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Thorin lifted the map in his hands a little higher, squinting at the letters and illustrations on the parchment. He tilted it to the left, and then to the right. With the sun firmly in its descent, the warm day of early summer was turning into the cool evening of late spring, and Thorin was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion something had gone terribly wrong.
“We're lost,” Bilbo said flatly, leaning on his walking stick.
“No. We're not lost. According to your map, we should be close to Crickhollow by now,” replied Thorin. He glanced over to his husband, not missing the heavy glare the hobbit was aiming right at him.
“According to my map? Are you trying to tell me that this is all somehow the map's fault, rather than your inability to read it, dear?”
Thorin bristled and turned away from Bilbo, holding the map up again.
It had been a long day, and what had started out as a pleasant morning had shifted into a tense afternoon. They should have reached Crickhollow in time for afternoon tea, but there had been fog and cloud as they'd left, and Thorin had a dawning awareness that he might have taken a wrong turn. He squinted up at the sun. It had to be around five, or even six. Crickhollow was nowhere in sight, and afternoon tea had given way to dinner. He was hungry, his legs and back ached, and he was definitely too used to a Hobbit's life to be lost, and far from respite.
“I wasn't the one who suggested a walking holiday to celebrate your upcoming eightieth birthday,” Thorin grumbled, “I said we should have taken a cart to Erebor, or the Blue Mountains – or even to Rivendell, if you'd insisted.”
Bilbo leaned over, plucking the parchment from Thorin's hands and shoving his walking stick in the map's place. The portly hobbit wrinkled his nose, pulling the map almost up to his face before holding it at arm's length, and the sinking sun glimmered through the clouds to make the highlights of silver in Bilbo's curls shine bright. The glower on his husband's face sent a shock of affection racing through Thorin.
“You can't read it without your spectacles,” he pointed out, even as he leaned over to press a quick kiss to Bilbo's temple – moving back quickly to avoid a swat.
“And yet I'll inevitably do a better job than you, despite having left them at Brandy Hall!”
Thorin tried to hide his chuckle, but from the softening of Bilbo's frown, he hadn't quite managed. Bilbo heaved a sigh and looked around, gaze fixing on the other side of the river they'd been following. There was a long stretch of dark green grass, and Thorin could see light reflecting off hidden pools.
“Right,” Bilbo said, handing the map back and taking his walking stick – using it to point, “By my reckoning, those are the Overbourne Marshes. Which means you've led us in completely the wrong direction down the river, and we're a damn long way from any respectable hospitality.”
“Any non-respectable hospitality?” Thorin muttered, trying to find the Overbourne Marshes on the map.
“Other than yourself? No. And you'd better hope it doesn't rain tonight, Master Dwarf. And you'd better thank Frodo for insisting we pack some camping gear, despite your insistence that it wouldn't be needed!” exclaimed Bilbo, prodding Thorin in the side. Then he shook his head and leaned against Thorin's shoulder with a loud huff.
Thorin wrapped his arm around the hobbit, pressing another quick kiss to his temple while holding the map in one hand. He'd found the Overbourne Marshes, and as he turned his head to scrutinise their surroundings, a plan began to form.
“We'll cut through the Old Forest and reach Standelf in time for dinner.”
“Cut through--! Oh, we'll just cut through the Old Forest, will we?” snorted Bilbo, stepping back sharply and shaking his stick at Thorin. “You've lived here long enough to know the Old Forest is dangerous. I don't much feel like an adventure tonight – I'm far too old!”
Thorin crooked a small smile, carefully folding the map up and putting it into his pocket.
“Somehow I doubt you'll ever be 'too old' for adventures, Master Burglar,” he said with a raised eyebrow, reaching to take Bilbo's arm. “Come. We have Sting and Orcrist by our sides, and you're in the company of a dwarven King of Old, with many songs and legends under his beard – retired or not.”
“I'm in the company of an idiot who still can't read a map after two hundred years,” grumbled Bilbo, though he let Thorin take his arm and lead him towards the tree line. “This is a terrible idea and when it all goes wrong, I am firmly blaming you.”
“Yes, ukradê,” replied Thorin absent-mindedly, giving the sun one last look before he and Bilbo stepped into the trees.
*
To Bilbo's credit, Thorin thought as he watched his husband use his walking stick to beat back brambles from the small glade, he was taking it very well. As dinner time had come and gone, followed swiftly by supper time, Thorin had been forced to concede that now they really were lost.
Lost in the Old Forest, no less, and with only the last light of evening glowing through the canopy. How was he supposed to know the magic in the Old Forest would affect his khulutharr zirik-karsh, and send the needle pointing in any direction it so pleased? He hadn't realised the needle could be tricked until he'd checked it twice without moving, and realised the contraption said North was now to their left, rather than in front of them. A shake of the box had then sent the needle spinning to show North to the right of them, and Thorin had broken the news to Bilbo a few moments later.
“We could be anywhere, Thorin. Do you realise that? Anywhere!” Bilbo said with a particularly vicious smack of his stick against branches.
Thorin kept his silence, adding some more bracken onto their little fire and rubbing the muscles in his aching back. He poured some water into their little collapsible pot and added tea leaves, stirring them in with a spoon and bringing out two wooden mugs.
“Come and have some tea, ukradê,” he said softly, patting the space next to him on the log he'd dragged over.
His husband didn't turn around.
“Anywhere!” Bilbo exclaimed again, unsheathing Sting and using it to cut off a particularly robust arm of sharp thorns. “We might even be heading in circles, for all we know!”
“I'm laying out supper. Turkey sandwiches, cold potatoes, buttered scones, Greenholm cheddar, some crackers – a little crumbled, but still edible. Shortbread; the ones with ginger. Look, even a whole meat pie.”
At that Bilbo paused, glancing over his shoulder with a twitch of his nose.
“I thought we'd eaten all those at lunch,” he muttered suspiciously.
“You ate yours,” Thorin said, crooking a small smile and patting the log again, “I didn't finish all mine. Come, ukradê, eat.”
Bilbo heaved a long and dramatic sigh, but much to Thorin's relief he turned on his heel and settled down next to Thorin. He huffed out a wordless thanks as he took the hot mug of tea from Thorin's fingers, sipping it with a frown and one hand on Sting. Thorin took a slow mouthful of his own. Then he used a small knife from his belt to cut the cheese and place it on the bigger bits of cracker, finally slicing the meat pie into easily eaten segments.
When Bilbo didn't immediately move to take some, despite not having eaten since lunch, worry bubbled in Thorin's stomach.
He reached out, gently placing his hand over Bilbo's as his husband set down his half empty mug.
“What's wrong?”
“Apart from being lost in the Old Forest whilst being very tired, very hungry, and rather cold?” grumbled the hobbit, linking his fingers through Thorin's, but not meeting his gaze.
“Apart from that,” Thorin murmured, bringing Bilbo's hand up to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. He knew his husband well enough after thirty years to see when something deeper weighed on his mind.
Bilbo kept his silence for another few seconds, the Old Forest silent except for the crackle and pop of burning bracken.
“When I-- ...” Bilbo began. His own voice seemed to startle him, and Thorin pressed another slow kiss to his husband's fingers – noting how Bilbo's other hand still rested on the hilt of Sting, his supper untouched. “When I was a young hobbit,” he said slowly, “during the Fell Winter, my parents and I stayed in Brandy Hall. We were one of many who moved into the smial for a time, pooling together resources and so on – quite sensible, really. I'm sure I mentioned it. Well, one day, I'd left with my cousins to forage for anything worth eating on the edges of the Old Forest. All the older hobbits were fetching firewood and whatever stable sources of food we had, but we young ones were always keen to help – and empty bellies hastened helpfulness, as my father used to say.”
Thorin frowned gently, clasping his husband's hand between both of his own. This wasn't a story he recognised. Even as Bilbo spoke, his voice was quiet and almost dreamy – as if he was remembering a tale long forgotten.
“The snow came up to my knees and it was bitterly cold – the sort that settles between your bones and won't shift, even with hot water bottles and blankets. We'd spotted some rather miserable rosehips just a little way into the forest, and I'd volunteered to go after them. As soon as I had started snatching them off the branches, I heard the most frightful noise, and...”
Bilbo trailed off and Thorin felt the shiver that raced through his husband's frame. He poured more hot water into Bilbo's cup, encouraging him to drink it. Darkness was falling swiftly around them, a sense of unease oozing up inside him. He'd heard stories about the Old Forest, but had assumed most of them lay steeped in superstition, and the fancies of comfortable little hobbits who didn't much like to have to go into it.
“Well,” Bilbo sighed, sipping his tea, “A big, hungry wolf had snapped a twig under its paws as it snuck up on me. I fled – all but leapt halfway up a tree to escape it. The nasty thing walked circles and circles around the roots, and I remember thinking to myself that it was probably just as hungry as I was, and if my mother had given me wolf stew I'd have eaten it all up and been glad for it. But I didn't much fancy being supper, so of course I stayed up in the branches. It started snowing – I remember being so cold I thought I'd become an icicle – and night fell. Finally the horrible creature left and after another good wait I scrambled down and ran all the way back to Brandy Hall, half-dead from fear, cold, and hunger.”
By the time Bilbo had finished talking there was a droop to his shoulders, and his lined face was drowned in the shadow of oncoming night. He looked small, frail in the firelight. Thorin pressed a soft kiss to Bilbo's cheek, all his love and fierce desire to protect rising up in him like a wave.
“And being in the Old Forest is causing these memories to resurface,” he said quietly, putting a plate of food on Bilbo's knees. He slid his arm around Bilbo's waist, squeezing him softly. “It's been many a year since a wolf has been sighted within the Shire.”
“Quite! And after Smaug and Azog and all that nastiness, I think I'm quite capable of taking on a wolf,” Bilbo snorted, taking another gulp of his tea before finally starting to eat.
Thorin nodded and let his hand linger on Bilbo's back as he ate his own share, the two falling into comfortable silence. After they'd finished Thorin put the crockery back into his bag, throwing more bracken onto the small fire. He stood up, grunting at the twinges in his knees and back, placing his hands on his hips as he stretched.
“Do you think we need a watch?”
“Goodness, no. Well,” Bilbo amended, lighting his pipe and starting to puff at it, “I'm certainly not staying up half the night – but you're more than welcome to.”
Thorin hummed, rubbing his hand over his beard – plaited into an elegant, if short, braid.
“If it'll make you feel safer, I'll do a watch.”
Bilbo looked up at that, his expression melting into something utterly warm and loving for a brief moment, his eyes and mouth crinkling at the corners.
“I think I'd feel much safer with my husband beside me. We'll keep Sting and Orcrist close by – and besides, I'm still a very light sleeper. If anything nasty tries its hand, it'll be in for a surprise, hah!” Bilbo laughed, pointing his pipe at Thorin and winking.
With a chuckle Thorin started to lay out the bedrolls on the ground Bilbo had cleared, bundling their spare clothing for pillows and untying their large blankets from the tops of their backpacks.
Bilbo's hand on his shoulder was a welcome touch, and he turned his head to greet the soft brush of Bilbo's lips against his.
“Just like old times, hmn?” Bilbo smiled, “Who'd have thought I'd be eighty, and still on ridiculous adventures with a dwarf king – retired or not; and decidedly late for supper!”
“I wouldn't expect anything less, ukradê, you'll be adventuring until the very end.”
“Hah! I should hope not! I don't plan to go anywhere for a long time after this,” he snorted, groaning as he knelt down to flop onto the bedroll, immediately pulling a face and grumbling, “And to think I'd forgotten about this bit of adventuring! My knees won't be happy.”
Thorin breathed out a laugh, adding more bracken onto the fire and stoking the embers. It would burn for many more hours, and should be warm enough by sunrise to get going again to make breakfast on. Then he knelt down beside Bilbo, laying Sting and Orcrist out on either side of the bedrolls before stretching out beside his husband.
“Mahal,” he groaned instantly, rolling onto his side. Despite the bedrolls, the ground was hard and cold, and even though a space had been cleared, he could feel each lump and dip of the earth beneath him. “My damn back will feel this in the morning,” he grumbled, rolling again to press his face to Bilbo's back, tugging the blanket over them.
The hobbit snickered.
“Serves you right for getting us lost in the forest – and goodness knows I'll have to put up with your moaning tomorr-- Oh! Oh, you beast! Take your horrible cold hands out from under my shirt this instant!” Bilbo squawked, digging his toes into Thorin's shin and reaching behind him to try and slap his hands away.
Thorin grinned, sliding them round to Bilbo's soft stomach.
“But you are very warm, ukradê, and we vowed to share all things in this life,” he smirked.
“You're a rotten, miserable pain, Thorin Oakenshield, and I hope you have to get Frodo and Sam to walk up and down on your back when we get home,” Bilbo grumped out, even as he linked his warm fingers with Thorin's much colder ones, “I am not your portable heater! Auta miqula edhel!”
“I'd rather kiss you,” Thorin murmured with a huff of laughter and a soft kiss to the nape of Bilbo's neck. He closed his eyes, feeling Bilbo relax in his arms, his husband's body moulding perfectly against his – as it had done from the very start. It didn't take him long to drop off, despite the uncomfortable ground underneath him.
*
“Ah hah!” cried Bilbo. “Look! There's the end of this blasted forest!”
Walking stick waving excitedly at the thinning trees and with sudden, unexpected swiftness, Bilbo strode forwards. Thorin picked up his pace, following his husband. After a few moments the trees grew sparse, and then they were striding over grassy earth, free from confounded roots and brambles. Relief bubbled up in his gut as they slowed to a stop, Thorin placing his hands on his hips and looking around.
Hills. Lots of hills. Some big, some small, and behind them the forest. He pulled out the map, stretching it out between his hands and inspecting it.
Mahal. The only bit without hills on the map was the place they wanted to be.
“Well?” asked Bilbo, squinting at the map.
“Well,” Thorin said, slowly, “We're out of the forest.”
“... You have no idea where we are, do you.”
Thorin held the map up, turning in a slow circle. But he couldn't spot any landmarks, and even though it could only be eleven in the morning, a curious haze seemed to be around them.
“What about your khulutharr zirik-karsh?” Bilbo asked, taking the map and peering at it. Thorin let him have it, pulling the little box from his pocket. He flicked open the lid and gave it a shake before laying it out on the palm of his hand.
The lazy needle dipped and swung, but didn't settle, spinning slowly in the wooden box.
“We're still too close to the forest,” he sighed, snapping it shut and dropping it back into his pocket. He pointed to a large hill, perhaps a mile or so before them. “We'll climb the hill over there, and better see the lay of the land.”
Bilbo looked up, frowning at the proposed hill before he sighed and folded the map, letting Thorin slide it back into his pocket.
“Very well,” he sniffed, shouldering his pack and gripping his walking stick a little tighter. “I suppose there's nothing else for it – though I don't much like the look of this fog.”
“Nor I,” Thorin muttered, starting to walk again.
They moved slower, now. Breakfast had been eaten, but second breakfast and elevenses had been forgone, and Thorin's back ached. He was tired, decidedly fed up of walking, and hungry.
By the time they'd reached the top of the hill, mist and cloud covered sky and earth. The scowl on Bilbo's face matched his own, and another check of the khulutharr zirik-karsh showed the needle now flicking from north to south and back again. Thorin shook it, and it flicked from east to west.
Despite their height, the fog made it all but impossible to see any distance. The air was cold and damp, and his bones ached from it.
“Look!” Bilbo suddenly said, pointing with his stick, “Down there! I dare say there's a road, and a big fellow on it. We can ask him for directions.”
Thorin nodded, starting to head down the hill. It was the only option they had, and he'd rather suffer the blow to his dignity than spend another night camping or wandering around in this mist.
They were about halfway down when Bilbo suddenly stopped, grabbing Thorin's elbow. There was a peculiar twist to his features, and Thorin immediately covered Bilbo's hand with his own, his own foul mood forgotten in the light of his husband's expression.
“Something's not right,” Bilbo said quietly, “He's not moved at all.”
Thorin looked back to the figure. It was standing in the middle of a road that was barely more than a trodden path, its back to them, and its body wrapped up in a long, grey robe. Though tall, it was slim, and seemed a little hunched over.
“... Perhaps he's simply not heard us,” Thorin replied, squeezing his hand, “The big folk aren't renowned for their perception, especially the unskilled ones.”
Bilbo nodded, but he didn't look convinced, and Thorin noted how his hand went to the handle of Sting. He squeezed his husband's shoulder, placed his own hand on Orcrist's hilt, and moved forwards.
When the man didn't move as they stepped onto the path, Thorin eased the first inch of his blade out of its scabbard. Bilbo was utterly silent beside him – the peculiar stillness of a hobbit who very much didn't want to be seen. The man's cloak fluttered in the breeze, torn and ragged at the edges, but stained with no mud.
“Excuse us,” Thorin called out, dropping the pitch of his voice and tightening his grip on Orcrist, “We're looking for directions to the nearest town.”
The man straightened up suddenly, Bilbo and Thorin both taking a smart step backwards at the sudden movement.
“We're not looking for trouble, simply directions to habitation,” Thorin tried again. “Perhaps you know where the nearest town is.”
The man slowly turned, the long material covering its form and face. Every hair on Thorin's body tugged at his skin, his toes curling in his boots and his breath suddenly stolen from his chest. He opened his mouth, but in that instant the man jerked, the hood of its cloak slipping back as it lunged towards them.
Thorin barely had a second to register mummified skin stretched tight over animated skeleton, mouth agape and eye sockets empty, limbs and hands three times as big as they should be with grasping, spindly fingers before he and Bilbo were swinging Sting and Orcrist up in perfect harmony.
Their blades sank into the creature like knives through soft butter, the metal flickering from eerie, glowing blue to green to purple, and it felt as if the hilt of Orcrist bit at his palms.
With a high-pitched shriek the monster disappeared into a broil of black flame and foul smoke. Thorin reached out, Bilbo's fingers immediately locking between his, and without missing a single beat both of them broke out into a run, feet thudding along the path.
They fled in tandem, Thorin matching his breathing with each push of his legs – just as he had done when he'd trained, over a century ago; and despite Bilbo's advanced age for a hobbit, they were equally matched – hands clasped together. Even when they slowed from a flat-out sprint to a walk again, both their chests heaving for breath and weapons drawn, they didn't let go.
The trodden path beneath them turned from crumpled grass to mud, and then to stone, but it was only when the strange fumes of fog had cleared did they stop.
“Well,” Bilbo croaked, voice tight and a little strangled as he broke the silence, “I suppose I'll be needing a new walking stick. I'm certainly not going back for it.”
Thorin barked out a laugh, noticing his husband had indeed lost his stick somewhere along the way.
“I'll carve you a new one as soon as we're home,” he said, sheathing Orcrist as Bilbo sheathed Sting. As Bilbo stepped close he wrapped his arms around the hobbit, holding him tightly.
What in Mahal's name had just accosted them?
He pressed several quick kisses to Bilbo's forehead and cheeks, feeling his husband shivering lightly in his arms – though Thorin wasn't faring much better. His heart was still pounding against his ribs, breath rattling in his lungs, and there was a quake in his limbs.
“That was not something of this world,” he murmured, resting his chin on Bilbo's head and closing his eyes for a brief moment. Bilbo's arms squeezed around his middle before he pulled back, his lined face set with determination.
“No, it wasn't. But whatever it was it's gone now, and this path is leading somewhere. Hopefully somewhere with decent people and decent food,” he added, linking his fingers with Thorin's own. Then he started to walk again, head held high.
Thorin let himself be led along, keeping his right hand on the hilt of Orcrist.
“Ah hah!” Bilbo suddenly proclaimed, “I think I know where we are! I recognise this road; and so should you.”
Thorin frowned, looking around as he kept pace with his husband, but it wasn't until they passed a row of distinctive beech trees did he realise where they were. He huffed out a laugh.
“Bree,” he said incredulously, “We're heading towards Bree.”
“Which means we just ran through the Barrow Downs. Nasty place! Nasty place indeed, and I suppose we just met one of it's damned inhabitants. Now that'll be a tale to tell Frodo and little Sam,” Bilbo chuckled, shaking his head, “A night in the old forest, and an encounter amid the grave-hills.”
“I have never understood the menfolk's tradition of burying their dead in such tombs. It makes a mockery of the good earth and rock,” grumbled Thorin, running his thumb over Bilbo's knuckles.
The hobbit smiled, giving Thorin's hand a squeeze.
“Nor I. Now, come on. We'll be in Bree soon. A bath, a good dinner, and a bed are waiting for us!”
Thorin's frown softened as he looked down at his husband, Bilbo's good mood infectious, and his enticing words keeping his feet moving.
*
Thorin combed his fingers through Bilbo's curls, the hobbit's head resting on his chest. They were safely tucked in to a wide, soft bed in one of the rooms for 'The Little Folk', as the cheery owner had informed them. Hot baths had been taken, several meals had been eaten, and a cart had been hired to take them back to Bag End in the morning.
After all, they'd both agreed a night lost in the Old Forest and a battle with a Barrow Wight – as they'd been told it was called – was more than enough adventure for the both of them.
“I think,” Thorin said softly, watching as Bilbo snuffled a little more awake, peering up at him, “In the end, I rather enjoyed our adventure.”
“Hah! Very easy to say when it's all over and done,” his husband snorted, pulling the duvet up a little more around them and yawning. “Very easy to say indeed, after a hot bath and some supper. Quite a different tune when it was happening, though.”
“Hence why I said 'in the end', not 'at the time',” Thorin grumbled, gently pinching Bilbo's side and fighting against a flinch as Bilbo prodded him right back. “At the time, of course, I very much liked the short walks in the sunshine between your relatives and their meals. But in the end,” he repeated, “I enjoyed our adventure. It felt like when we first met.”
Bilbo hummed out a little noise, closing his eyes.
“Yes, I suppose we were rather terse with each other – and goodness knows your snoring made up for the lack of twelve others.”
Thorin frowned, jostling Bilbo a little.
“You're being flippant. I'm trying to say something.”
The hobbit opened his eyes again and shifted so he was half sitting up, nose to nose with Thorin. He smiled, impish features soft and warm in the low candlelight.
“I know. I am being flippant, I'm sorry. In the end our little adventure was my favourite part, too. And I was most impressed with how quickly you drew Orcrist. You've lost none of your fire, and even at eighty I find myself constantly falling for you again and again. Even when you still can't read maps. It'll be a grand tale to tell the little ones on midsummer's eve.”
“You're a terrible husband,” Thorin grumbled with absolutely no sincerity to his voice, wrapping his arms around Bilbo's shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “I'm surprised your knees managed our run. I thought I might have to carry you.”
“Hah! With your back? I'd have had to carry you!” laughed Bilbo, pecking his lips again.
Thorin chuckled, helping Bilbo to lay back down. He turned to blow out the last candle before joining him, closing his eyes and relaxing into the weight of his husband against him and in his arms. Bilbo's hand touched his cheek, followed by a last, slow kiss to his lips.
“I do love you, you silly old dwarf,” Bilbo murmured, voice a whisper in the dark.
“And I love you,” replied Thorin, burying his face in Bilbo's curls and letting himself drift off into sleep.
*
My dear Frodo,
Thorin and I are cutting our holiday a little short. I left my spectacles at Brandy Hall, and we had a mishap with the map and your uncle's complete inability to make sense of it. Stop your laughter at once! I know you'll be chortling away to yourself, nice and cosy at home, while your poor uncle and I were forced to camp – in the Old Forest, no less! – without so much as a decent supper. We made it out of the Forest, but stumbled upon a horrid creature in the Barrow Downs; a Wight, I believe it's called, and it gave us a nasty turn. However, it just so happens that your old, fat uncles have a bit of their fighting spirits still in them, and we slayed the foe with impressive speed, and ran all the way to Bree. Naturally Thorin's back is giving him grief, so we've booked a cart home and should be back with you shortly – though hopefully after this letter! So you'd better tidy the place up!
Love,
Bilbo Baggins
Dearest Frodo,
Bilbo and I have decided to end our walking holiday. After a mild mishap with the map, we found ourselves turned around in the Old Forest, and subsequently were forced to camp for the night. Though it was nothing we couldn't handle, we ran into some trouble on the road while on the way to Bree, and have hired a cart to take us back to Bag End. As you know your uncle's knees have seen better days, and he's experiencing some pain and stiffness, hence our swift return. Make sure whatever you've eaten is replaced, whatever you've broken is hidden, and there is some semblance of cleanliness to the place, if you would. I am looking forward to seeing you.
Fondest thoughts,
Thorin