hardworking tradesmen. I have arranged housing for you, and apprenticeships with dwarven crafters so you can earn an honest living doing honest work. You will also be provided with gardens, so if you choose to, you can supplement your income with your own fruit and vegetables.”

A murmur went up at his words, but Bilbo just stared at Thorin, slack jawed. Had he really gone to all this trouble, just for him? He hated the idea of charity, but this didn’t feel like that...this felt like a fresh start. 

“Thank you, my liege,” Gorbadoc broke the silence, bowing so low his hair almost brushed the floor. “You are not only wise and benevolent, but generous as well.”

“Too generous,” All eyes flicked to Eddie, who was balancing one of his two daggers on his finger expertly. The bald dwarf grunted, moving forward only for Thorin’s arm to block his way. 

“I assure you that my words are the honest truth, master hobbit,” the king addressed the assassin. “I wish to offer all members of your race a home here.”

“Hobbits don’t have homes,” Eddie replied, a note of finality to his voice. 

“So I’ve heard,” Thorin’s head turned almost imperceptibly towards Bilbo. “But that won’t be the case any longer.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, seemingly taken aback. “You’re genuine about this?”

“Yes,” The king’s crystal blue eyes flashed with determination. “Until the day I die, I swear that I will do whatever I can to help your people.”

The declaration hit Bilbo like a punch to the chest, the breath knocked out of his lungs effortlessly. Did Thorin really mean that?

Eddie seemed to think so. Without warning, he spun on his heel and strode away, presumably back to Laketown. The bald dwarf shouted something at him in dwarvish as he left, which made Balin shake his head and Thorin hit his arm hard. Eddie, however, didn’t seem to mind. Just as he turned to move out of sight, he touched two fingers to his temple in a cocky salute to the bald dwarf, causing him to huff angrily. 

“Well, now that the unpleasantries - uh I mean the pleasantries - are out of the way, I suggest we get down to business,” Balin began, taking out two scrolls and quills. “You’ll need to write your names on these lists in order to be allocated a trade-”

“Before we do that, though,” Thorin interrupted, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’d like to request that the heads of the families step forward and personally introduce themselves to me.”

All of the fond admiration Bilbo had been feeling for Thorin dried up in an instant. Of course. This wasn’t charity or a fresh start, this was just a game for a bored king, a chance to find out Bilbo’s name, the only part of himself he’d managed to keep from Thorin. The hobbit gritted his teeth, his fury only enhanced by the king’s now openly smug look. 

“I am Gorbadoc Brandybuck, at your service,” the blonde hobbit beside him announced, with another flourishing bow. “I am the head of the Brandybuck family, and I am delighted to make your royal acquaintance.”

“I am glad to meet you as well,” Thorin nodded politely to him before his attention returned to his burglar. He paused, savouring the moment, before drawing out the three words Bilbo was dreading: “And you are?”

“I am the head of the Baggins family,” Bilbo choked out. “You may refer to me as Master Baggins.”

“Just Master Baggins?” A cocky smile played on Thorin’s lips. 

“ Yes. ”

They stood there, gazes locked, stances guarded, and the rest of the world seemed to shrink away. At that moment, Bilbo was struck by how similar this moment was to when they first met. Or how much it reminded him of all the moments that came after, where he had stood face to face with the king, balancing on the tightrope of secrets and obligations that was their relationship. Was he doomed to lose his balance and fall into the abyss of confusing, conflicting emotions below? Or was this all that it would ever be? A constant dance, a battle of wills, a twisted game between a cat and his mouse? 

And yet Thorin had sworn he would help him. What did that mean? What did the dwarf see - who did he see - when they met each other’s eyes?

“Ahem,” Balin cleared his throat, pulling them both back to the present moment. “Let’s get on with the lists, shall we?”

“Yes,” Bilbo tore his gaze away from Thorin’s with a curt nod. “Your Majesty.”

“Master Baggins.”

Bilbo couldn’t explain it, but just hearing the syllables in Thorin’s mouth sent shivers down his spine. 

…

“I didn’t like the look of that dark cloaked halfling,” Dwalin growled, stalking angrily behind Thorin as he made his way to a council meeting.

“Hobbit,” Thorin corrected automatically, pausing for a moment to sign a decree a courtier handed him before she scurried off. 

“I don’t care what you call him, he’s a dirty Laketown low life,” Dwalin hissed. “He’ll be nothing but trouble, you mark my words.”

“You know Dwalin, it’s been two whole days,” Thorin glanced over his shoulder at his friend with a smirk, “If you keep going on about this guy any longer, as your best friend, I’m going to have to start calling you obsessed.”

Leaving a red and spluttering Dwalin behind, Thorin entered the meeting room. Taking his place at the head of the table, he nodded to the familiar faces that he had only recently begun to learn the names of. “Alright. What’s first on the agenda for today?”

Balin beamed as he launched into a discussion on Erebor’s foreign policy, making guilt swirl in the strange cocktail of mixed feelings within the regent king’s heart. Balin had seemed so proud in his sudden interest in statecraft, but the truth was, Thorin felt confused. He couldn’t be certain he wasn’t still the same irresponsible dwarf he’d always been. He didn’t know whether the only difference was that he was actively attempting to conceal it now. 

If that thought wasn’t shameful enough, Thorin also wasn’t sure how much of his reason for doing all this had to do with watching over his own people and how much of it had to do with impressing…Master Baggins. 

Baggins…

The name suited him, Thorin thought. Somehow warm and friendly, yet hinting at a level of sophistication and intelligence alongside it. Before, if Thorin had been told he was meeting a “Master Baggins”, he would have assumed they were a member of human aristocracy, not a burglar from the race of thieves and wanderers. 

“-so in conclusion, I suggest we keep ourselves far away from the squabbles of elves and keep our noses clean of the whole ordeal. What do you think, my king?”

Thorin tuned back in. “Yes, good plan, Balin. Now, how is my personal project going?”

“The hobbits are adjusting well-”

“Perhaps too well,” An older dwarf (Bilskald - no, Thorin corrected himself inwardly - Bilskar Firebeard) sniffed disapprovingly. “What’s keeping them from stealing half the damn mountain?”

“Infrastructure, old man, infrastructure,” A white-blonde dwarf (Althin Stiffbeard, Thorin believed he was called), unrolled a massive scroll on the table and pointed to it excitedly. “See here, under his majesty’s request, I have conducted interviews with the hobbits about their skills and interests. Then, I combined that with the data of apprentice-less craftsmen nearby to create these venn diagrams which match each hobbit up with their ideal work environment.”

“Good work,” Thorin nodded to the blonde, who beamed. He was young for a clan leader, but highly ambitious. Someone to keep an eye on. “How are the Khuzdul lessons going-”

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Eikar Ironfist snapped, his large mahogany coloured beard shaking as he angrily stood up. “Maybe it’s mutiny to oppose the king, but you must be mad if you think I’ll just lie down and let you trade away our beloved culture, that we’ve guarded for centuries, to thieving outsiders!”

Thorin gritted his teeth and fought to keep his breathing calm. “Master Ironfist, the hobbits are a blessing to our culture, not a curse on it.”

“How?” the clan leader demanded. “How do these rats help us in any way?”

“By keeping our culture alive.”

The room stilled, confused looks being exchanged around the table. Thorin sighed. 

“You really haven’t noticed?” he expl ained , exasperated. “Our birth rate is declining. When was the last time you saw a glimpse of either a Nadnith or a Nuthith running through these streets? I do not even remember the last time I spoke to a pregnant dwarrowdam. Family units are rarely larger than three dwarves at one time. Aren’t any of you concerned about the future of our people?”

“Of course we are. But what do the halflings have to do with it?” Ironfist asked, his jaw clenched. 

“The hobbits ,” Thorin emphasised the word, “Have remarkable birth rates. In the Baggins family, there are seven children alone. The Brandybucks have eleven. And I have it on good authority that one of the female hobbits we’ve taken in is already pregnant. So, who better to learn our trades and secrets then the one race who we know will never die out?”

Ironfist turned away, seemingly conceding the point. Balin eventually broke the silence. “Your majesty, there is one other matter to tend to. We have had cases of our wells being polluted with the carcasses of ravaged animals. What shall we do?”

“Hmmm,” Thorin hummed for a minute, tapping his fingers against the jade table. “What about the old aqueducts?”

“They’ve fallen into disrepair since your father fell ill, your majesty,” Bilskar Firebeard replied. “We haven’t been given any money from the royal treasury to repair them.”

“Take what you need and see to it that you do,” Thorin nodded to him. “Dismissed.”

As the council filed out, Balin touched Thorin’s shoulder, a fond expression on his face. “Laddie, I can only say, well, I wish that these hobbits had come into your life sooner.”

Thorin snorted, but he couldn’t help but agree. 

…

When one is born to nobility, they learn from a very young age that they have certain expectations placed upon them that others do not. When one is born the heir to a title and a kingdom, they learn this even earlier. 

Bard was one such child. As a future Lord of Dale, discipline had been drilled into him since before he could walk. His parents had made sure of that, hounding every step of his childhood with their sharp words of criticism:

“Sit up straighter, a lord doesn’t slouch.”

“Look me in the eye when I talk to you - a lord is always polite.”

“Get back here this instant, young man! A lord never plays outside with commoner children.”

His parents didn’t let the weight of Bard’s future responsibility lighten for a second. Throughout his entire life, it had hung heavy on his shoulders, just as it weighed upon him now as he sifted through agricultural reports. Thanks to the halflings, his people’s main source of meat and wool was gone, meaning there would be a terrible, unavoidable famine this winter and his poorest subjects would feel the biting sting of the cold. Bard glanced up at the portrait of his parents in his study with a tired sigh. They gazed down at him imperiously even now, as if they could still repeat their most favourite phrase:

“A lord is nothing if he cannot protect his people.”

A knock at the door interrupted their long gone but never quite forgotten voices. Opening the door, Bard’s eyes widened at the sight of a dwarven woman with a floor length, embroidered autumn jacket over her wine red dress - an anarkali**, if Bard had listened at all in his western culture lessons as a child. 

“Princess Jensia,” he greeted, his tone guarded. “Forgive me, but your presence here is…unexpected.”

It was the nicest way he could possibly phrase what he truly wanted to say: What in Arda are you doing here?

“Forgive me,” Jensia caught onto his real meaning immediately. “Our first diplomatic discussions were unfruitful, but I had hoped, now that some time has passed, that we might try again.”

Bard narrowed his eyes. “And why would we entertain that idea?”

“Because I can help you,” the dwarven woman smiled. “When I first arrived in Erebor, I brought with me gifts of friendship for the king in the form of food, wine and fine silks. I am here today to offer them to you. May I come in?”

Caught off guard, Bard stumbled back as she pushed past him and settled comfortably on one of the chairs by the fire. The Lord of Dale shook off his momentary confusion and sat down opposite her. “I don’t understand. You gave those gifts to the kingdom of Erebor, you can’t just take them back again.”

“I gave it away under the assumption that it would be used to supplement the banquet of a royal wedding, and to clothe my wedding party,” Jensia crossed one of her legs over the other, waving away his concerns with a flick of her hands. “But King Thorin has been abrasive, rude, and has dodged all my attempts at courting. I have no choice but to seek alliances elsewhere, with more like minded, stable kingdoms.”

Bard sighed, looking away from her and into the fire. After a moment, he turned back to her with a sarcastic smile. “Well, I’m not going to beg for your help, Jensia. I know you’re only here to say I told you so.”

The princess’s amber eyes widened. Seemingly surprised, she fished out a little wooden trinket out from her jacket and rubbed her fingers over it as she searched for the right thing to say. 

“I am not interested in gloating, or mocking your misfortune-”

“Oh, spare me!” Bard threw up his hands, exasperated. “You warned me. You saw through Baggins and his lies before anyone else did. You have every right to laugh in my face about how wrong I was to trust him.”

Jensia studied his reaction for a moment before giving him a sympathetic smile, reaching out and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “No, Lord Bard, I could never do that to you. None of the events that have transpired so far have been your fault.”

Bard drew his hand back with a dry chuckle. “Right. Well, even if you aren’t here to mock me, I know you won’t give me that food for free. And we both know a wedding between the two of us would simply not be feasible. So tell me then, Princess, what is your price?”

Jensia only smiled wider, playing with the little wooden object between her fingers. “All I want is an alliance between us. You’ve turned down my help twice before. This is your final chance to accept it.”

With that, the dwarven woman held out her hand, making Bard’s breath catch in his throat. The weight of his responsibility and the overwhelming pressure to keep his people safe guided his own hand forward to meet it, even as a voice in the back of his mind whispered that she couldn’t be trusted. 

One shake was all it took to seal the fate of his people for that winter. When Jensia withdrew her hand, Bard was surprised to see the wooden object she’d been toying with resting within his own palm. 

“The king,” She explained, pointing out its tiny wooden crown and scepter. “From my chaturanga set.”

“A board game?”

“A game of strategy,” Jensia corrected, leaning back. “Bard, listen to me. As your friend , I believe it is in your best interest to break off your alliance with the kingdom of Erebor.”

“What?” Bard jumped up, flashes of his childhood coming back to him - memories of his father and even his grandfather meeting with Thrain as allies. “No, no, no. Erebor and Dale have always been in an alliance. Always.”

“And what good has that done you?” Jensia moved to stand beside him, gazing into the fire. “The mountain did not come to your aid in your time of need. You had to rely on halflings, who took advantage of your goodwill and slaughtered your livestock. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now, in your time of need, Erebor offers you not aid but insult, taking in the very same halflings who scorned you and caring for them as if they were their own.”

The growing anger in her voice fuelled Bard's own sense of rage that he had been suppressing as the flames burned bright before them. She was right. It was an insult. 

“King Thorin is immature and entirely unsuited for the crown,” Jensia continued, her voice thick with contempt. “He is loyal to no one but himself. Cut ties with him, offer him no trade or warriors, not unless he swears to purge the halflings from his lands as you have done. Until then, King Thorin is little more than their puppet.”

“Do you truly think that they have gotten to him as well?” Bard asked, his gaze snapping back to meet hers.

“I have it on good authority,” Jensia replied gravely, “That the king was cavorting with the enemy even before they betrayed you.”

Bard shook his head angrily before returning to staring into the fire before him, into the flickering flames that burned almost as hot as the anger within his chest. When his father died, he had left Bard with nothing but the shadow of his legacy - and a city to safeguard. When his wife died, she had left him with three children who he would do anything to keep safe. Who was he, Lord Bard of Dale, without these things? He was nothing. A lord is nothing if he cannot protect his people. 

Uncurling his fist, Bard looked down scornfully at the wooden king in his hand before meeting Jensia’s gaze. At her nod, he threw it into the fire, letting the flames curl around the figure and turn it to ash.

“I am nothing if I cannot protect my people.”

Chapter Text

The two week long journey across the Misty Mountains may have been both miserable and exhausting, but the moment that Gandalf saw the last homely house, it all seemed worth it. He felt as if a wave of relief was washing over his soul. Making his way to the courtyard, the grey wizard waited nervously for his soon to be host, keenly aware of how much time had passed since his last real visit. 

“Gandalf?” A familiar figure popped his head up from the rose bushes nearby. Though he wore the same soft beige silks as the elves of the valley, he was very clearly a hobbit - as evidenced by his dirt stained bare feet and tiny stature. “Why, it is you, Gandalf! I haven’t seen you in these parts since I was a fuant! How are you? What brings you back-”

“That will be all, Hamfast,” Lord Elrond interrupted as he made his way down to them, elegantly stepping in between the hobbit and Gandalf. He placed a protective hand on top of Hamfasts long curls, grown out into the elvish style. “The grey wizard and I must speak alone.”

Hamfast looked nervously between the two for a moment, before replying with a respectful nod. “ Ben iest lîn, hîr vuin. ”

He scurried away, leaving the elvish lord and the disgraced wizard alone. Elrond held the burden of the past in his eyes just as much as Gandalf carried it on his shoulders, and it almost seemed like it was the weight of history itself that formed the suffocating blanket of silence that now enveloped them. 

Eventually, the elf spoke. “Mithrandir.”

Gandalf bowed his head. “My Lord Elrond Peredhel.”

“I foresaw that you would arrive. When Lady Galadriel of Lothlorian showed up at my doors a week before you, I knew then that this visit would be different to your others,” the lord sighed, and Gandalf’s ears pricked up at the mention of the elvish queen. “I know with certainty that this time, you have come to give me news of great importance, not simply another family of hobbits that you’ve somehow convinced to take shelter in my halls.” 

“Yes, it is as you have guessed. I have come to speak with the white counsel,” Gandalf replied, then asked tentatively: “Is Saruman here?”

“He is,” Elrond spun on his heel, leading Gandalf across an arching stone bridge and through the ornate doors of the last homely house. “But I warn you now, he will not be pleased to see you.”

“Are you?” Gandalf couldn’t help himself. 

“What?” The elf looked back at him, his eyebrows raised. 

“Pleased to see me,” the grey wizard continued hesitantly. “Are you glad that I am here again? After everything?”

“I…” Elrond crossed his arms over himself, staring at the wooden floor. He took his time to answer, as was his nature - six thousand years of wisdom informing his every thought and opinion. Eventually, he sighed. “It is difficult to say, but I think, perhaps…that I may have missed the company of one of my oldest friends.”

Gandalf pressed his hand to his heart, truly touched. “Thank you. Le fael.”

Elrond nodded, pursing his lips into a tight smile, before gesturing to a nearby door. “The rest of the council eagerly awaits your arrival on the balcony beyond. It is time for you to say what you came here to say, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf nodded, breathing in deeply before pushing the door open. 

…

Galadriel’s smile was gentle and welcoming. The moment he entered, she rushed to his arms, pulling him into a tight embrace so unlike her and her culture that Gandalf was taken aback by the gesture for a second. Before he could even return the embrace, she had already pulled back and out of his arms. 

“ Amatúlie Mithrandir ,” she greeted warmly. “My friend, it has been too long.”

“Lady Galadriel, you and I were never truly separated,” Gandalf replied back, a small smile growing on his lips, “For you have always been there for me when I needed you most.”

“You will need me now, too,” Galadriel’s face fell. She turned, pointing to the white silhouette staring out over the valley behind her. “Come, he is waiting.”

A sickening feeling of dread settled in Gandalf’s stomach as he dragged his feet up the stairs to reach the man standing aloof with robes of snow. “My lord Saruman.”

The wizard turned to face him then, and there was no shortage of contempt in his eyes. “Gandalf.”

…

It seemed to the grey wizard in that moment that Saruman had only grown sterner in the years since they spoke, his mouth drawn in a thin line of distaste, his gaze imperious and unyielding. His voice was sharp as ice shards and his tone was colder than the winter wind. “I trust this is not going to be a waste of my time?”

“N-no, my lord,” Gandalf stammered, hastily lighting his pipe so he wouldn’t have to meet the other man’s eyes. “This is of utmost importance -”

“Then put your halfling weed away,” the wizard snapped back, “And let us be done with it.” 

Gandalf snuffed his pipe out immediately, nervously shuffling over to the white wooden table the other members of the council had taken their seats at. Fumbling through his bag, the wizard found the morghul blade and laid it down upon the table, but kept it obscured with cloth. For now. 

“My frie-Esteemed council members,” he began. “Several months ago I received a message from Lady Galadriel about the growing darkness in the east of our beloved Arda.”

The blonde elf nodded her head. “I trusted you to discover the truth, and I knew you would not disappoint me.”

Gandalf shot her a smile before continuing. “And discover the truth I did - high up in the tombs of the nine in the High fells of Rhudaur.”

Saruman huffed, resting his face on one hand. Elrond, however, leaned closer, his brows furrowing. 

“What I found was horrifying. As I navigated the resting places of the damned - which was not easy to do without a staff, by the way -” he paused to glare at Saruman, who met his gaze unflinchingly, “- I found that all nine of the tombs had been emptied, broken not into but rather broken out of . The difference is unmistakable. The nine have been raised to servitude again!”

“What?” Elrond looked horrified. “I knew of the darkness, but this?”

“That is not all!” Gandalf was gaining momentum now. “I knew as well as you that only one could summon the nine. I also knew of a fortress that was rumored to hold a dark necromancer. It was the perfect front for the enemy if he was still amassing power - no one would bother to hunt down just another human playing with magic in the woods. No one would suspect that something far more sinister was afoot.” 

“So, I made my way to Mirkwood, where I sought out…” Gandalf paused, the name catching in his throat, “Radagast. He guided me to Dol Guldur, the fortress of the necromancer. I believed we were powerful enough to take him on, or to at least to find proof of his evil without losing anyone in the process.” 

The grey wizard cast his eyes to the floor. “I was wrong.”

Galadriel gasped, Elrond’s eyes went wide and Saruman opened his mouth as if to rebuke him but the grey wizard barrelled on. 

“We encountered the enemy who we found we were no match for. We were attacked by ringwraiths, terrible and haunted, commanded by the enemy himself,” A shiver shot down his spine at the memory of that terrible voice, “Until we were backed up onto a cliff edge. Radagast…he sacrificed himself so that I might go free. So that I might bring this back to you.”

Gandalf uncovered the morghul blade and pushed it into the center of the table. 

Silence fell upon them like a cloud, thick and heavy. Elrond hovered his hand over the blade, as if he intended to reach for it, before drawing his hand back again, seemingly having changed his mind. Galadriel’s usual mask of serenity had cracked, her sadness seeping through her face as she mouthed the brown wizard’s name under her breath. 

Finally, it was Saruman who broke the silence. 

“Gandalf,” the white wizard hissed through gritted teeth, pushing his chair back to stand up again, “Do you remember why you were expelled from the white council?”

Gandalf swallowed thickly. “Of course. You know   that I remember.” 

“Really? Because, after today, I am not so sure that I do,” Saruman laughed humourlessly, his voice growing in volume. “I am not certain anymore that you do remember why you are no longer welcome here. Have you so quickly forgotten, after everything you did? You were expelled because your actions, which you believed were so heroic and just, did nothing but cause endless pain and misery for others!”

Gandalf flinched. 

“And that was thousands of years ago Gandalf, thousands!” Saruman was practically shouting now. “And yet, here you are, with your hat in your hands, coming to tell us that you have done the same thing again! You were so wrapped up in your own hero complex, that you let Radagast take the fall and suffer in your place!” 

“Saruman!” Galadriel protested, but the white wizard dismissed her with a flick of his hand. 

“No, lady of Lothlorien. He must hear what I have to say, for his own good,” Saruman spat the words out with venom. “And I have just one thing to say to you, Gandalf, and that is this: that every time you think that you are doing something good, you make the world worse and force those around you to suffer.”

Gandalf blinked back the tears blurring the edge of his vision. Eventually, he choked out: “I..I know.”

“Do you?” The lord of Isengard’s voice was cold. “You did not learn your lesson the first time.”

“No, I do! I did!” The grey wizard protested. “Please, you do not need to remind me of the past, Saruman.” 

An idea sparked within the white wizard’s eyes then. “Remind you…yes, that is not a bad remedy,” he murmured, stroking his beard. “Perhaps it is time for you to revisit some old memories, Gandalf.”

“Saruman-” Elrond interjected, but he was too late. The lord of Isengard had already reached for his staff and before Gandalf could move away, the tip of the white wood had touched his forehead and everything went black. 

…

There are few who remember a time when hobbits last felt peace and contentment, for there are none among their race who have not lived a life of harsh realities, a cold and mirthless existence spent entirely on the road. 

There are fewer still who remember why the youngest of Middle Earth's races are regarded with such suspicion, but those that do think back to the last alliance of elves and men, and the vanquishing of the dark lord Sauron at Isildur’s hand. They recall the strange way only months after the legendary battle, the king had declared another war, this time on the peaceful halflings of the west and their kingdom of flowery meadows and rolling hills. How he had cast them out from their lands, forcing them to wander from place to place, never settling for long. 

There are even fewer who know of the full truth behind their banishment. 

The grey wizard of the west was one of those few. 

Children laughing was the first thing Gandalf heard as he came to. Slowly, the world shifted into focus, and the wizard blinked as the noon day sun beamed across his face. Small, soft hands tugged at his robes, and he looked up to see a little hobbit girl, wearing her best dress and sporting satin ribbons in her hair. 

“C’mon, Mister Gandalf!” She giggled, “You’ll miss the maypole dance!” 

“Now now, Pansy,” a warm voice laughed, “You run along now and leave Mister Gandalf to his nap. He’s come a terribly long way to see us, the least we can do is give him a chance to rest his head before he tries to drink me under the table tonight.”

Gandalf sat up from the comfortable grassy hill he had indeed been sleeping on to smile at the owner of the voice. Balbo Baggins stood proudly in front of him, gold flecks in his hazel eyes shining in the sunlight the same way the golden buttons of his waistcoat did.

“Tries…and hopefully succeeds this time,” Gandalf responded with a smirk, making his friend bark out a peal of hearty laughter. 

“Oh, you wish! I drink twice the bottles you do every year, you old lightweight,” He grinned, picking Pansy up in his arms who giggled excitedly. “The green dragon doesn’t even have enough brandy to satisfy me. Might have to steal some from the Brandybuck cellars instead!”

“Tch, just like you stole carrots from your aunt’s farm in your youth? Come now, admit it. Fatherhood has slowed you down since then,” Gandalf scoffed, standing up and tapping Pansy gently on the nose*. 

“Slowed me down?” Balbo let out another loud laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m Baggins, Gandalf. Nothing can slow me down!”

Ding! 

A chime, unmistakably metallic, rang out. Gandalf glanced around but neither of the two hobbits seemed to have noticed, as they wandered down the hill to gawk at the colourful maypole being set up. 

Ding! 

There it was again, only when the sound ended this time, Gandalf felt the world around him shift, and he was suddenly in the halls of Rivendell, staring down a map covered in black flags. Around him, generals, captains and other warriors looked down upon it gravely. 

“The enemy is unceasing in his attacks,” Saruman announced from beside him, leaning over to examine the map closer. “And we are divided, so we fall. We fracture into factions with weaknesses that leave endless opportunities for Sauron to strike.” 

“We have only one choice. We must combine our forces,” Gandalf glanced to his other side to see Elrond, his armour stained black with orc blood, his hair messy and unkempt. “All the free peoples of Middle Earth, united against a common enemy. An alliance of elves and men.” 

“And only then,” Gandalf heard his own voice say, “Can we march to victory.”

Ding! 

The plains of Dagorlad were slick with blood. Elves, men and even dwarves fought beside each other, crashing against the orcs like waves crashing against rocks. It was futile, hopeless - that was until Isildur cleaved the ring of power from Sauron’s finger and turned him to ash. The orcs fled, the elves and men celebrated and Gandalf? 

Gandalf could only watch. 

Ding! 

The grey wizard found himself in an elvish tent. It was nightfall, perhaps only a few hours after the battle. Elrond sat across from him in his armour, tears streaking down the volcanic ash across his cheeks. It was the only time Gandalf had ever seen him cry. “I’m-I’m powerless, Gandalf!”

“Oh…” The wizard moved over to his friend, pulling him into a tight and comforting embrace. “No, that’s not true. You did all that you could, Elrond.”

“But it-it..wasn’t..good enough,” The immortal choked out between racking sobs. “I couldn’t…it-it…wasn’t…he-he-”

“Shhh,” Gandalf hushed him. “It is not your fault that Isildur did not listen to you. You cannot reason with madness, my friend.”

“The-the…the ring, Gandalf!” Elrond broke free of his hug and shook the wizard’s tattered robes desperately. “He… he will come back. He will look for it…and-and I… you have to do something, Gan-Gandalf! Please!”

He dissolved into more pained sobs. “Please…You must find a way to take the ring from Isildur.”

Gandalf barely even heard the next chime as he suddenly found himself sitting within a comfortable armchair beside a roaring fire. Through a circular window, he could see the shire children playing in piles of fallen autumn leaves outside. 

“Just to be clear,” Balbo knocked the dregs out of his pipe, fixing Gandalf with a hard stare from where he was sitting across from him, “You want me to commit a crime, and against a king, no less?”

A sickening feeling of dread filled Gandalf even as he heard his own voice confidently reply, “For the greater good, Balbo, old friend. All you have to do is take the ring from the chain around his neck. It won’t be too hard for a seasoned thief such as yourself. And then, my associates and I will safely dispose of it.”

“I don’t know…” Balbo looked out the window, his gaze falling across his daughters and sons. “You were right, before. Fatherhood has slowed me down. And I’m fifty now. Hardly an appropriate age to be going on adventures!”

The silence stretched between them for a second and Gandalf dared to hope that maybe this time, the memory would play out differently to all the many times he had replayed it in his mind before. But then he heard his own voice answer and the sickening feeling in his stomach returned. 

“Come now, Balbo, fifty is hardly too old for an adventure! Besides, think of the stories you could tell to your children. The dashing hero Balbo Baggins, who stole a glittering ring from under the evil king’s nose, and lived to tell the tale!”

The hobbit chuckled at that, relighting his pipe. “ If I live to tell the tale.”

“Oh, you’ll be alright. Trust me, it can’t be that different from carrots and brandy,” His voice continued, and Gandalf felt as if he could scream, trapped inside a memory that he couldn’t change. “And you know me. I would never ask you to do anything I thought you couldn’t handle. I’m only asking you because I know that when it comes down to it, you will do the right thing.”

Balbo glanced back to his kids, then back to Gandalf, seemingly considering his offer. Finally, he snuffed out his pipe and stood up with a smirk. “Alright, old man, I’m in. When do we begin?”

Ding! 

“You didn’t tell me it makes you invisible!” The hobbit laughed, slipping the golden ring in his hands on and off to disappear and reappear again. 

“Come now, Balbo, it’s not a toy,” Gandalf scolded, his face half hidden in the shadow of the palace of Gondor, unlike the hobbit beside him, who strolled confidently in the moonlight where any of the guards could see him. “As much as I am grateful to you for successfully stealing the ring, we must leave now. We could very easily be caught and I do not fancy seeing your head become acquaintanced with an executioner’s blade.”

“Yes, that would hardly make for a good story at all,” Balbo chuckled. “So, must I give the ring to you now?”

Gandalf bit the inside of his cheek as the hobbit held it out, palm outstretched, to him. He turned away. “No. You must keep it with you in the shire, secret and safe. When the time comes, I will find the right person to take the ring to Mordor.”

“You’re the boss,” Balbo shrugged, slipping the ring back onto its chain and around his neck. “Hopefully the trip won’t take too long.”

But it did take long, far, far too long. With another chime Gandalf found himself hunkered down in a cave in the Misty Mountains, shivering as a snow storm raged outside. He pointedly ignored the corner of the cave, where Balbo was lovingly stroking the ring in his hands. Gandalf only prayed that the tempest would surely end soon. Then their journey would be over and the ring would not have enough time to sink its teeth into Balbo. 

Ding! 

Bare, hairy feet ran through freshly fallen snow, the sharp crunch of the ice under foot ringing through the winter air. White wrapped smials watched silently as Balbo ran into his wife’s arms, embracing her tightly. His children followed shortly after, all of them bundled up adorably in their winter furs. 

“My love, I’m home! Oh, my children, look at you! I swear you’ve gotten taller!” He cried out joyfully, picking up Pansy and spinning her around in his arms. “Oh dear, and lighter too…”

“This recent bout of cold weather has hit us hard,” His wife replied softly. “Some are even calling it The Fell Winter. Food is running low. Our livestock are dying…and the firewood is all but spent.”

“Worry not, my love,” Balbo put his daughter down to clasp a firm hand on her shoulder. “We - I mean I - have the power to end this suffering.”

Ding! 

“I am not trying to rob you!” Gandalf yelled, drawing desperately on his powers as a maia to darken the room around him, “I am trying to help you!”

For a moment Balbo seemed to hear his words, then he shook his head angrily. “No! Do not think for a moment that your cheap party tricks scare me, wizard! I will not let you take what is rightfully mine!”

“What is rightfully yours?” Gandalf laughed incredulously. “You stole that ring from the king of Gondor-”

“And who told me to do so?!” Balbo exploded. “No, I have had enough. I will not give up this ring that I know will give me the power I need to restore the shire to its former glory after this tragic winter.”

“The ring will give you nothing!” Gandalf yelled, half shouting, half pleading. “It will take and take and take from you until you are nothing but a corrupted shell of yourself who not even your own children will recognise!”

“I will not stand for this any longer!” Balbo bellowed, pointing to the door. “You are no longer welcome in my home! Get out!”

Gandalf paused, his eyes wide. 

“I SAID GET OUT!”

DING!!!

Fire. It burned the green meadows of the once beautiful shire black. The great party tree lit up the night sky like a torch, the flames that ate at its branches casting flickering orange shadows across the helmets of the gondorian soldiers as they slaughtered whichever fleeing hobbits they could catch in the darkness. 

Gandalf was there. He saw their blood. Heard their screams. Smelt the stench of burning flesh. 

He did what he could, using his magic to guide families to safety. A simple illusion trick was all it took to hide the fuantlings from the eyes of the soldiers, but he could only save so many. In the end, it was just seven families that gathered that night in the safety of the woods - the Brandybucks, the Tooks, the Gamgees, the Sackvilles, the Bracegirdles, the Chubbs and the Brownlocks. 

Yet, anxiety clawed at his heart as he watched the party tree finally collapse, falling to ruin like the shire itself. His closest friend had yet to emerge from the smoke and debris, as did his family. Gandalf desperately wished to return to the chaos to find Balbo and his kin himself, but that would mean abandoning the other families. And how could he sacrifice seven to save just one?

So instead, he fell to his knees and begged Iluvatar to spare them from the flames.

…

It seemed to Gandalf that a thousand years passed before the men of Gondor retreated and the dawn advanced. While the hobbits hidden in the woods wiped the soot off their children’s faces and tended to each other’s wounds, the wizard snuck outside again to search through the ashes for his friend. 

It didn’t take him long. 

Balbo was kneeling in the charred remains of his old smial, hunched over, cradling a child in his arms. A few steps closer and Gandalf trod on something. He looked down to see a scorched satin ribbon.

Pansy.

What Balbo was holding was Pansy, or rather, the body that once held the her soul. An innocent child who had a smile that could clear the rain itself, for the clouds themselves loved her.  But she was not smiling now, nor did she appear at peace. Her eyes were glassy and lifeless, her features twisted into an expression of pure terror and pain. Burns had travelled up her arm and leg, crawling towards her throat like a set of warg’s claws, but it was the tell tale slashes from a sword staining her stomach and chest with blood that was undoubtedly the cause of her death. 

“Balbo,” Gandalf choked out, “I’m so sorry-”

“You.” The hobbit didn’t look up, but his hand tightened around his daughter’s corpse. “You. You did this.”

“No! I - I didn’t mean - Listen, Balbo, none of this would have happened if-”

“If you had never come here!” The hobbit raged, turning his head to finally meet his eyes. Gone were his hazel eyes with golden flecks of happiness, replaced entirely with miserable, lifeless brown. “You brought this upon us! You are a plague, and a curse, Gandalf, a pestilence upon this land and my people!”

“I never meant to hurt you!” Gandalf sobbed back, pulling his hat off and gesturing to Pansy desperately, “I swear, I never meant to hurt her-”

“Well you have! It is because of you that she is dead! Because of you, my family no longer has a home!” At the mention of his family,, the other Bagginses slowly came out from where they had been hiding behind a stone wall. They stared at Gandalf with hollow, accusing eyes as Balbo continued to rave: “Do you see this man, my cousins, my uncles and aunts, my nieces and nephews, my children ? This sorcerer has brought the end times upon us, he has summoned these soldiers to our doors and left us to ruin. Listen well, my kin: from this day forward, he is our enemy! The Baggins family will no longer accept help from wizards!”

“But I can help! I swear, I can make things right!” Gandalf cried after them as the rest of the family turned to go. Balbo, who had picked up the still body of his child, just gave him a vicious glare in response.

“Oh, I think you’ve done enough.”

Enough…enough…enough…the word echoed in Gandalf’s mind until the world fell away around him, until he was falling, falling through his memories as the past passed by him in waves. Enough, enough, the word had begun to sound like that chime now, the constant ding, ding, ding ringing in his ears as if he was trapped in a bell tower. Somewhere he swore he could hear a hammer banging down upon hot metal over and over, the cries of murdered fuantlings joining the noise and causing the cacophony to reach a crescendo until finally someone cried out: 

“ENOUGH!” 

And suddenly he was back in that chair in Rivendell, shaking, crying and convulsing. He barely registered that it had been Elrond who had spoken, and Elrond who stood against the leader of the Istari now, his hand pushing his staff away. 

“Enough, Saruman,” He hissed out. “He has suffered enough.”

“You do not get to tell me what I can and cannot do, Elrond,” The white wizard snapped back. 

“I can. You stand here in my house, as my guest, and I am a good host but there are some things that I will not stand for,” The Elvish lord stood his ground, unfazed. “If you wish to torture people, you can do it in Isengard, but I will not let you do it here.”

The two locked eyes for a moment before Saruman eventually let out an irritated huff. “Fine. We shall continue our discussion another time.” 

He pushed past Elrond angrily. “That feat has left me tired and worn out. Do not expect me to leave my chambers and do not call upon me until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

The white wizard stormed off and Elrond collapsed back into his chair, muttering something under his breath in his native tongue. Galadriel rushed to Gandalf’s side, horror and worry clouding her beautiful features. “Mithrandir, are you well?”

“I…” Gandalf wanted to say he’d been better, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to make jokes at this time. Galadriel seemed to understand, giving him a sympathetic smile as instead he replied: “I just…I wish none of this had happened." 

“So do all who live to see such times,” Galadriel replied softly. “But that is not for them to decide. Don’t you remember what I said to you before?”

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us,” Gandalf recited. “But I have used my time wrongly before. For all I know, I could hurt people again.”

“Maybe so,” Galadriel sighed, “But you cannot turn a blind eye to the efforts of evil either.”

A hush fell over the table then, all three remaining council members finding their focus drawn back to the morghul blade still resting on the table. 

“We will find a way to help,” Elrond eventually said, “And we will vanquish this evil once and for all. For hope will always prevail against the monstrous forces of this world.”

“And you cannot count yourself among them,” Galadriel added, “Because, Mithrandir, you have given everything you have to right your mistake. You have lovingly watched over the hobbits when no one else would. You have ventured into the darkness of Barad Dur to save them. If forgiveness could be earned, you would have won it back a thousand times over.”

Gandalf felt tears pool in his eyes. “And yet, everything that has happened has happened because of me.”

“Then perhaps,” Elrond replied, “Only you can be the one to make things right.”

“Yes, perhaps only I can,” Gandalf hesitated for a moment, before turning to where he knew the lonely mountain lay beyond the misty range, “And perhaps only with the help of one other.”

Chapter Text

For the first time ever, Bilbo was beginning to understand what it meant to live a normal life. 

His family had settled into their new home well. Seizing the opportunity for a new life with a vigor Bilbo didn’t even realise they had, the hobbits had fully thrown themselves into their apprenticeships. The thief could hardly walk into the Baggins family house without hearing the excited babble of former scoundrels revelling in the joy of their newfound respectability.

Of course, their dwarven masters were taking a little longer to warm up to the idea. Amid all of the hobbits' excited chatter, Bilbo still caught snippets of their masters’ uneasiness, off handed complaints about the dwarf’s insistence on referring to them as "halflings", or the way they locked up their valuables every morning when they arrived. 

Bilbo could hardly say he was surprised, he had always expected such a reaction. What he didn’t expect, however, was the dwarves who did seem to like Thorin’s little arrangement. 

Drogo, for instance, was truly the apple of his master’s eye. The wizened old locksmith, though suspicious of his new charge at first, quickly abandoned his contempt in favour of delight once he realised the extent of Drogo’s talent. The thief’s skill in picking locks translated easily into making them, and his master had even begun to boast about the hobbit, referring to him as his “‘ Ukhadul Thatr ” (from his tone, Bilbo assumed it was some kind of compliment). Drogo, ever humble, simply waved away the congratulations from his fellow hobbits and insisted he was “just happy he could use his skills to give back for a change”. 

Drogo’s wife, on the other hand, had managed to become remarkably popular simply through her existence alone. Dwarven women swarmed to her, peppering her with questions about her child and pregnancy. Several of them even insisted that the overwhelmed hobbit attend dinner at their house, and share her secrets with them so that they might be blessed with the same fertility that she had. Such invitations always left the young mother a flustered, stuttering mess.

Still, all of Bilbo’s family were beginning to learn to fit in with their new community. Some of the men had even begun to attempt to grow beards, though all any could ever truly manage were whiskers. Every night was filled not only with more food than they usually had in an entire week, but also with playful arguments about who was better at their new trade. Lobelia always managed to shout down everyone else, insisting that her newfound talent for silver smithing was unmatched. Bilbo was sure his eyes would get stuck at the top of his head for how often he rolled them at her. 

What he wasn’t sure about, however, was what his place was in all this. 

Everyone else had found a new purpose now, a new direction. Everyone else had a passion, something they not only enjoyed, but were good at. A respectable profession, a place among dwarven society. 

But what place was there for Bilbo, in this mountain full of honest, hardworking people? All he had ever been good at, throughout his entire life, was stealing, cheating and lying. Maybe there was a future here for his family, but what hope could he possibly have for one of his own? 

Maybe the simple truth of the matter was that Bilbo was a thief, and would always be a thief. 

Besides, even if he did want to take on a trade (such as being a scribe in the library), his whole family would lose their new home. There was still a deal here, an underlying duty upon which all these gifts were built - his contract with the king. To try to back out now, to try to convince Thorin, kind hearted though he was, to relinquish his power over him, was madness. No, Bilbo would be a burglar until the day he died. 

And there was nothing that he could do to change that.

…

“Thorin, the people are restless,” Balin informed the dwarven king as they strode through the halls, him and his brother flanking the royal on either side. “Dale has cut off their trade with us entirely, and it is affecting our grain supply. With winter fast approaching, I fear many will go hungry if we cannot find an alternative food source in time.”

“A thousand curses upon Bard,” Dwalin murmured darkly under his breath. Thorin didn’t offer comment, gesturing instead for his chief advisor to continue. 

“I have been looking for a solution. As you know, there are dwarven merchants who pass through here often. I’ve called upon as many as I know to come and trade with us,” Balin resumed. “However, all but one of the caravans has refused. None would explain why until I spoke to Dwalin about it.”

“Yes. On our regular patrol, my men found a group of merchants slaughtered on their way to the mountain. Not only that, but there is no game left to hunt. It has all been killed, and defiled in such a way that makes it inedible,” Dwalin responded darkly, his words hanging over their heads like daggers. “There is no denying it any longer. Someone, or something, is specifically targeting us.”

“Then we shall assemble a hunting party,” Thorin finally spoke, his voice steel. “Dwalin, gather twenty three of your finest soldiers. You and I shall accompany them and scour the woods for this threat. Leave no stone unturned until they have been dealt with.”

The two dwarves on either side of the royal nodded solemnly, before Balin offered him a smile. “Ah, you are shaping up to be a fine king, my lad. I’ll take my leave of you now. I have much preparation still to do before Durin’s day tomorrow.”

Thorin gave a start. Was Durin’s day nearly upon them already? It seemed like it was just yesterday that he had first encountered that thief in his throne room, all those weeks ago. How could he have known then that their lives would become so intricately entwined? That everyday, without fail, he would find himself wondering what his burglar was up to?

Thorin was abruptly jerked out of his thoughts when Dwalin suddenly pushed him away. “Get back!”

The royal moved to draw his sword but he was too slow, Dwalin had already grabbed his quarry and slammed him up against the stone wall of the corridor, both hands around his neck. The poor hooded figure thrashed uselessly against his grip, bare feet kicking desperately in the air - 

Wait. 

Hooded cloak? Bare feet? 

Dear Mahal, NO. 

“Release him!” Thorin yelled, frantically finding his voice and screaming with a mixture of both anger and terror. “Release him in the name of the king!”

“But Thorin…” Dwalin loosened his grip, turning back to his friend with a confused look on his face. “He was-”

“I don’t care! Take your hands off of my hobbit at once!” The monarch bellowed back. “Or I’ll banish you from my kingdom for the rest of your life!”

“What?” The startled dwarf dropped the figure immediately, who fell forward, gasping. Thorin immediately rushed to his side, and sure enough, when he pushed back his hood to cup his face in his hands, copper curls brushing against his fingertips, it was his burglar’s panicked hazel eyes that stared back at him. 

“I-I’m sorry,” the thief managed to choke out, his throat protesting every word. “I didn’t see…your guard, I-” his voice gave way to a fit of strained coughing, making Thorin turn to Dwalin with an icy glare. Dwalin, for his part, just looked even more confused than before. 

“He snuck up on you, hooded, and near silent,” he gestured at the burglar defensively. “It’s a miracle I caught him when I did. He could have been an assassin, for all I know -”

“But he’s not,” Thorin snapped back, still cradling his hobbit’s face in his hands. “Master Baggins is a close confidant of mine and if you intend on remaining my friend I suggest that you do not so much as breathe a threat in his direction ever again.”

The royal let out a short, sharp breath. “Dismissed.”

“But-”

“ Leave, Dwalin.”

The bald dwarf no longer wore an expression of just confusion, but one of hurt, as well. Thorin felt a stab of guilt pierce his chest as his guard spun around and retreated back the way he came, leaving the king and the hobbit alone. 

“Are you alright?” The royal gently tilted his burglar’s face up, examining it for any sign of bruises. “Master Baggins?”

His thief was looking away, furiously blushing, though Thorin was not sure he understood why. His hands were balled tightly into fists, causing the dwarf to drop one of his own hands cupping his burglar’s face to smooth them out. The hobbit let out a shaky breath as he did, as if the simple action affected him more than it should. 

“I’m such a fool…” Thorin heard him mutter under his breath, bitterly, regretfully, almost wondrously. 

“No, you aren’t,” The dwarf assured him. “This was not your fault at all. Please forgive Dwalin - he has no idea of the depth of our relationship.”

The burglar let out a distressed hum at that, his hands balling into even tighter fists, prompting Thorin to wonder if he had said something wrong. Clumsily, he attempted to change the subject. 

“Why were you following me, anyway?” He asked. “Do not misunderstand, I am always glad for your company, but we have already had our meeting for today.”

Master Baggins finally met his eyes then, and let out a half hearted, sarcastic, almost self deprecating laugh. “I guess I...I just wanted to see you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Though next time I will endeavour to be more careful about how I approach you,” the thief backed away, out of Thorin’s touch, until there was once again a bit of distance between them. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I must retire back home. This whole ordeal has shaken me more than I’d like to admit.”

He got up swiftly and Thorin scrambled to get up with him. “But…do you not wish to see me anymore, then?”

Master Baggins looked back at him then, and if Thorin wasn’t sure he knew better, he could have sworn there was something in that moment of hesitation, something that rested heavy in the air between them. Those hazel eyes looked at him almost longingly, with renowned interest, as if they were seeing him for the first time. 

Then they looked away, and the moment was over. 

“No. There is an important matter I must contemplate alone. Good day to you, my king.”

“Thorin,” the dwarf corrected sadly, but his burglar had already turned and fled. 

…

“You, Bilbo Baggins, are a fool of a Took,” Bilbo growled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “A naive, stupid, delusional fool of a Took.”

The hobbit ran his fingers through his curls, letting out an angry hiss as if he was the family’s new kettle or some kind of wild snake. Unintentionally, his hands got tangled up in the rat’s nest that was his hair, unbrushed and untamed. His face wrinkled as he grimaced, displaying all too clearly age’s cruel marks, and a simple glance down showed his ragged, war-torn clothes that hid a fragile, thin frame that could never hope to capture the gaze of another. 

Bilbo knew all this, he swore he did. He thought he did. The burglar was sure that there was nothing attractive about him, not in his personality and certainly not in his looks. He had spent years reminding himself of this, and holding himself back from any romance, any relationship that might have come his way. After all, Bilbo knew he’d only disappoint a spouse - the hobbit had spent so much of his life alone, carrying the burden of his ring and his family’s safety by himself, that it was easy to convince himself that whichever man he married, he’d only push him away and make him miserable. 

Bilbo collapsed onto the floor with a shaky sigh, wrapping his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them, pushing back what he hoped wasn’t tears. 

What had happened to him?

He wasn’t the same hobbit who had first thought those thoughts, all those years ago. He wasn’t even the same hobbit who had sneaked into the throne room of Erebor, hoping to steal his way into a better life. Somehow, in these past few months, Bilbo had lost sight of that sense of hopeless bitterness that he had carried with him for so many years. He had somehow let himself forget the anger and hatred that used to fuel his every action, the deep sadness and sense of injustice that had left him so spiteful and resentful. He no longer felt as if his life was a tragedy. 

And it was all Thorin’s fault. 

That dwarf - that stupid, naive, irritating, playful, welcoming, gentle, sweet dwarf - had changed Bilbo. He had distracted him from all the pain and heartache in his life. He had been there for him, offered him friendship when no one else would. Never once did the king judge him, never once did he treat him as anything less than an equal. 

Bilbo propped his head up onto his knees, his arms wrapping around his legs and pulling them even tighter. 

The hobbit had not relied on anyone since the death of his parents. He’d grown up knowing that trust was an easy way to lose everything. And yet…

Thorin made him see the world differently. When the dwarf smiled and made his chest reverberate with the sound of his deep laugh, for a brief moment, Bilbo couldn’t help but forget that the world was such a dark and cruel place. 

Their friendship had seemed so harmless at first. 

But everything with Thorin had escalated out of the hobbit’s control. Those piercing blue eyes had caught him in their spell, and every look shared between them had tightened an invisible noose around his neck that Bilbo hadn’t even noticed. With every kind act, every moment shared, every honeyed word, his fate had been sealed. And then, yesterday, when Thorin had defended him, and knelt down, and held his head in his hands so tenderly …

Bilbo could deny it no longer. He was in love. 

With the king of Erebor.  

His knees barely muffled his scream of frustration. 

How could Bilbo have been so blind to this? Why didn’t he realise sooner, and quell these absurd and undeniably stupid feelings before they had a chance to ever rise up within him? To confuse everything, to mess up what was supposed to be just a simple business arrangement? Thorin would surely never feel the same way about him. If the hobbit confessed, the entire Baggins family would be thrown out of Erebor forever -

“Bilbo?” Primula knocked at the door gently. “Are you ready? The festivities start in half an hour.”

Right, Durin’s day. Some dwarven festival they had all been invited to, personally. Bilbo just sighed, standing up off the floor and returning to staring at his disheveled reflection in the mirror. “You and the family go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Listening to her retreating footsteps, Bilbo wondered if perhaps it would be better for him not to go at all. Thorin was sure to be there, all dressed up, and with this new revelation in mind Bilbo wasn’t sure he could trust himself to act normal around him. 

On the other hand, seeing Thorin there in his role as king, beloved and admired by his people, mighty and exalted above the masses, might be exactly what Bilbo needed. What better way to nip this ridiculous little fantasy in the bud than to remind himself of Thorin’s status? King of Erebor, powerful, noble, and completely untouchable. Yes, this would be a good wake up call. 

Upon opening the bathroom door, something wooden clattered to the ground. It was a coat hangar that had evidently been resting on the door knob while he had been having his emotional crisis. Bilbo examined the garments that were hanging upon it - a deep blue jacket with dwarven buttons, a golden yellow waistcoat embroidered with oak leaves, smart blue trousers and a turquoise cravat. Pinned to the jacket was a note:

Dearest Cousin, 

I know that without my help you will simply wear the same things that you always do to the festivities this evening. But need I remind you that the king himself will be attending the feast and subsequent dancing in the town square? We have to all look our best lest our host deems us ungrateful for our new home here in Erebor, or thinks we care little for dwarven tradition!

Besides, I am most enjoying my lessons as a tailor and I have grown quite skilled. Please consider this a gift of appreciation from me to you. Especially after everything you have done for me and Poppy.

Your cousin, Falco

Bilbo let himself chuckle a little at his relative as he got dressed, smoothing out the fabric carefully. It was fine, far finer than any material he’d worn before - Falco must have spent a great deal of his new money on the soft velvet and intricate brocade. It was a pity his normal white undershirt was so worn, though thankfully the jacket hid most of it. 

Taking one final look in the mirror, Bilbo did his best to rake a comb through his unruly curls, attempting to tame them before giving up and hiding them underneath his usual hooded cloak. He finished his preparations with a furious glare at his reflection.

“I am not going to entertain any nonsensical illusions of romance with the king of Erebor,” he promised under his breath. “I swear it on Yavanna’s name.”

His resolution dimmed, however, once he arrived at the town square and actually caught sight of the king of Erebor. 

It was remarkable, really, how Bilbo had never truly noticed just how handsome Thorin was before. Sure, he’d recognised that he was attractive, he wasn't blind, but the extent of which had never quite clicked in his head until now. 

The dwarf king looked magnificent. His gold and obsidian crown had never suited him better, never looked so light upon his head as he talked and laughed with his royal guard. His smile shone brighter than the golden trim of his fur-lined cape, brighter even than the mithril tunic that glittered under layers of royal blue coats. The king seemed to radiate light, or perhaps that was simply the silver beads in his hair that caught the glow of the setting sun through the mountain skylight in such a dazzling way it almost made Bilbo feel dizzy. 

Thorin had never before looked so regal. 

The hobbit bit his lip, turning away from the dwarf before he could catch his eye and tugging his hood down to keep his flushed face from view. Quelling these feelings was going to be far harder than he initially thought. 

…

In dwarven culture, Durin’s day was a time for new beginnings. Here, at the eve of a new year, under the last light of the autumn sun, the people of Erebor celebrated the best of both the past and the future. 

And their king celebrated with them. 

As Thorin attended the festival held in the central marketplace of Erebor, he couldn’t help but catch himself reflecting upon the past year. Had so much truly happened in such little time? Could it really have been just a few months since he had first goaded that bright eyed burglar into a game with him?

Now, hobbit children danced around his feet, pressing handmade paper flowers into his hands before rushing on to the next dwarf, barely paying his crown any mind. The dwarrowdams rushed to them, drawn like magnets to metal as they fawned over how cute they were and how much they wanted a child of their own. 

A smile twitched at Thorin’s lips. That had been one of his better ideas.

It seemed strange to think that after all these years, he was finally beginning to embrace his role as ruler of the mountain. Passing by a fountain, his reflection in the water didn’t make him shy away anymore. The crown upon his head looked, for once, as if it belonged there. 

Thorin knew whose fault that was. 

Scanning the crowd, the king couldn’t find the one he was looking for - but then, he always knew how to keep himself hidden. His burglar would make himself seen when he felt like it. Thorin shook his head fondly. 

To think that such a small being had so dramatically turned his life around! Master Baggins had been a support, an unlikely friend and ally. He had inspired Thorin to be a better version of himself without even trying. His simple existence seemed as if it was enough motivation for the dwarf to want to be more than the spoiled prince he had always been. 

There was no doubt. Master Baggins was the greatest blessing Mahal had bestowed upon him all year. 

Walking through the crowd, hearing his people’s whispers of famine and scarcity, the king’s mood lowered. It was true, the banquet tables were smaller by far than previous years. His people were leaner than they had been before Dale had turned on them. Thorin knew that this winter would be a cruel one, and the entire mountain would suffer. 

Still, whatever challenges the future brought, Thorin knew he could lead his people through them. 

But only with Master Baggins by his side. 

“You look incredible tonight, your majesty. Truly, the royal tailors have outdone themselves.”

Jensia’s irritating voice shook the king out of his thoughts, forcing him to turn to her with his best attempt at a diplomatic smile. “That is kind of you to say. You cut quite the striking figure tonight yourself.”

It was true, though Thorin loathed to admit it - the princess glittered like treasure buried deep beneath the mountain, her maang tikka catching the evening light and bringing out the golden embroidery decorating her long, pleated skirt barely brushing the floor. Above it, she wore a cropped vest with a similar style of embroidery, exposing her midriff to the point that Thorin questioned how she did not feel the winter chill*. The base fabric of her garments was a maroon so deep it was almost purple, though tiny garnet and ruby beads kept them within her signature colour palette. The whole ensemble was finished off with a one shoulder cape and a veil, the latter of which almost seemed like a pointed reminder of why she was here. 

“You are too sweet,” Jensia smiled, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “And these festivities are divine. So adorably quaint and…contained.”

“Indeed?” Thorin gritted his teeth. “How do you celebrate the new year in Ered Luin, then?”

“Oh, just day long parades, massive bonfires, and enough food to feed our population ten times over,” Jensia waved one ring clad hand in the air dismissively. “Of course, there is also the matter of resolutions.”

“Resolutions?”

“Promises we make to ourselves and to each other,” Jensia dropped her smile, fixing the king with a burning stare. “ Alliances are forged on new years day. Betrothals are agreed upon.”

Thorin did not like where this was going. Taking a step back only to bump up against a table, he hastily muttered, “Well, you know, cultural differences. Ereborian dwarves usually end up too drunk by the end of the night to propose to anyone, spending all of Durin’s day trying to drink each other under the table-”

“Thorin,” Jensia’s stare wasn’t just burning into him now, it was practically setting him on fire. “You owe me a resolution.”

The dwarf gulped, backed up against the table with nowhere to run. Just when he was sure his brain couldn’t come up with the right excuse to turn her down, a little hobbit girl ran up to Jensia and snatched a bracelet right off of her wrist. 

“Theif! You rotten gultalut !” The princess shrieked, picking up her skirt and chasing after the girl, who only laughed at the furious expression on the dwarrowdam’s face. “That bracelet is worth more than you are, you abrâfu shaikmashâz -”

“Was she bothering you?” Looking up, Thorin was shocked to see his burglar comfortably sitting atop the awning above the table, bare feet dangling down as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “Imagine that, the great King under the mountain terrified of some sparkly princess half his size.”

“Was that little girl acting on your behalf, then?” The dwarf laughed, leaning up against the support pole and watching the hobbit with a bemused expression. Master Baggins turned just enough so that the king could see his smirk underneath his hooded cloak. 

“I’ve run into that woman before, from what I gather she doesn’t like our kind much. This isn’t the first time Poppy has gotten into trouble, so she knows how to get back out of it,” the thief shrugged, hopping down onto the table, much to the chagrin of a nearby chef who shooed him off immediately. Master Baggins held up his hands apologetically before turning back to Thorin. “Nice party, by the way.”

“It’s better now that you’re here,” Thorin replied warmly, reaching forward to tug off the hobbit’s hood only for him to back away farther. A confused lilt bled into the king’s voice. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”

“You…are the king of Erebor. This festival is held by and for your race, the dwarves, to honour their traditions and beliefs,” the thief responded hesitantly and then formally, almost as if he was reciting from a text. “You are their ruler. You should enjoy this celebration with your people - not with me.”

The hobbit leaned up uncomfortably against the table, fixing his gaze on the floor. “After all, I’m just a distraction.”

Thorin bit his lip, his blue eyes scanning the guarded posture of his closest confidant before he gave into the urge to stride forward until they were inches apart. Pushing back his hood, Thorin tilted the burglar’s chin up until once again those hazel eyes were giving him their full, bewildered attention.

“Master Baggins,” He began, his deep voice thick with resolution, “There may have been a time once, when I only saw you in that way. But I was blind back then, and you have long since granted me the vision to see beyond such fickle first impressions. You mean more to me than that, now.”

“You’ve given me hope. Helped me find myself, helped me reclaim my confidence and my throne. Already I am contemplating taking over entirely, not just as a regent but as a true king. You did that. You have helped me carve out a place for myself here in this mountain. And I wish to do the same for you,” Thorin took his hobbit’s hand in his own, “There is a place for you here. A real home, not one built upon lies or flawed exchanges. I want you to stay, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here, not because you are some toy for me to play with but because you are an incredible person whose company I deeply value.” 

Master Baggins looked up at him with those stunning hazel eyes, and for a moment, all of the music and noise of the festivities seemed to dim, until there was a soft silence that hung between them. Thorin could feel it in the air - something delicate, hesitant, too kind and pure to be called tension. 

It was truth. Two liars looked into each other’s eyes and saw only truth, for what might have been the first time in their lives. 

Slowly, subtly, the moment passed, and the sounds of the world surrounding the pair faded back in. Thorin dropped his hand on the hobbit’s chin, stepping back as he fought back the blush spreading up across his cheeks. The thief just blinked, looking away, shaking his head in such an imperceptible manner that he likely believed Thorin didn’t notice.

“Will you…” The king struggled through the words, unsure of why he felt compelled to ask, but the music around him seemed to be screaming only one thought into his mind. “Will you dance with me, Master Baggins?”

“I…” his burglar swallowed thickly. “I cannot think of a reason not to.”

If there was one thing all dwarves adored just as much as gold and silver, it was revelry and celebration. The centre of the town square where the marketplace usually was had been cleared to make space for the citizens of Erebor to dance. And oh, how they danced - spinning and laughing in each other’s arms with unrestrained delight. The sight filled Thorin with a deep sense of warmth, accentuated further by the way his own hobbit hung tightly onto his arm. 

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Master Baggins whispered as the song came to a close and the band prepared to start another. “What will your people think when they see their king dancing with a thief and a burglar?”

“They shall think nothing of it, for a good ruler promotes unity,” the dwarf replied smoothly. “All I am doing is honouring our people’s alliance.”

“That’s all you are doing?”

Thorin opened his mouth to protest but the gentle beginning notes of a harp saved him from blundering his way through an answer. With a smile, he gently pulled the hobbit onto the dance floor, causing murmurs to ripple through the crowd around them. 

“They’re judging you,” the burglar hissed, attempting in vain to pull his hands free of the king's grip. “And honestly, I don’t even know how to dance. This is a disaster. We should leave now while we still can -”

“Shhh,” the dwarf hushed him, rubbing soothing circles along his wrists. “Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

…

Kabir was starting to believe that perhaps Erebor was not so bad after all. 

Of course he still missed Ered Luin, and of course he still felt the bitter ache of being separated from his family and his beloved - but here, surrounded by like minded dwarves ringing in the new years with dancing, drinking and good cheer, it was easy to forget he was so far away from home. 

The other blue mountain soldiers seemed to feel the same way. Having abandoned their helmets and armour for sherwanis and b andhgalas**, the Ered Luin dwarves lost themselves in the celebrations, laughing along with their new Ereborian friends. On the dance floor, the more intoxicated soldiers showed off their own cultural dances, to the delight of several impressionable young dwarrowdams. 

Everything would have been perfect if Kabir didn’t happen to overhear Princess Jensia arguing with the King’s advisor on his way to procure for himself more of those tasty triangular, jelly filled cookies***. 

“It’s as if you haven’t even talked to him at all!” She snapped at the white bearded dwarf. “When you first wrote to me, you promised a marriage proposal and a unification of our two kingdoms!”

“With respect, your highness, I did not promise you anything. I simply suggested that it would be a favourable way forward for both of our nations,” the advisor replied evenly. “However, if King Thorin believes that there is a future for Erebor that is prosperous and does not require us to join in allegiance with you, then it is not my place to contradict his wisdom.”

“ His wisdom?” Jensia laughed incredulously. “As if he has any! Oh, you people infuriate me.”

Watching her storm off, Kabir abandoned his sugary mission to follow after his princess. “Your highness, are you alright?”

“Not that it's any of your concern, but no, Kabir, I’m not. I came here for an army and an alliance and I have secured neither,” Jensia replied with no small amount of irritation. “The leader of Erebor remains stubborn and obstinate in that regard.”

“You do have a new alliance with Bard, though,” Kabir offered, causing the royal to whip her head around to face him, eyebrows raised. The soldier held up his hands defensively. “I pay attention, that’s all.”

“Good. I need perceptive, intelligent men by my side,” She responded sharply. “And yes, I am allied with Bard, but his forces are not nearly large enough for my purposes.”

Kabir decided that it was in his best interest not to question what the princess meant by that. Honestly, he was quite surprised that she even knew his name. 

“I shall give the king’s advisor an ultimatum. King Thorin has until the end of the week to offer his hand to me,” Jensia declared, with the sort of air that made Kabir not entirely certain who the words were actually meant for - him or her. “Barring a proposal, we shall leave this god forsaken place and return to Ered Luin.”

“You mean we’ll be travelling during the winter?” Kabir asked, incredulous. “Your highness, we shall surely freeze!”

“We will be fine,” Jensia responded calmly, smoothing back her long, dark hair. “Besides, once the king hears of my demands he will doubtless see sense and agree to marry me.”

“Are you sure?” the soldier pointed to the dancefloor, where the dwarf in question was currently accompanied with an individual of short stature. “Look - the king is busy dancing with someone else.”

A single glance from the princess was all it took to sour her mood further. “Oh, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

…

Bilbo did not enjoy the feeling of being watched. A thief was supposed to stay in the shadows, not step into the limelight. 

But it was becoming increasingly harder for him to refuse Thorin. So here he was, allowing the dwarf to carefully position his hand on his shoulder and lace his fingers through the other while the beginning harpist was joined by a chorus of violins, cellos and other instruments Bilbo wasn’t sure he could name. 

“Ready?” Thorin whispered, his free hand wrapping around Bilbo’s hip in a way that forced the hobbit to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from saying or doing something stupid. 

“Mmhm!”

The music cued them in and the dwarf king moved like clockwork, gently leading them forward and back like the flow of the tide. Then the tempo picked up and Bilbo’s arm was gently led up and around Thorin’s head, forcing him to hurriedly circle the dwarf’s body in a decidedly ungraceful manner completely unlike the elegant dwarves doing the same around them. 

“Don’t fret, you’re doing splendidly,” Thorin whispered to him before releasing his hand. “Now turn on your own.”

The thief hastened to do so, his cloak spinning behind him before his dance partner’s strong hands caught his own again. Another two steps forward and Thorin did the same, the metal detailing of his clothes catching the light as he spun. 

Bilbo’s hands were ready to catch his again when he was done. Returning once more to gently stepping forward and back as the tempo once again slowed, Bilbo felt his nose twitch. Thorin tutted softly in response. 

“Just relax, master burglar.”

“Right,” the hobbit hissed back sarcastically. “If I stop concentrating for even a second, I’ll surely trod on your feet.”

“So what if you do?” Another gentle tug on his arm and Bilbo circled Thorin again. 

“I’ll embarrass you,” the hobbit replied before turning on his own. When his gaze met Thorin’s once more, the dwarf's eyes sparkled with characteristic amusement.

“My dear, I have made myself a fool in front of my people for decades,” he replied, the words my dear forcing a blush onto the hobbit’s cheeks that he was grateful his hood hid. “There is no possible way you could embarrass me more than I already have done so myself.”

Thorin spun and the tempo changed again, suddenly growing livelier as the dwarves around them hooked arms, spinning together with their partners. Thorin gently pulled the two of them together, raising his free arm and gesturing for Bilbo to do the same. 

“There is no need for you to be so stiff,” he continued to coax. “For once, be at peace. Don’t you understand? Your troubles are over.”

“How can you say that?” Bilbo shook his head as they briefly separated, clapping in time to the beat. “I still owe you a debt.”

“Really? Did you hear nothing of what I said before I dragged you onto the dance floor?” Thorin clapped along as well, though his piercing blue eyes never left the hobbit’s for a second. “I wish not for you to stay here out of duty. I want you to stay because it is what you desire.”

As if the dance itself was conspiring against Bilbo’s inhibitions, their brief separation was quickly broken as Thorin pulled him back into his arms, pressing him up against his chest, fingers interlocking with his own and his free hand moving past the hobbit’s hip to gently rest against the small of his back. 

“Is this not what you desire?” the damned dwarf whispered into the thief’s ear, nearly bringing a whimper to his lips. “To remain here, with me?”

“Of course it is,” Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from murmuring the words back. 

The dance separated them again, pulling them out of their intimate embrace until they were holding each other at arm’s length. Thorin’s smile was infectious, forcing a matching, if not somewhat more timid grin upon Bilbo’s own features. 

“Shall I propose a new deal, then?” The king asked, spinning his burglar around him once more. 

“A deal?” Bilbo chuckled as he spun on his own, trusting Thorin to be there to catch him when he was done. “Of course. I have heard that you dwarves love a good deal.”

The king laughed at that, a deep, rumbling sound that only widened Bilbo’s smile. The music was reaching its conclusion but clearly Thorin wasn’t, as he pulled the hobbit back into his arms and into a dip. 

“What are you doing?” Bilbo gasped as his hood fell back, revealing his face and releasing his cascade of messy copper curls. 

“Just revealing to my people how beautiful you are,” the dwarf replied, his fingers finding the clasp of the hobbit's cloak and undoing it. The fabric fell softly to the ground and Thorin’s eyes trailed over his outfit appreciatively. 

Honestly, if the king had just dropped him on his head it would have done less damage to his brain.

With a smirk, Thorin pulled Bilbo back up, releasing his grip before stepping back to bow. “Don’t act so surprised. I can’t let the citizens of Erebor think that their esteemed king would dance with someone unattractive, now can I?”

“Oh, you’re insufferable,” the burglar responded with his usual dry sarcasm, but he couldn’t ignore the burning in his cheeks as he bowed back. 

“But not so insufferable that I cannot convince you to stay?”

Bilbo shook his head with barely disguised fondness. “No, I think it is precisely the fact that you are so insufferable that I wish to stay.”

…

So they danced and they laughed, the king and the thief whose heart he had stolen. The last light of Durin’s day spilled in through the skylight overlooking the town square. It was usually enchanting, but tonight, a shadow fell down among the sun’s rays, like a weed amongst wheat. 

Silhouetted against the skylight was the shape of a bat. 

Taking off in a flurry of wings, unnoticed and unseen by the celebrating dwarves and hobbits below, the creature returned to the woods where its master waited, scarred and scowling, on the edge of the forest’s border. 

Bolg held up his arm for his servant, listening expectantly for its news. 

And oh, what news did the bat share with him that night. 

Azog rested against the sleeping form of his wolf, the bodies of dwarven merchants and slaughtered game littering the campsite around them. Kicking away a severed head from what might have once been either a bear cub or a dwarrow child, Bolg slouched down across from his father. 

“What news from Erebor?” the pale orc asked, soulless eyes lit like the ashes of Mordor through the glow of their campfire.

“The king dances with a halfling,” Bolg laughed darkly, “A weak, pathetic, vulnerable, halfling.”

A slow grin, wicked and ugly, spread across Azog’s face. “A toy…easily broken.”

Getting up, the pale orc stroked his fingers through Akul Mamog’s fur. “We will strike tomorrow. If the King dares to resist, if he does not surrender immediately and without condition, then the halfling…”

A snarling laugh broke his lips, the sound a curse in itself: “Then the halfling is as good as dead.”