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After the Battle of the Five Armies, Thorin, along with Fíli and Kíli, miraculously survives—thanks to a hobbit’s persistence and sleepless nights caring for the royal Durin family when everyone else has already given up. Bilbo Baggins’ tireless efforts are rewarded when they recover.
It happens quickly, really. Without the looming threat of death or the pressure of an arduous journey, Bilbo and Thorin’s relationship evolves from tentative friendship to something much deeper. The entire Company breathes a collective sigh of relief the moment they catch Bilbo snogging Thorin while the dwarf rests in bed, recovering from his injuries. Every one of them essentially exclaims, “Finally!” Any lingering grudges dissolve in the face of sincere apologies and heartfelt promises.
However, Erebor still requires extensive restoration, and so do its relationships with Dale and Greenwood. To avoid complications, Thorin and Bilbo decide to keep their relationship a secret, sharing it only with the Company. Dain, ever perceptive, quickly pieces it together, declaring, “I know you, cousin! You don’t smile that big for no reason, and lately, you’ve only been smiling when the hobbit’s around.”
Bard and Thranduil also figure it out, noting how much easier Thorin is to deal with when Bilbo is nearby. Both offer their congratulations, though not without a bit of teasing, with comments like, “Bilbo could have chosen better,” much to Thorin’s irritation.
Because Bilbo is instrumental in the Journey, he is granted room, board, and a high-ranking, albeit temporary, position in the royal court. While the dwarrows of Erebor appreciate his contributions to reclaiming their mountain home, many view the presence of a non-dwarf in their sacred halls as borderline sacrilegious. His temporary status in the court helps quell some of their discontent.
Over the years, however, Bilbo’s tireless dedication to restoring Erebor wins over even the staunchest critics. Slowly but surely, the dwarrows warm to him, and many grow uneasy whenever Gandalf the Grey visits, as he often inquires about when Bilbo plans to return to the Shire. Bilbo, for his part, cheerfully declines each time, though he enjoys exchanging letters and news with the wizard.
Today, Erebor is no longer the broken tomb they once reclaimed from Smaug. It thrives as both a home and a kingdom. Its alliances with Greenwood and Dale grow strong, and the dwarrows of Erebor live in contentment. Most have come to accept Bilbo as a part of their community, even deeming him worthy of living in their mountain.
Now, as the murmurs of who will rule by Thorin’s side grow louder, Thorin decides the time has come to make an official declaration: Bilbo Baggins will be his consort.
It all unfolds exactly as Balin warns Thorin it will when he announces his decision to the council: chaos.
“You can’t marry a halfling!”
“But you need heirs, my lord!”
“Only dwarrows are worthy of the mountain!”
“Congratulations, your Majesty!”
“That rat is a thief! Please reconsider!”
Even though most of the council recognizes Bilbo’s worth and loyalty, they have always assumed he would leave eventually, given his supposedly temporary position. Now, they are only just realizing the truth.
Meanwhile, said hobbit is sitting beside Balin, quietly working on documents. He doesn’t understand Khuzdul and assumes this is one of the council’s usual heated debates. Unaware that the commotion is about him, he leans over to Ori, who is sitting nearby. “Ori, is this a topic I can help with, or does it fall outside my area of expertise?”
Ori, who often acts as Bilbo’s translator, hesitates. “Honestly, Bilbo, I’m not sure. You might calm them down... or rile them up even more.”
“Well, whatever it is, they need to move on. They’ve been shouting for an hour now,” Bilbo replies with a sigh, clearly annoyed but unsurprised. “Ori, be a dear and strike the gong for me, will you?”
“Um... I don’t think I should this time,” Ori mumbles, glancing nervously at the gong. Thorin had it specially made for Bilbo, a way to let him command attention in the council chambers, as his voice doesn’t carry nearly as well as a dwarf’s.
“Nonsense,” Bilbo says, patting Ori gently on the back. “We have more pressing matters to address, and whatever they’re bickering about can wait.”
Ori whimpers but obeys, walking over to the gong with visible reluctance. He picks up the large battle hammer placed beside it and swings. The deafening clang reverberates through the council room, cutting through the cacophony of shouting.
Every dwarf in the room freezes and turns to stare at Bilbo, wide-eyed and startled.
“Now, gentledwarrows, as much as I enjoy hearing your voices, we have an entire list to deal with, negotiations to sort out, problems to solve, and much more. We’ve already wasted an hour discussing a topic with no progress. Shall we move on and circle back to this later?” Bilbo asks calmly, though his tone carries an undercurrent of warning for anyone bold enough to object.
His moniker, Dragontongue, is well-earned, not only because of his famous riddling match with Smaug but also because of the sharpness of his words when he chooses to clash verbally with others. As Bilbo often says, if he can talk back to a dragon and live to tell the tale, there’s no reason he shouldn’t speak his mind to anyone else.
“The future consort is right. We should move on if we’re making no progress,” Dís chimes in, as usual, taking Bilbo’s side. She and Bilbo have been close friends ever since her return to Erebor years ago. Their first meeting was unforgettable: Dís walked in on Bilbo scolding her sons, and to her surprise, they were not only listening but paying full attention. Impressed, she immediately took a liking to the hobbit.
“Yes, thank you, Dís. Now that I have everyone’s attention,” Bilbo begins, “a merchant fro-wait, future consort?” He blinks, staring at Dís, who gives him a sly, knowing smirk. His gaze shifts to Thorin, who offers him a soft, loving smile before nodding.
Thorin rises from his seat and steps toward Bilbo, reaching into his pocket to produce a ring. The design takes Bilbo’s breath away: a forget-me-not crafted with intricate precision, its petals made of blue sapphires symbolizing loyalty, its center of yellow sapphires for prosperity, and its leaves of emeralds for rebirth. The ring’s meaning is unmistakable, true love. Thorin’s understanding of hobbitish flower language, combined with dwarven gem symbolism, makes the piece even more meaningful. Bilbo is overwhelmed, especially after the ordeal with the Arkenstone. Despite it all, they have remained loyal to one another, and now they stand ready to prosper together.
“It is time, amrâlimê,” Thorin says softly, using the Khuzdul term of endearment. “I know you and Balin told me we should wait a while longer, but ever since these fools started suggesting I take a consort who is not you, I decided the moment is now. Bilbo Baggins, will you build a garden with me?”
Thorin kneels and presses a tender kiss to Bilbo’s hand.
Bilbo stares at him in stunned silence. The proposal is unmistakably hobbitish in every step, even down to the very words used. The council is equally stunned, watching with wide eyes, before Bilbo bursts into tears and nods. “Oh, Thorin! Yes! Yes, I’d love to!”
Thorin smiles and slips the ring onto Bilbo’s finger.
The council erupts into chaos once again. Half of them cheer in delight, offering congratulations on the engagement, while the other half roar in outrage. Those already opposed to the idea of a non-dwarrow consort now grow even angrier.
First, they protest that a proper dwarven proposal should involve a hair bead, not a ring. Second, they object to the king kneeling, calling it undignified. Third, they grumble that the floral design of the ring is far too elvish for their taste.
Ignoring the uproar, Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and leads him from the chamber, leaving Dís and the rest of their allies to placate the angry council. Away from the noise, the two retreat to enjoy a private celebration of their engagement, finally allowing themselves a moment of peace and joy.
Inside the royal dining room, the royal family, including the Company, enjoys a meal together as usual. Dain, currently visiting for trade agreements, listens intently as Dís recounts the tale of Thorin’s proposal. When she finishes, Dain groans loudly.
“Cousin. First of all, congratulations on your engagement. Second, did you really tell the council about your plans to make the hobbit your consort before you even asked Bilbo? What would you have done if he said no?”
“Dain, please,” Thorin replies, sounding calm as he takes a sip of his drink. “Bilbo and I have been together for years. I see no reason why he would say no.”
“Really? How about the constant insults some dwarrows throw behind his back, the stress of royal life, or the fact that he might miss the Shire?” Dain shoots back, listing each point with emphasis.
Thorin freezes mid-sip, his calm facade crumbling as his entire body tenses. Dain’s words strike a nerve, and fear flickers across his face.
“But I said yes,” Bilbo reminds him gently, reaching out to rub his arm in reassurance. “Thorin, I already said yes.” His voice is soft, but there’s a note of understanding. Then, with a raised eyebrow, he adds, “Though Dain is right. I would’ve liked to know I was going to be a consort before the council found out.”
“My apologies,” Thorin murmurs, gripping Bilbo’s hand tightly to steady himself. His fingers brush against the forget-me-not ring as if to remind himself of Bilbo’s acceptance. “The council was preparing to list potential consorts, and I wanted to shut it down quickly. They have lovely daughters, but I only wish to marry you.”
“Well...” Bilbo begins, turning to Ori. “Was that part of the topics we were supposed to discuss earlier?”
Ori nods. “Half of the agenda was about potential consorts, yes.”
“That’s... quite the long list,” Bilbo observes, his tone dry.
“They’re chosen with careful consideration,” Balin explains. “Each name is evaluated for their nobility, compatibility with Thorin, political or diplomatic advantage, and public approval.”
“A commoner like me must be far from their ideal,” Bilbo sighs. But as he speaks, he notices everyone around the table staring at him with odd expressions. Even Dain raises an eyebrow.
“Why are you all staring at me like that?” the hobbit asks, frowning.
“Besides public approval, I’d say you’re perfect,” Balin replies with a small smile.
“Didn’t you mention you were related to the Thain of the Shire?” Fíli chimes in.
“Well, yes,” Bilbo answers, a little confused.
“Isn’t the Thain like the king of hobbits? Doesn’t that make you royalty?” Kíli asks, leaning forward with interest.
“What!? No!” Bilbo exclaims, his voice rising in disbelief. “We’ve been friends for years, and you thought I was royalty? You’ve even sent letters to Fortinbras! He’s not a king! There’s no royalty in the Shire!”
“Well, you do have impeccable manners,” Bofur teases with a grin.
“And you’re as nosy as one too,” Nori adds, laughing.
“If he’s not a king, then what exactly is a Thain?” Ori asks, genuinely curious.
Bilbo sighs but answers, “The Thain is a respected office in the Shire. The Thain is the master of the Shire-moot and captain of the Shire-muster and Hobbitry-in-arms.”
“So the Thain is the Shire’s greatest general?” Dwalin asks, clearly impressed. His gaze sharpens as he looks Bilbo up and down with renewed interest.
Bilbo groans and slams his head lightly against the table. “That’s... closer than calling him a king, but not quite.”
“But why is the title hereditary?” Balin interjects. “Shouldn’t the honor of being named the Shire’s greatest general go to someone with the most merit?”
“It’s because, unlike most hobbits, those who wish to take on the title of Thain are trained,” Bilbo explains. “I was part of the succession long ago, but I was so far down the line I was able to avoid it entirely. Not that I’d have done so if I’d known I’d end up going on a journey with you lot,” he adds, his voice filled with mock irritation.
The Company bursts into laughter, and Bilbo can’t help but smile.
“Oh, and there’s this old wives’ tale about the Tooks having fairy blood,” he adds casually. “That might’ve influenced things a bit.”
“Fairy blood? Like those spirits from the stories?” Bifur asked, his tone intrigued. He reaches up to scratch the well-healed scar that remained now that his axe was gone.
“Spirits? Fairies? You mean like ghosts?” Dain asks, frowning in confusion.
“Ah, right. You’re from this side of the Misty Mountains,” Bofur says with a grin, leaning forward to explain. “Over there, there’s a tale about a magical being.”
“They say it’s a mischievous spirit,” he continues, “able to wield the most powerful magic, but it only uses it for amusement.”
“It never lies,” Nori chimes in, his grin widening, “but it never tells the whole truth either. Always speaks in riddles and loves to confuse anyone it meets.”
“They appear when you least expect them,” Bofur adds, his voice taking on an eerie tone, “and vanish without a trace.”
“Some say they’re helpful,” Nori picks up the thread, “while others claim they bring nothing but misfortune.”
“And if you anger the fairy,” Bofur says with mock seriousness, “the skies darken, the air rumbles, and their voice booms like thunder.”
“Actually, now that I think about it,” Fíli interjects, smirking, “doesn’t it remind you of someone?”
“Oh yeah!” Kíli agrees, laughing. “It kind of sounds like—”
Before he can finish, the door slams open with a resounding crack. The room’s light dims, the air grows heavy, and an ominous voice booms through the dining hall.
“Thorin, son of Thráin! Did you just propose to Bilbo Baggins of the Shire?”
Gandalf the Grey strides into the room, his fury palpable as he marches toward the startled dwarven king.
“Oh! Gandalf! You’re here!” Bilbo exclaims cheerfully, seemingly unaffected by the wizard’s anger. “Yes, he did! Look at the beautiful ring he made me!” He holds out his hand with a proud grin. “Why, it’s even better than that magical one I gave you long ago!”
The wizard halts mid-stride, his expression softening as he looks at the ring. The tension in the room fades, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts. “A forget-me-not,” Gandalf murmurs, his voice calmer now.
“I know,” Bilbo replies, beaming. “Isn’t he just the most romantic?”
“Yes. He is,” Gandalf agrees, his gaze shifting back to Thorin. His smile turns sharp, his tone dripping with venom as he says, “But I have something to discuss with you, King Thorin.”
“Oh, but you must join us for a meal first!” Bilbo interjects, attempting to ease the tension. Gandalf hesitates, then nods, taking a seat at the table.
As Bilbo chatters excitedly about the wedding, the rest of the Company joins in on the planning with growing enthusiasm. But Thorin can feel Gandalf’s gaze boring into him like a blade. The wizard’s piercing stare is enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
For the first time, Thorin wonders if those old wives’ tales about fairies might have a hint of truth to them after all.
Thorin has heard tales of the Wizards, said to be Men who, through long and secret study, acquired vast knowledge of lore and arts and gained immortality. Yet there are other stories, darker and older, that claim they are, in truth, Maiar, powerful spirits chosen as vassals of the Valar. Thorin knows this, and he has clashed with Tharkûn many times during their journey, something his now-fiancé never fails to remind him was utterly foolish. But now, for the first time, Thorin feels a chill of fear toward Tharkûn. Not because he sees him as the Grey Wizard in this moment, but because Tharkûn’s piercing gaze feels more like the scrutiny of Bilbo’s patriarchal guardian than that of a wandering Istari. Anything involving Bilbo terrifies Thorin greatly.
“Thorin, son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain, Lord of the Silver Fountains,” Tharkûn begins, speaking in Khuzdul. Normally, Thorin’s anger would rise at the sound of an outsider using the sacred, secret language of his people, one that even his beloved Bilbo is not permitted to learn, not until they are wed. But now, instead of anger, the words send a tremor of dread through him.
“Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit of the Shire, of Hobbiton, of Bag End,” Tharkûn continues, his voice sharp as steel. “He does not belong in a mountain of dwarvenkind, far from his own people, away from the sun and all things that grow. Yet he told me he wished to stay, and so I allowed it, because you gave me a promise. I left Bilbo Baggins in your care with your vow that he would be safe in your mountain. That no harm would befall him.”
Tharkûn steps closer, looming over Thorin, his presence heavy and oppressive. “And now you wish to bring him harm by making him your consort?”
“No!” Thorin blurts out, his voice hurried. “I wish to make him my husband. ‘Consort’ is just a title, a formality. To me, he will be my husband first and foremost.”
Tharkûn narrows his eyes, his fury unabated. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? Here, in this mountain filled with rock-headed dwarrows who cling to their old beliefs as if they were carved in stone? They will not take this union lightly. They will try to harm Bilbo, in ways you have not yet seen.”
Thorin swallows hard, his hands clenching into fists. He knows the truth of Tharkûn’s words. There have been whispers, insults muttered in the shadows, but nothing physical so far. Yet he is no fool. That could change. He knows all too well how cruel his kind can be, just as they once abandoned him in his quest, leaving only a handful of loyal dwarrows and a single brave hobbit by his side.
“I can protect him,” Thorin says firmly, though the tremor in his voice betrays his doubt. “I can make him happy here.”
“Can you truly?” Tharkûn’s voice cuts through him like a blade. “Can you protect him from yourself?”
Thorin freezes, the question like a hammer blow to his chest. The memory rises unbidden, his hands gripping Bilbo, his voice snarling threats, and his beloved hobbit dangling perilously from the ramparts. The shame of that moment feels as fresh as the day it happened, and he cannot meet Tharkûn’s piercing gaze.
“I can,” he whispers hoarsely. “If I ever fall under the trance of gold again, Dwalin and the others have sworn to end my life before I harm him again.”
Tharkûn’s eyes narrow further, his gaze unrelenting. “So instead of hurting him physically, you wish to harm him mentally instead? You think his heart will not break if you die? Do you believe his grief will not consume him?”
Thorin pales, the words hitting him harder than he thought possible. He opens his mouth to speak but finds he has no answer.
“I will speak with Bilbo,” Tharkûn says at last, his voice cold and resolute. “I will convince him not to go through with this folly of a marriage. Do not try to stop me.”
And with that, the wizard turns and strides out of the room, leaving Thorin standing in silence. The king makes no move to stop him. How could he, when he knows Tharkûn speaks the truth?
When Gandalf arrives at the reception room, now serving as the living room, he finds Bilbo happily chatting with Fíli and Kíli. The two dwarven princes immediately sense the wizard’s intense mood, as their joyful laughter with Bilbo abruptly ceases when they notice him.
“O-Oh, Tharkûn! Did you have a good chat with Uncle?” Kíli asks, his laughter turning nervous.
“Is everything alright?” Fíli adds, matching his brother’s unease.
Gandalf is about to respond when Bilbo turns around, beaming with a bright smile. “Gandalf! Did you congratulate Thorin? Oh, it’s a dream come true! I always pictured myself growing old as a bachelor, but here I am, marrying Thorin! Thorin, a king! I still can’t believe it myself!”
Gandalf coughs, regaining his composure. “Bilbo, I am glad to see you so happy, but are you certain about this?”
“Of course I am! You know I love Thorin, and he loves me,” Bilbo replies without hesitation.
“Yes, but marrying him means you’ll be bound to Erebor. You can’t exactly return to the Shire after this,” Gandalf warns, his tone grave.
Bilbo waves off the concern with an easy laugh. “Gandalf, old friend, I appreciate your worry, but I’ll be fine. Thorin has promised me that once Fíli is ready to take the throne, he will step down as king, and together we’ll return to Bag End. In the meantime, my cousins Primula and Drogo will look after Bag End, which you yourself ensured. Can’t let the Sackville-Bagginses get their grabby hands on it, can we?”
Gandalf blinks, stunned. Dwarven kings do not retire, ever. It is a lifelong duty, even in old age. For Thorin to willingly lay down his crown, especially after fighting so hard to reclaim it, is nothing short of extraordinary.
“But Bilbo, won’t you miss your family?” Gandalf presses.
“Of course I will,” Bilbo admits, his tone softening. “But truthfully, I was never as close to them as I am to my dwarrows. Oh, I’ll miss the Gamgees terribly, and dear Holman Greenhand, not to mention my cousins Primula and Drogo. But I write to them often, and I always will.”
“Bilbo...” Gandalf’s voice lowers, his expression grave. “You are not safe here.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly safe, Gandalf,” Bilbo replies confidently. “If you’re worried about me being assassinated for being a hobbit, I assure you, they’ve already warned me about the risks and promised to protect me. I’ll admit I’m scared, but I faced a dragon and survived. I can handle a few old-fashioned dwarrows. Besides, Dwalin has been training me in swordsmanship, so I can—” He pauses mid-sentence, catching Gandalf’s frowning expression. Realization dawns on him. “...Gandalf. Thorin won’t go mad again. And if he did, I’d rather be here where I can help.”
“He can hurt you,” Gandalf says gently, his voice tinged with sorrow.
“That’s a risk in any relationship, old friend. But I have to stay. I love my idiot of a dwarf,” Bilbo replies with a soft smile, his thoughts drifting to his fiancé. “I’m staying—not because I don’t see the dangers, but because I believe in the good things we’ll share if I do.”
Hearing those words, Gandalf suddenly finds himself transported back in time, to memories long ago.
Gandalf the Grey has many names: Olórin, Mithrandir, Incánus, and Tharkûn, to name a few. Most stem from his grey robes, the manner of his arrival, or the mistaken belief of those he encounters that he brings doom rather than salvation from evil or their own folly. Yet, in all his long years, no one has ever called him a fairy.
"Why in Arda would you call me that?" he asks, his sharp eyes fixed on the hobbit who just saved him from a dire situation. Gandalf’s body is weak, heavily wounded, yet his dignity remains intact.
"Well, you speak in riddles and rhymes," the hobbit replies with a mischievous grin. "You appear and disappear as you please, and though you never lie, you certainly enjoy leaving things out. Sounds like a fae to me. That’s how the stories describe them, and I must say, the rumors seem true."
"I am no fae," Gandalf retorts with a disgruntled huff. He is a Maiar, one of the wisest of his kind. Comparing him to a fae feels like an insult. While the fae may flit about indulging in games and merriment, they neglect their duties as spirits, though they are not vile enough to fall to the Dark One’s influence. "I am needed elsewhere. I must go."
"Not with that injury, you won’t," the hobbit says firmly, pushing him back down onto the bed. In his weakened state, Gandalf cannot resist and reluctantly complies, glaring at the small figure who cheerfully walks away.
Time passes, and Gandalf finds himself plagued by nightmares and visions of the Dark One’s corruption, ever persistent. He has fought this enemy for countless ages, only for it to return time and again. Many of his fellow Maiar have fallen, defected, or abandoned their roles. Against such an unyielding foe, he wonders if he should give up too. What is the point of fighting something that will never truly be vanquished?
"For the good things," the hobbit answers one evening when Gandalf voices his doubts. The wizard raises an eyebrow.
"You mortals live and die," Gandalf says, his tone skeptical. "What good comes from lives so fleeting?"
The hobbit chuckles. "Why live at all, then, if we’re going to disappear soon enough? It’s for the good things. The smell of freshly baked bread. The warmth of the summer sun. The sound of laughter among friends. Stop for a moment, Fairy. Breathe. Rest. Remember why you fight. I think it’s time you remember the good things."
Gandalf falls silent, letting the hobbit’s words wash over him. For the first time in ages, he truly looks at the Shire, the rolling hills, the golden light, the simple joys of its people.
As more time passes, Gandalf begins to remember what once gave him purpose. He recalls why the Valar tasked him and his kin with protecting Arda. For the good things. For every night, there is a day. For every shadow, there is light. For every death, there is rebirth. The hobbit, with their unassuming wisdom, helps Gandalf rediscover this truth.
Even after recovering from his wounds, Gandalf frequently visits the Shire to see his dear hobbit friend. These visits become a way for him to rest and reflect, to rekindle the resolve needed to stand against darkness. But one day, after a long absence, Gandalf returns to the Shire only to find a gravestone bearing the hobbit’s name.
Nearby, a young hobbit greets him. The child bears a striking resemblance to both Gandalf’s late friend and the wizard himself. "Oh, hello, sir," the young hobbit says. "You must be Gandalf. Welcome back to Tuckborough. My parent always wanted me to meet you."
“Gandalf?” Bilbo calls out with a worried frown, pulling the wizard out of his reverie. Gandalf looks at the hobbit and sighs.
“Fool of a Took,” Gandalf says, a soft smile forming on his face, his voice full of fondness. Bilbo puffs up indignantly at the remark.
“I’m a Baggins, Gandalf, and you know that,” Bilbo replies sharply, though there’s no real heat in his tone.
“You’ve been rather Tookish lately,” Gandalf chuckles, and the comment makes Bilbo smile.
“I suppose that’s another reason I want to stay and marry Thorin,” Bilbo says with a besotted look. “With him, I don’t have to choose between my Tookish side or my Baggins side. Thorin accepts and loves me completely, just as I am.”
Realizing that Bilbo will not be swayed, Gandalf sighs and asks, “Will I be invited?”
“Of course you will!” Bilbo exclaims. “Old friend, you’re the one who brought us together! What kind of hobbit would I be if I didn’t invite you? Oh, I wish I could invite my friends and family back in the Shire, let them see the splendor of Erebor like I did... but I know it will never happen,” he adds with a wistful sigh. “Our wedding will have to be entirely dwarvish.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Gandalf replies. “I can return to the Shire and ask if any of them would be willing to come. I can escort them here.”
Bilbo’s face lights up with joy. “Oh, Gandalf, I don’t think any of my family would cross the Misty Mountains to attend their odd cousin’s wedding,” he says, delighted by the offer but skeptical of its success.
“You’d be surprised by what I can do, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says with a knowing wink, and Bilbo chuckles in response.
When Thorin enters the room, looking defeated after his earlier conversation with Gandalf, his expression softens the moment Bilbo throws himself into his arms.
“Gandalf said he’s going to try inviting my family to our wedding!” Bilbo says excitedly. Thorin looks stunned and glances up at Gandalf, who gives him a stern glare but nods. Thorin exhales in relief and smiles.
“Tharkûn, I thank you,” Thorin says, his tone filled with as much gratitude as he can manage. “Feel free to ask for anything you need to make the journey.”
Gandalf waves off the thanks. “Just keep your promise to me, Thorin. That’s all the thanks I need. I’ll leave as soon as Bilbo finishes the guest list and the invitations,” he replies, his tone neutral, neither thrilled about the wedding nor opposed to it. “I’ll go inform your sister about the supplies. Farewell!”
With that, Gandalf strides out of the room, muttering under his breath about foolish Tooks and rock-headed dwarrows.
With Gandalf’s ‘blessing,’ Thorin feels more at ease planning his wedding with Bilbo, who is brimming with excitement. “Alright, first we need to set up the budget,” Bilbo begins, his tone practical. “It has to be lavish but not overly expensive. I believe the gold from my share of the treasure from our journey will be more than enough, and I’ll still have plenty left over for the rest of my life.”
Hearing this, Thorin and Balin’s jaws drop in horror at the idea of the future consort paying for the wedding. Seeing their expressions, Bilbo sighs. “Let me guess, cultural differences?”
“I believe so,” Balin says diplomatically. “Bilbo, a wedding to Thorin is a wedding to a king. You are both entitled to use the royal treasury for such an event.”
Bilbo nods, quickly understanding. “I see, but the budget still shouldn’t exceed my share of the treasure. A fourteenth share from Smaug’s hoard is more than enough for a wedding fit for a king and his future consort, yes?”
Thorin frowns, and Balin shakes his head disapprovingly. Bilbo crosses his arms. “We are not going to empty the treasury for a wedding, Thorin, not even ours.”
“But-” Thorin begins to argue, but Bilbo cuts him off.
“Thorin, a wedding doesn’t need to be that expensive to be worth remembering,” Bilbo says firmly.
Thorin sighs, relenting. “Fine, we’ll try not to exceed what amounts to a fourteenth share of Smaug’s hoard,” he grumbles, clearly unhappy with the restriction. Bilbo sighs in relief, knowing Thorin’s penchant for extravagance, especially when it involves him or his family members.
“Now, for the vision!” Bilbo says, brightening again. “In the Shire, we tend to have weddings outside, out in the open, beneath a large tree with flower petals scattered all around. Most are held in the middle of the day, though some prefer weddings at night under the stars. The focus is on celebrating love with lots of partying, dancing, games, and food, and less on the ceremony itself.”
Thorin listens intently before replying, “It is the complete opposite for us dwarrows. We hold our weddings deep within the mountain, inside a temple to Mahal. There are numerous rituals and vows that span the length of the ceremony, and food and drink are only served at the end. No games,” he adds with a small smirk. “Weddings are only allowed on holy days when the moon is at its fullest. And, of course, everything is conducted entirely in Khuzdul.”
“I suppose that won’t be happening in ours?” Bilbo asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Thorin chuckles. “It will be in Westron. It would be entirely improper to have a wedding where you cannot understand a single word.”
“Good,” Bilbo says, visibly relieved. “Hmmm… I suppose we can have the wedding inside the mountain; I’m willing to do that. But can we shorten the rituals and vows? I don’t think I want a ceremony where I’m mostly listening to a priest drone on. No offense,” he quickly adds. “It’s just… not what we hobbits do, I suppose.”
“Balin and Ori will find a way to make adjustments,” Thorin replies, ignoring the scandalized look on Balin’s face. “Balin, I’m already marrying a hobbit. It’s a scandal as it is.”
“Oh, my father is surely turning in his grave,” Bilbo quips, chuckling at the thought.
“Mine too, most likely,” Thorin laughs, his grin widening.
They move on to the guest list, which causes a small friction between them.
“Bilbo, I am willing to let our wedding allow commoners, the entire kingdom of Erebor, to celebrate with us and even attend the ceremony, not just the reception. But to allow elves in?” Thorin’s voice rises in exasperation.
“Thorin, please. It’ll be a show of good faith. I thought you and Thranduil have been getting along?” Bilbo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“We have, by agreeing never to be in the same room unless it’s for a meeting. I don’t want him at our wedding!” Thorin declares, crossing his arms.
“Thorin, it’ll cause a diplomatic issue if we don’t,” Bilbo reminds him, already feeling a headache coming on. “Bard and his family are already invited, and I plan on asking Gandalf if we can invite Lord Elrond as well.”
Thorin’s glare intensifies, but Bilbo holds firm.
“Please, Thorin? It’ll only improve our relationships with them,” Bilbo pleads.
Thorin chews the inside of his cheek, clearly torn, before letting out a deep sigh. “Fine, let those tree-shaggers come.”
“Excellent! Oh, and I’ll invite Beorn too,” Bilbo says cheerfully, his enthusiasm clearly irritating Thorin, who groans but manages a small smile.
“Now, about the date and venue. I’m going to assume we’re hosting it here in the palace, yes?” Bilbo asks, tilting his head.
Thorin nods quickly, so Bilbo continues. “You said dwarrows can only marry during full moons, right?” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for Thorin’s confirmation. Thorin nods again.
“Do you think the anniversary of when we first met falls on a full moon?” Bilbo asks shyly, his cheeks turning faintly pink. Thorin’s eyes widen in surprise and delight.
“Balin, check the moon charts!” Thorin declares immediately, his voice full of excitement. Then he adds, “Even if it isn’t, we’re having our wedding on that day anyway. It’s simply perfect.”
“Or we could move it to a day close to it, but on a full moon,” Bilbo suggests, trying to be practical.
But Thorin shakes his head, smiling so brightly that Bilbo finds himself unable to argue further. “A wedding on the day we met? Bilbo, that is brilliant!”
Bilbo watches Thorin’s joy and can’t help but smile back, his heart full.
“Now, for catering and other services. I’m sure the royal staff will handle most of it, but should we allow elven and human personnel as well? I’d also like some help from my kin, though I doubt any of them will arrive early enough to help plan, or even come at all. Still, it would be a good gesture of goodwill,” Bilbo suggests, his smile faltering slightly. Thorin immediately notices the sadness behind Bilbo’s words when he speaks of his kin.
“We can… Yes, even elves. And your family will be here,” Thorin insists, his voice firm. He suspects a very tall, gray-cloaked member of Bilbo’s family will personally ensure that some of his kin make the journey. Bilbo doesn’t seem convinced but thanks him nonetheless, moving on to the next topic.
“For the ceremony and reception, I suppose we’ll need to wait for Balin and Ori to finalize which rituals we can shorten, yes? So we’ll have to put this on hold for now,” Bilbo says apologetically. Balin gives him a disgruntled look at the extra workload but refrains from commenting. Thorin gently pats his advisor’s shoulder, a silent attempt to calm him down.
“Now, about attire. In the Shire, we typically wear plain white, with the bride and groom being the only ones adorned with flowers. But what about dwarrows?” Bilbo asks curiously.
“For us dwarrows, we wear our family colors and dress as lavishly as possible. In this case, the colors will be blue. During the ceremony, we exchange a piece of cloth or accessory bearing our family colors. Guests are also expected to dress formally, though not so extravagantly as to upstage the bride and groom. However, for a royal wedding, it’s customary for the spouse to shed their own family colors and accept only the royal family’s,” Thorin explains.
“Well, since the Baggins family doesn’t have any official colors, this should be simple,” Bilbo says thoughtfully. Suddenly, his face lights up with an idea. “Oh! What if I dress entirely in white, and you adorn me with Durin blue flowers?”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Thorin replies, smiling warmly at the suggestion.
The two continue planning their wedding for months. During this time, news of their engagement spreads across Erebor and the neighboring kingdoms. While many rejoice at the announcement, others begin plotting to prevent the union, believing that a hobbit has no place on a dwarven throne.
The Grey Wizard watches these developments closely, his sharp eyes ever watchful, hoping he won’t have to intervene.
After learning that the royal wedding will blend both dwarrow and hobbit traditions, much of Erebor’s population is abuzz with curiosity about the changes. However, not everyone is pleased. Those who view Bilbo’s position as consort as heresy are outraged. To them, a wedding is a sacred event, and incorporating hobbitish customs feels like a desecration, devaluing its sanctity. These dissenters, who believe Thorin should choose a proper dwarrowdam consort, waste no time organizing numerous balls and events, under the guise of celebrating achievements or advancements for Erebor. Their true intent is to parade potential candidates, usually their daughters, sisters, or cousins, in front of Thorin.
As king, Thorin is obligated to attend these events, as declining such invitations would risk political repercussions. However, this doesn’t stop him from bringing Bilbo, his intended, to these gatherings. With the help of Dís and the Company, they work tirelessly to protect Bilbo from any hostility, both overt and subtle.
At one such event, Travok, a council member who views Bilbo as an infection on Erebor, boldly approaches Thorin and interrupts a quiet conversation between the king and his consort-to-be.
“Your Majesty, may I introduce my niece, Audhild Battlehammer,” Travok says, practically shoving a young dwarrowdam in front of Thorin.
Thorin, who is holding Bilbo’s hand, raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Audhild, clearly uncomfortable, bows deeply. “I-It is an honor to meet you both, Your Majesties,” she says nervously. Her use of the plural title makes her uncle sneer, as it’s obvious Travok intends for Audhild to replace Bilbo as the future consort.
“Audhild Battlehammer,” Bilbo says, smiling warmly. “If I remember correctly, you were a warrior during the Battle of the Five Armies, weren’t you? You saved your commander, who was bleeding to death, by fighting valiantly.”
Audhild’s eyes widen in shock at being recognized by the hobbit.
“Please, raise your head,” Bilbo continues kindly. “This is your party, after all, a celebration of you completing your mastery of your second craft. The spotlight should be on you. Thorin and I are merely guests.”
“Your Majesty, I can’t possibly le-” Audhild begins, but Bilbo cuts her off with a chuckle.
“I haven’t yet wed Thorin, so there’s no need to call me ‘Your Majesty.’ Please, feel free to call me Bilbo.”
Audhild glances nervously at Thorin, unsure if this is acceptable. When Thorin nods in approval, she gulps and replies, “Bilbo, it is simply not proper for the spotlight to remain on me when you and His Majesty are present.”
“Nonsense!” Bilbo says with a laugh. “This is your party, first and foremost! Now go and celebrate, be merry. Think of Thorin here as nothing more than a traveling blacksmith for the evening.”
Audhild gasps at the suggestion, clearly scandalized by the thought of referring to the king so casually. But to her surprise, Thorin laughs heartily, his deep voice echoing through the room.
“It is true. Think nothing of me at the moment. We are here to celebrate a fine dwarrowdam such as yourself achieving a feat few can claim, mastery over two crafts. You will inspire many pebbles to reach for their own goals,” Thorin says, offering Audhild a warm smile. She thanks them both sincerely before walking away, her face glowing with pride.
Her uncle Travok, however, glares daggers at both his niece and Bilbo, his failed plan clear on his face. Without a word, he turns and stalks off, his frustration evident in his heavy steps.
As the two watch them leave, a young-looking dwarf with wild dark-blonde hair and a long beard adorned with bells approaches, laughing loudly. The dwarf sways slightly, clearly drunk, and greets them with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Fine celebration, isn’t it, Your Majesties!?” he bellows, his voice booming across the room.
But as he stumbles closer, he subtly presses a folded piece of paper into Thorin’s hand. The king quickly scans the note covertly while maintaining a neutral expression. This “drunk” dwarf is Nori in disguise, and the message he delivers is grim. The note lists the names of those who wish to harm Bilbo, as well as the so-called "proper consorts" who hope to gain the throne. Thorin’s jaw tightens as he suppresses his rising anger. The message confirms his worst fears, these dwarrows have grown desperate and now plan to eliminate Bilbo, since introducing rivals for the position of consort has failed.
“It is indeed a fine celebration, my good dwarf,” Thorin replies smoothly. “But it seems you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Why not let my guard escort you home?”
Dwalin steps forward on cue, gripping Nori by the shoulder. “Aye, come along, lad,” he growls, making a show of dragging the “drunk” dwarf out of the party. In truth, both the guard captain and the spymaster will exchange information in private, strategizing how to protect Bilbo and dismantle the conspiracy. The list from earlier suggests that many of the conspirators are attending this very party, and Thorin knows arrests for treason will soon follow.
As the ruse plays out, Bilbo leans toward Thorin, whispering with a small smile. “You know, it still surprises me how well those two work together when they’re not butting heads.”
Thorin raises an eyebrow. “You think they’re a bit like us?”
“Oh, you know… two fools who bicker constantly but are actually very close,” Bilbo replies with a playful grin.
Thorin considers this for a moment before his eyes widen in realization. “No… Dwalin and Nori? I was certain Nori was interested in Bofur,” Thorin says with a chuckle.
Bilbo chuckles as well. “We could always ask.”
As they laugh softly, they remain watchful, their eyes sweeping the room for any signs of danger. Despite the many guests still trying to introduce what they consider “proper” consorts, Thorin and Bilbo tactfully shut down every attempt. Together, they stand as an unshakable front, each encounter only enrages the dissenters with each attempt.
“Have you been taking lessons from Dís, my love?” Bilbo asks with a chuckle as yet another rejected would-be consort walks away in a huff. Unlike Audhild, this one had come willingly, hoping to usurp the hobbit’s position.
“I may or may not have started listening to her,” Thorin admits with a grin. “Do not tell her, though. She’s likely to sprout a second head from the sheer pride.”
Bilbo laughs loudly. “Oh, Thorin, complimenting your sister won’t be the end of the world,” he teases, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Their laughter carries between them, but Bilbo soon notices that Thorin’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Love, what’s wrong?” Bilbo asks gently, his voice laced with concern.
Thorin exhales deeply before replying. “Bilbo… Lately, the dwarrows who wish to see you displaced have been growing more aggressive in their tactics. You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
“Well, one of them practically shoved their niece in front of you without even pretending otherwise, so yes, I believe I’ve noticed,” Bilbo replies with a sigh. “Poor lass looked terrified. It’s a shame her uncle used such a momentous occasion for his selfish reasons.”
Thorin frowns. “Bilbo… They’ve gone further than scheming. They’re planning to kill you now.”
Bilbo’s face darkens. “You all warned me about this. I knew it could happen. But… a small, naive part of me hoped it wouldn’t.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “It’s strange, Thorin. I’ve dealt with difficult people before. My cousin Otho’s wife, Lobelia, is hardly my favorite company, but even she would never wish for my death, nor I for hers. I just…” Bilbo trails off, leaning into Thorin’s embrace with a sigh.
“You are not naive, Bilbo,” Thorin says softly, wrapping his arms around him. “You are kind. And I hope you remain so, no matter how cruel others may be.” Thorin rubs Bilbo’s back in a soothing motion. “Come. Let’s go. Nori has gathered enough evidence, and Dwalin is returning with a retinue of guards. You don’t need to watch what happens.”
“Now? But…” Bilbo’s gaze drifts to Audhild, who is happily dancing among her loved ones. “Poor Audhild. Her celebration will be ruined.”
“Bilbo, you know this is the best time,” Thorin replies gently. “Most of them are unaware, and their chances of escaping are at their lowest. I’m sorry, amrâlimê. I’ll personally deliver a formal apology to Audhild and offer her a peace offering. Would that ease your mind?”
Bilbo hesitates but nods, allowing Thorin to guide him toward an exit while trying not to draw attention. They wait quietly, with Thorin’s arm protectively around Bilbo, until Dwalin returns. The guard captain gives Thorin a curt nod, signaling that everything is in place. Thorin nods back before Dwalin whistles sharply, and guards flood into the hall, moving swiftly to apprehend the conspirators.
Thorin quickly leads Bilbo out of the building, determined to shield him from witnessing any more violence. His hobbit has already endured enough during the Battle of the Five Armies, and Thorin refuses to let Bilbo relive those traumatic memories. “Amrâlimê, just focus on me. I’m here. I will protect you,” Thorin reassures him.
“I know. I just…” Bilbo clings tightly to Thorin’s arm, his voice trembling. “I thought we left all of this behind.”
They wait outside, the cool air feels refreshing on their skin. After what feels like an eternity, Dwalin and his retinue emerge, dragging the bound conspirators behind them. Thorin pulls Bilbo close as the captured dwarrows pass, their glares filled with malice. Thorin can hear the foul insults they hurl in Khuzdul, words that drip with venom. Though Bilbo doesn’t understand the language, the tone and expressions are enough for him to grasp the meaning. Thorin tightens his hold, shielding Bilbo not just physically but emotionally, even covering his ears to spare him from the vitriol.
Then it happens.
Travok, his face twisted in rage, headbutts the guard restraining him and wrests the weapon from their grasp. He charges toward Bilbo with a wild scream in Khuzdul, shouting about erasing “the scum of Erebor.”
Thorin reacts instantly, stepping in front of Bilbo to shield him with his own body. Without Orcrist at his side, he braces for the attack with nothing but his own strength. Travok hesitates for a moment, seeing the king unarmed, but his fury overrides his loyalty. He swings the weapon, intent on cutting down both Thorin and Bilbo, muttering curses about a heretic king who deserves to die alongside his unworthy consort.
But before the blade lands, Travok screams. His entire body bursts into flames, his enraged howl turning into a piercing shriek of agony. Everyone freezes, horrified, as Travok collapses, writhing on the ground. The acrid stench of burning flesh fills the air. Slowly, his screams fade, leaving only silence and the charred remains of a dwarf.
As the gathered onlookers stand in shock, a tall figure in grey robes steps forward. Gandalf’s eyes are sharp and piercing as they meet Thorin’s. “Thorin,” he says firmly, “you claimed you would protect Bilbo. Why did you not take Orcrist with you?”
Thorin straightens, still cradling Bilbo protectively. “I promised Bilbo that within the mountain, where he feels safe, I would not carry my weapon as it reminds him of harsh times,” he replies. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge of frustration. “So I resolved to protect him however else I could.”
Gandalf stares at Thorin for a long moment before sighing. “I see… While not the wisest approach, your intentions are clear. You truly care for him.” A faint smile crosses the wizard’s face, and there is approval in his eyes. “Come now. Bilbo’s kin awaits us at the gates. I assumed the two of you would want to welcome them.”
“C-Can you give me a moment to recover?” Bilbo’s voice is quiet, his hands trembling as he grips Thorin’s arm. Gandalf nods knowingly, understanding the toll the event has taken on the hobbit.
Thorin raises his voice, commanding the guards to escort the remaining dissenters to the cells. The conspirators comply without protest, their faces pale and terrified after witnessing Travok’s fate. Once the orders are given, Thorin gently guides Bilbo toward the gates with Gandalf by their side.
They pause near the entrance, giving Bilbo time to collect himself. Thorin holds him close, his arms a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions. Only when Bilbo feels steady again do they prepare to greet his kin, united as always in the face of whatever challenges lie ahead.
Thorin has met Bilbo’s family before. He remembers their initial fear, how they cowered beneath his gaze. Not figuratively, because he is taller than most hobbits, but he’s certain his imposing demeanor didn’t help matters. Bilbo made sure to tell him so. But now, with his place in the family imminent, that fear seems to have vanished entirely.
Instead, Thorin finds himself caught in the whirlwind chaos of an extraordinarily large hobbit family, the kind Bilbo often describes but which Thorin now experiences firsthand. There are endless names to learn, petty dramas to endure, and, above all, an avalanche of demands to make the wedding more ‘hobbitish.’
“You were going to marry cousin Bilbo without a flower crown? That’s a scandal!” Primula, one of Bilbo’s Brandybuck cousins, exclaims, her voice cutting through the din.
“Just blue flowers? Just blue? A proper hobbit wedding should be bursting with color!” Drogo, a Baggins cousin, chimes in, crossing his arms with an exaggerated huff.
“Now, now,” Bilbo says, raising his hands in a futile attempt to calm the crowd. “It’s not just a hobbit wedding, it’s also a dwarvish one.”
But the family is undeterred, circling around them like an unstoppable tide. Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look, both silently wondering how Gandalf managed not only to convince them to make the journey to Erebor but also to transport them here so efficiently.
“At least you’ll do the Floral Passage Dance, right?” Primula suddenly asks, her voice hopeful.
The moment she speaks, Drogo gasps and clamps a hand over her mouth. Her expression shifts to horror, realizing her mistake. Bilbo’s smile falters, and Thorin senses the shift immediately. Without hesitation, he reaches for Bilbo’s hand, his thumb brushing against his fiancé’s knuckles in silent reassurance.
“Amrâlimê, what’s wrong? If this dance is truly important, we can include it,” Thorin says gently.
Bilbo shakes his head, his voice quiet as he explains, “It’s a dance where a parent of the nearly-weds performs with them before allowing them to dance with their lover. It symbolizes the family’s approval of the marriage…”
Thorin understands instantly. With both of their parents gone, neither of them can perform the dance. And neither of them will ever truly know if their parents would have approved of their relationship.
Primula’s face falls, and she stammers an apology. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Bilbo, truly, I didn’t.”
Bilbo waves her off, offering a small, bittersweet smile. “I know you meant no harm, cousin. It’s fine.”
Primula hesitates, then speaks softly. “For what it’s worth, Bilbo… I believe Uncle Bungo would have danced with you. I think he would have loved seeing you so happy with Thorin.”
Bilbo’s smile wavers, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “We’ll never know, cousin. All I know is the wedding is soon, and we can’t make too many changes now.”
“Oh, but there’s one change you should make!”
Both Bilbo and Thorin jump slightly as Gandalf appears seemingly out of thin air, his voice brimming with excitement. The wizard grins as he declares, “I’ll be officiating the ceremony!”
Thorin’s jaw drops, while Bilbo’s eyes widen in surprise. Neither had expected this announcement. Before either can form a coherent response, Gandalf chuckles and strides away, his robes swishing dramatically behind him.
“Oh, I’m so excited for it!” the wizard calls over his shoulder, leaving Bilbo and Thorin staring after him in bewilderment.
After a week of adjustments and compromises, the wedding plans finally come together. Balin and Ori insist on incorporating traditional dwarven rituals, while Bilbo’s kin push for a more hobbitish feel. Through it all, Thorin and Bilbo learn more about each other’s wedding customs, their shared efforts a reflection of their union. And now, at last, the day arrives.
“This is the blandest wedding suit I have ever made,” Dori grumbles as he fits Bilbo into the pure white tunic and trousers. The outfit is simple but elegant, with floral designs embroidered so delicately they appear almost natural. “I know Thorin’s braiding flowers into it later will add decoration, but still—it’s just so plain!”
“Dori, my friend, it’s beautiful,” Bilbo reassures him with a warm smile as he smooths the tunic. “The embroidery is exquisite. I love it, and I’ll treasure it.”
Dori’s expression softens at the heartfelt words, though Bilbo knows his concern runs deeper than appearances. Not everyone in Erebor approves of a hobbit as consort. Some may even attempt to sabotage the wedding. While Gandalf’s presence and the high security make such attempts unlikely, Bilbo can’t shake the sense of unease.
He’s not just afraid for himself. His hobbit family and his found family of dwarrows are all here, and if anything were to go wrong, they would be in danger. Taking a deep breath, he tries to steady his nerves. Outside, he hears Gandalf’s booming voice reciting the dwarven wedding rites and rituals.
The ceremony, even shortened by Ori and Balin’s efforts, still stretches to four hours. Bilbo can hardly imagine enduring the original twelve-hour version. He had thanked his friends profusely for trimming it down. For now, though, he’s stuck waiting in a guarded room, with the Ri brothers ensuring his safety. Tradition dictates he can’t see Thorin until the appointed moment, but he wishes they could wait together. Instead, his thoughts drift to what Thorin might be doing now.
Meanwhile, in another room on the opposite side of the altar, Dís is double-checking Thorin’s accessories and braids, ensuring he looks impeccable. Thorin takes deep, steadying breaths, though the effort does little to calm him. He hears Gandalf outside, performing the rites to bless the health of their future children. Ori and Balin had insisted on this tradition, arguing that it remains significant in case the couple plans to adopt. Bilbo had agreed without hesitation.
Hearing the blessing in Westron rather than Khuzdul feels strange to Thorin, but it’s necessary for Bilbo’s understanding.
“Dwalin and Nori are keeping an eye on every dwarf who has spoken even a single complaint about Bilbo,” Dís says, trying to reassure him. “You can relax, Thorin.”
But both siblings know better. Thorin’s worry is ingrained in his nature, and no amount of assurances will change that.
“It has to be perfect, Dís,” Thorin groans, his hands clenching into fists. “If anything goes wrong, the people will see it as a sign from Mahal that he disapproves of our marriage!”
Dís offers a half-hearted smile, though her own concerns mirror his. The mixed-culture nature of the wedding has already stirred controversy among the dwarrows. Many believe that Mahal will never bless a union deviating from dwarven tradition. The fact that elves are in attendance only fans the flames, further placing Bilbo in danger.
“Thorin, take deep breaths,” Dís says firmly, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Bard and Thranduil have even provided guards to assist us. Thranduil’s son, Legolas, is leading the security alongside Dwalin and Nori. Nothing will go wrong.”
But the mention of elves draws a low growl from Thorin. Dís grits her teeth, reminding herself to be patient. She knows her brother’s frustration. On her own wedding day, she had felt just as overwhelmed. Now, Thorin is the one grappling with the weight of it all, and she must bear his worries as he once bore hers. Though she married a fellow dwarf, she must admit Thorin has a lot more to worry about than she did.
After four uncomfortable hours of listening to the wizard’s rites and rituals, waiting in their respective rooms, Gandalf finally calls the two celebrants. Bilbo and Thorin emerge from opposite sides and walk—more like half-run—to the altar, where Gandalf awaits. The temple is a breathtaking fusion of their cultures: flowers in vibrant hues, true to hobbit tradition, blanket every surface, while statues of Thorin’s ancestors stand solemnly, honoring dwarven heritage. At the center of the altar towers a massive metallic statue of Mahal, depicted as a dwarf in his prime wielding a hammer, his beard flowing like molten fire. Beside him, a wooden carving of Yavanna, a graceful hobbit lass with flowers blooming from her hair, completes the scene.
“Hello, love,” Bilbo says softly, smiling up at Thorin. He admires the king’s elaborate attire—a stunning suit of silver armor adorned with royal blue regalia, gemstones, and intricate metalwork.
“Amrâlimê, I missed you,” Thorin murmurs. His hands itch to pull Bilbo into an embrace and kiss him, but tradition demands they wait for Gandalf to declare them husbands. Only then can they seal their union with the planting of a tree, a hobbit custom. Beorn had generously sent another acorn for the occasion, one chosen with care.
The ceremony takes an unexpected turn when Gandalf suddenly proclaims, “May Yavanna and Mahal bear witness to these two lovers as they perform the Floral Passage Dance, to show their family’s approval.”
Thorin’s face darkens, and Bilbo’s smile falters. Both their parents are long dead, making the dance impossible. The hobbits in the audience gasp in scandalized confusion, while Thorin scowls at the wizard for his insensitivity.
Then the impossible happens. Silence falls over the temple as the statues of Mahal and Yavanna begin to glow, their eyes shining with divine light. The figures seem to come alive, turning their gazes toward the altar. The atmosphere shifts, heavy with awe, as one of Thorin’s ancestral statues, the one depicting his father, Thráin, steps down from its pedestal and approaches the altar. He bows deeply to Bilbo, who stares in shock.
Simultaneously, the flower petals scattered across the temple swirl into the air, carried by an unseen force. They gather and coalesce into the shape of a hobbit, one who bears an uncanny resemblance to Bilbo. Thorin recognizes the figure from Bilbo’s descriptions, it is Bungo Baggins, Bilbo’s father.
“Papa?” Bilbo whispers, his voice trembling.
Thorin, stunned into silence, watches as Bungo bows to him. Gandalf, beaming, calls out, “Well? What are you waiting for? Music!”
The assembly, a diverse ensemble of hobbits, dwarrows, elves, and men led by Bofur, jolts into action, hastily beginning to play.
Thráin strides forward, grasping Bilbo by the hand and pulling him into a dance. The movements are rough and unyielding, and Bilbo struggles to keep up, fearing Thráin might disapprove of him. But then Thráin speaks in a deep, rumbling voice: “Hobbit, thank you for making my son happy when I could not. I welcome you to the Durin family. May Mahal carve your path forward.”
Bilbo’s heart swells, and he smiles as he adjusts to the rhythm, finding his footing in the dwarven dance.
On the other side, Thorin hesitates as he extends a hand toward the swirling petals that form Bungo. To his surprise, the floral figure feels solid, though light as air. He moves carefully, trying to dance gently, but Bungo’s movements are wild and unpredictable, spinning, hopping, and twirling. Thorin wonders if Bilbo inherited his love of adventure from this lively hobbit.
“My odd, precious boy always told me he’d find his prince charming one day,” Bungo says, his voice warm with affection. “And here you are. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. May Yavanna keep your garden green.”
Thorin is momentarily stunned but recovers, smiling as he matches Bungo’s energy and learns the rhythm of the hobbit’s joyous steps.
When the music begins to fade, Thráin and Bungo guide Thorin and Bilbo to face one another.
“Bilbo, I’m so happy you found your own adventure,” Bungo says with a gentle smile. He bows deeply, the petals of his form starting to unravel and scatter across the temple once more.
“Papa… tell Mama she doesn’t have to worry about me anymore,” Bilbo says, his voice thick with emotion.
Bungo chuckles softly as he dissipates, leaving behind a lingering scent of flowers.
Thráin turns to Thorin. “Thorin, I’m glad you’re home,” he says, his voice brimming with pride.
“Adad… I’m sorry I cou-” Thorin begins, but Thráin presses a finger to his lips.
“You are my pride and joy,” Thráin says firmly, his expression softening before he steps back. As he returns to his pedestal, his form hardens back into stone, as if he had never moved.
For a moment, Thorin and Bilbo stand frozen, their hearts full. Then they take each other’s hands and begin to dance, laughing and twirling with a joy that spreads through the crowd. They pepper one another with kisses, their happiness infectious.
Gandalf’s voice booms across the temple. “If anyone has any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace!”
The room remains silent, no one daring to object in the presence of such divine blessings. Gandalf chuckles. “I thought so. Now, I pronounce you husbands!”
The crowd erupts in cheers as Thorin and Bilbo share a deep, loving kiss. At long last, they are bound together, their married life just beginning.