Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brandy Hall was the only home Frodo Baggins could remember. He and his parents had lived near Hobbiton when he was a very young hobbit, but even then they had spent a great deal of time visiting with his mother's family. Indeed, most of his earliest memories involved adventures with assorted Brandybuck cousins. His parents, he could hardly recall, and growing up surrounded by such a crowd of relations, he had not exactly felt alone. He had been cheerfully assimilated into a mob of young Brandybucks, and Brandybucks-by-marriage, and had been brought up with a great deal of indulgence and very little oversight, with no particular family taking responsibility for his care.

From time to time, there was talk of sending him to live with a Baggins cousin, or perhaps some other more distant relation, but the Hobbiton folk were generally a bit wary of Frodo. Generosity towards orphans was all well and good, but one had to be cautious around a hobbit who had managed to lose not one but both of his parents before the age of ten. Besides, the lad had a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker. And he hadn't any money of his own. Whoever took responsibility for him would have to foot the bill for his upkeep. Much better for him to stay in Buckland, even if they were a bit queer across the river.

Shortly before his twenty-first birthday, however, he was sent for by his uncle, old Rorimac Brandybuck. This wasn't in and of itself anything unusual. Several times a year, especially around Frodo's birthday, or the anniversary of his parents' death, Uncle Rory would suddenly remember his nephew's existence. Peering over the rim of a glass of wine, he would subject him to a round of questioning about his behavior, education, and general state of cleanliness without stopping to listen to the answers. Then, having honorably discharged his responsibilities as a guardian, the Master of Buckland would reminisce for a moment about his poor dear departed sister Primula, and wave his little nephew out of the room.

This summons turned out to be different. Frodo was informed that he was to leave Brandy Hall that very week, and go to live with his Cousin Bilbo.

"I'm not sure I want to leave Buckland," Frodo said, although he had always been very fond of Bilbo, who had wonderful stories (and equally wonderful presents) for all his young cousins. And it wasn't that Frodo didn't like adventure—he was forever off in the woods searching for elves (and mushrooms). But he wasn't sure how he felt about this kind of adventure. It seemed a lot more uncertain and a lot less likely to end in the death of a dragon or troll.

"You aren't understanding the situation," said Uncle Rory. "Bilbo Baggins has decided to adopt you. He's going to make you the heir to Bag End and his entire fortune. I haven't the slightest idea why, but nobody really understands why Mad Baggins does anything. So you see, you don't have any choice in the matter."

Catching Frodo's stunned expression, he set down his glass of wine and leaned forward in his great carved chair. "It's not that we want to be rid of you, my lad," he added, with uncharacteristic kindness and perception. "But this isn't an opportunity you can afford to turn down. Surely you don't want to be nothing but a dependent all your life? For the sake of your dear, departed mother…"

Frodo quickly stemmed the tides of reminiscence by agreeing to the adoption. Uncle Rory was right about one thing. He couldn't refuse. It wasn't the money–he was too young to really care about that. But in all of his short life, nobody had ever actually wanted him anywhere.

"Excellent!" said Uncle Rory. "That's settled then. And I dare say young Meriadoc and the others will be down to visit you often enough."

Frodo settled in quickly at Bag End. He had been worried about what Bilbo would expect from him. At Brandy Hall he had been left to his own devices most of the time, and he wasn't sure what it would be like having a particular relative responsible for his upbringing. But he needn't have worried. Bilbo, who had never had children of his own, had always tended to treat his young cousins respectfully, as if they were small adults. Towards Frodo, he was companionable but distant, requiring no great displays of affection or gratitude. Frodo, who was almost in his tweens, appreciated Bilbo's trust, and curbed some of the wild behavior that had characterized his time at Brandy Hall. He didn't want Bilbo to think better of his decision to bring him to Bag End.

Bilbo gave him a comfortable little room with a window, which he said had been his as a lad. The place was lavish, and far more spacious than he was used to, but it was also comfortable and cluttered, and filled with old maps and books and odds and ends, each of which had its own fascinating story. Frodo's education had been much neglected, in Bilbo's opinion, but surrounded by such mysteries he quickly took an interest in the wealth of information that Bilbo's library had to offer.

Frodo hardly dared to ask Bilbo why he had decided to adopt him. Bilbo had made some comment about the convenience of celebrating their birthdays together, and another about not wanting to leave everything to the Sackville-Bagginses, but otherwise seemed disinclined to discuss the matter. In fact, Frodo soon realized that Bilbo was a master of evasion. Ask him about something he didn't want to talk about, and he'd soon be telling a fascinating story about something completely unrelated.

One fine and starry night not long after Frodo came to Bag End, they sat outside the front door until very late at night, while Bilbo smoked his pipe and told Frodo the story of his greatest adventure, from beginning to end. Of course, he had to leave out some parts, but it was the most complete retelling Frodo had ever heard.

"And after the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin was formally crowned as King Under the Mountain, and he and all his folk started the long work of rebuilding their home. I stayed on for a few months, and then made my way back here to the Shire."

"What was he like?" Frodo asked eagerly, having hardly dared to speak a word throughout the whole story. His dreams of elven wonders had momentarily been displaced by visions of stern dwarf warriors wielding mighty swords, and majestic halls carved deep into the earth.

"What was who like?"

"Thorin Oakenshield! I've never seen a king before. Other than you, I don't know anybody who has."

"Well…" Bilbo sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. "He's everything you would expect a king to be, really. Very serious, honorable, all that sort of thing. Not kind, nor generous with strangers, but loyal and protective of his own people."

"Was he brave?" It was all very interesting, but Frodo wanted to hear more about swords and battles and thrones, and that sort of thing.

"Oh, yes," Bilbo said. "Fearless. He had a complete disregard for his own safety, actually. He seemed nearly invincible. Except, of course," he added in a lower voice, "the times that he wasn't. Anyway, he thought nothing of taking on a dozen orcs, or a warg, or even a troll in single combat."

Frodo's eyes shone. "That sounds amazing."

Bilbo smiled wryly. "He could also be as stubborn as the Gaffer's old mule, and he had a temper like a firecracker. But his people really respected him. That's the thing with kings, Frodo. There are some that spend their entire lives on jeweled thrones, and everyone bows and scrapes and calls them "Highness", but nobody really cares a fig what they think about anything. And then there are the ones that earn their followers' respect, because they care so much and fight so hard that they inspire those around them to greater deeds. Those kings, you'd do anything for a word of praise from them."

"And he was that kind of king?"

"Oh yes, he was," Bilbo said. "Or is, I should say. He's still ruling in Erebor, as far as I know. I haven't had word from there in many years."

"I'd love to go there someday," Frodo exclaimed. "See the Lonely Mountain, and Dale, and all of that treasure!"

"It's a long way away, my boy," Bilbo said. "But stranger things have happened. Still, while I don't regret any of my adventures, I rather hope you'll have a quiet life."

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it was one of the worst storms to hit the Shire in recent memory. Bilbo and Frodo were sitting by the fire, toasting buttery slices of bread and watching the downpour.

"It feels like something dramatic should happen tonight," Frodo said, after one dramatic clap of thunder.

"Is that hail I hear?" Bilbo asked, handing Frodo the toasting fork and heading over to the window. "If so, something dramatic is going to happen tomorrow morning when the Gaffer catches sight of the carnage in our garden."

His casual use of the word "our" made Frodo feel a warm glow, quite apart from the warmth of the fire, but he was not to be distracted from his original point. "I really feel like we're sitting in one of the old stories right now, maybe on the eve of a battle, or something like that. I don't think I've ever heard such loud thunder."

"Is that so, my lad?" Bilbo leaned closer to the fire. "The truth is, exciting things very rarely happen when you expect them, and the weather almost never cooperates. Why, think of all the times it rains during weddings! And the eve of a battle is bound to be beautiful and sunny, likely as not. The same holds true of funerals, I believe…" he trailed off, his mind off in some faraway place that Frodo could neither imagine nor see any hint of in his clouded gaze. Frodo busied himself buttering another slice of bread.

"Now, there is one thunderstorm I do remember quite well. Well, actually, it was more of a thunder battle. Did I ever tell you–?" But he was cut off by a heavy knock at the door, so loud that it seemed the door might pop right off its hinges.

Both hobbits jumped up from their seats, and the slice of bread slid off the toasting fork into the fire with a disturbing thump and sizzle. Bilbo rescued its flaming remains with a muttered curse, and hurried to the door. Frodo followed him, somewhat more cautiously.

Bilbo carefully unlocked the door, which swung open with a creak. Standing behind him in the hallway, Frodo could only see that the shadowy figure that stood outside was heavily cloaked, completely drenched, and much too tall and wide to be a hobbit. Then, he noticed that Bilbo's entire body had frozen. Astonishment? Fear?

"Well…there's a sight I never thought I'd see again," Bilbo said softly, almost to himself. Then, more briskly, "Come inside, you're soaked through."

The shadowy figure stepped over the threshold, trailing mud and what appeared to be gallons of water. He flung back the hood of his cloak, and Frodo saw that he was in fact a dwarf, but a dwarf such as Frodo had never seen before, almost tall enough to be one of the Big Folk. He had a neat beard and a wild mane of dark hair streaked with silver, and his expression was grim and frightening.

Frodo thought he had never seen such a serious-looking person in his life. When those piercing eyes flickered his way, he shrank back a little further into the hallway. He wasn't usually a timid boy, but the intensity of the stranger's gaze made him want to hide. Did Bilbo know him? Was this one of the dwarves he had traveled with? There was something strange in Bilbo's eyes, a look he had never seen before. Not fear, but a kind of alertness. Almost a wildness. Surely Bilbo would not have invited someone dangerous into Bag End?

"Yours?" the stranger asked. This seemed to be addressed to Bilbo, although he was still staring hard at Frodo.

"Not…precisely," Bilbo said, still sounding quite shocked. "My nephew. Well, more properly, he's my first cousin once removed on his mother's side, and his father was my second cousin…"

He trailed off, as the dwarf slung a muddy travel pack from his shoulder to the floor, and unbuckled an intricately wrought silver belt from which hung an enormous curved sword. This he handed to Bilbo, who took it with an expression that might almost have been called tender, and set it carefully in a corner.

"Come," Bilbo said. "Sit down by the fire." He took the stranger's arm and guided him to where they had been sitting minutes before.

The dwarf's movements were stiff and labored, and marked by a heavy limp. Bilbo clearly noticed it.

"Are you well?" he asked hesitantly. "Not injured?"

"No," the dwarf said gruffly, and then, grudgingly and after a long pause, "Only the old injuries." He slumped back into the chair, looking exhausted.

Bilbo nodded. "I'm sure the weather and the travel affect such things. Nobody should be out in that storm. " Without being asked, he reached over to undo the silver clasp on his guest's travel cloak, and drew it off over his shoulders.

Bilbo shoved the cloak into Frodo's arms, with instructions to leave it out in the hallway with the pack. Frodo scurried off, and on the way back lingered just out of sight, hoping to eavesdrop. He peeked around the corner, and saw that Bilbo was now helping the dwarf off with his mud-encrusted boots. Strange things, boots. Imagine needing to wear something to protect your feet.

"Frodo! Get us a mug of ale from the pantry."

And so off Frodo went again, missing whatever conversation was occurring in his absence. When he returned, laden with mug, the boots were off and piled on the sitting room floor, along with an impressive collection of chain mail, leather bits, and small weapons. The dwarf was leaning back in Bilbo's armchair, his eyes half closed. Shyly, Frodo handed him the mug. He took it in big, square hands, acknowledging the young hobbit only with a curt nod, and then drank half of it in one long gulp.

"I never thought I'd be back here again," he said. His voice was deep and harsh, but not unpleasantly so. It reminded Frodo of sunless places beneath the earth, where nothing grew and no hobbit would ever dare to venture. "I never thought I'd see this land again, and yet here we are, and it all seems very much unchanged. Even you seem unchanged, and I was given to understand that your kind aged more quickly than my folk."

Bilbo only chuckled. "This is the Shire. Come back in a thousand years, I imagine it will look much the same. It's positively allergic to change of any kind. But as for this old place, you're right, I've hardly touched it since the Company was here. Although I did have to buy back most of the furniture once I got back from Erebor. I'll tell you about that another time, if you wish. It's late, and it seems you've had a long journey. Frodo, can you show Thorin to my parents' old room, you know the one? The bed in there should be of a size…"

Frodo heard the name, and gave Bilbo a disbelieving stare.

"Oh dear," he said. "How silly of me. I haven't even made proper introductions. Frodo, my boy, our noble guest here is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain."

Frodo froze. How did one address a king? Sire? Your Majesty?

"Pleased to meet you," he tried to say, but it came out as more of a squeak.

Thorin nodded at him gravely.

Desperately, he looked at Bilbo, silently pleading for help. And suddenly, he recognized the strange, wild look that had been blossoming in his cousin's eyes. It was a look of exultation.

Chapter Text

"How long is he going to stay here?" Frodo asked nervously. It was midmorning, and he and Bilbo were just washing up after second breakfast. While it was exciting to meet a king, and he was looking forward to telling Merry all about it, Thorin's presence loomed large in Bag End even while he was asleep. Frodo wasn't sure he liked the crowded feeling. But then, it wasn't really his place to complain about visitors. Having only arrived three weeks before, he was little more than a visitor himself.

"I've no idea, really, but it may be for a while," Bilbo said. "It's a long journey from the Lonely Mountain. I suppose I'd better go wake him, though. He'll be in a foul temper if he sleeps all day and doesn't eat anything."

Privately, Frodo wondered if Thorin had any other kind of temper. Although he realized that the dwarf king had been exhausted from travel, he had not seemed like a particularly sunny personality. Perhaps that's just how kings were. One couldn't expect them to make conversation like ordinary folk.

Bilbo had put Thorin in the biggest bedroom in Bag End, the room that had once belonged to his parents. He had never wanted it for himself, preferring to convert one of the many spare bedrooms for his own use, and so it had been empty for many years. However, the room happened to hold a truly massive (by hobbit standards) carved bed. It was a bit of a monstrosity, really, and not in line with the normally impeccable taste of the late Bungo Baggins, but it was the only bed in the hole that was long enough for their guest.

The slumbering king looked quite out of place amid Belladonna Took's knick-knacks and portraits of plump and cheery Baggins ancestors. He lay curled on one side beneath a homey quilt, his face obscured by masses of black and silver hair.

Bilbo tiptoed into the bedroom and placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder. The dwarf snapped into alertness, sitting up bolt upright and grabbing for a weapon beside him that evidently wasn't there. At least, Frodo hoped it wasn't there.

"Breakfast," Bilbo said, untroubled by this display.

A few minutes later, Thorin emerged from the room, wearing only a simple blue tunic and hose. His unbound hair streamed over his back, and he looked quite underdressed without all the armor. Although, with his broad shoulders and muscular frame, he would have looked twice the size of a hobbit even if he hadn't been so tall.

He settled himself at the table while Bilbo brought him six fried eggs, big slices of bread and ham, and a pot of strong black tea. All of this he ate steadily and with great dignity, and without saying a word to either of the hobbits. Frodo was impressed. Hobbits were known as champion eaters, but apparently Thorin had mastered the ability to consume vast quantities of food with mechanical efficiency.

Bilbo seemed unconcerned by Thorin's silence, and after he finished cooking sat down at the table and lit his pipe, apparently lost in thought.

Thorin drained his third cup of tea, and apparently satiated, pushed back his chair and got up from the table. Frodo watched him head down the hall, a little offended on Bilbo's behalf.

"He didn't even thank you," he said.

Bilbo only smiled. "It's not his way. You'll get used to it. But speaking of thanks, if you don't mind finishing the washing up, I'd be very grateful indeed. After that, I promise I won't ask you for a thing else today. Go see your friends." And with that, he followed after his guest.

Thorin was struggling to finish one of the braids in his hair. It looked as if he couldn't raise his left arm above the level of his shoulder, or reach back far enough to plait more than half of the braid. After another moment of straining, he grimaced and let his arm fall.

"Want me to do that?" Bilbo offered. "I'm a bit out of practice, but I can probably manage it."

Thorin gave a half shrug. "Kíli usually does it for me. You can use these." He passed Bilbo a little leather pouch, full of various beads, clasps, and ornaments. Some Bilbo recognized, others he had not seen before.

Deftly, Bilbo finished the braid, slipping in the steel decorations that Thorin had been wearing the night before. Then, he started on the rest of the braids–one beneath the first, and two mirroring them on the other side of Thorin's head. Had it really been decades since he had last done this? His hands seemed to remember what to do. Apparently braiding was a skill you never forgot.

"So what happened to your arm?" he asked, accusation creeping into his voice. "I thought you said you didn't have any new injuries."

"Hmmm. Well." Thorin sounded almost embarrassed. "It's an old one, actually. I broke it in three places, about six months after you left Erebor. It never really healed all the way."

"Six months?" Bilbo buried his face in his hands. "For goodness' sake, how did you do that?"

"In battle."

Bilbo wondered if it was the way he had broken his arm that was embarrassing, or just the fact that he had gotten himself smashed to bits so soon after rising from his sickbed. Probably the former. Maybe some day Bilbo would get the chance to find out what had happened, but the story was obviously not forthcoming right now. He gave the braids an experimental tug to see if they would hold, a little harder than was necessary.

"At least it's your shield arm. Small mercies. But please tell me that's all you've done to yourself."

Thorin pulled his head out of Bilbo's reach. "In four decades? Hardly. You cluck like an old woman. But nothing else serious. At this rate, I'll be the first member of my family to die a natural death in about a thousand years."

To a dwarf, an injury that was "nothing serious" could mean anything from a stubbed toe to a stab wound that had missed the vital organs, so Bilbo wasn't terribly reassured.

Sometimes when he looked at Thorin, he could still see him as he had looked after the Battle of Five Armies, surrounded by a solemn circle of mourners. It had without question been the worst moment of Bilbo's life, the worst thing he had seen up until that point.

Thorin had been twisted at some unnatural angle, like a discarded scrap of metal from the forge, and there was so much blood. Surely one person couldn't contain so much blood. In fact, a lot of it had been Fíli's, which Bilbo didn't realize until he saw the body they had dragged off to the side. Kíli was clinging to his brother's corpse, wildly fighting off every attempt at medical attention. The left side of his face was a bloody mess, and he was drenched in Fíli and Thorin's blood too, so much of it that they couldn't tell if he was injured anywhere else. They thought he must be all right, because he was struggling so much, but there was no way of knowing, because he wouldn't let anyone get close enough to check.

And Thorin…the utterly sick feeling in Bilbo's stomach when he looked at that crumpled body, the layers of flesh sliced open, and the gleam of exposed bone even underneath all that armor and skin and muscle. Thorin's eyes were wide open, and he was gasping for breath, but little rivulets of blood were coming out of his mouth, and there was a horrible rattling noise every time his chest rose and fell. This was not going to be a clean death in battle, but one of those nasty lingering ones that everyone remembered and nobody talked about. The kind that got edited down in the songs to "And then he fell beneath the blades of many foes." If he had been a lesser warrior, someone would have taken a knife to his throat and ended it quickly, but because he was King Under the Mountain they were going to stand around helplessly and watch the gory show until its inevitable conclusion.

Bilbo knelt by him, tried to shift him to a more comfortable position, because he was clearly in agony, but Balin pulled him back. "There's nothing to be done, Master Baggins. Better not move him now." So Bilbo took Thorin's big hand in his two little ones, and tried not to scream. As awful as this scene of dying was, as much grief as he felt, more terrible still was the acceptance in the eyes of the Company. They had lost fathers and brothers and comrades in this way before, and knew that they would again. Bilbo had seen death enough, in his life, but never like this. So he clung to Thorin's hand, which seemed to be the only uninjured part of him. "Don't do this," he pleaded. "Don't die."

Thorin's bloody lips quirked, sending another trickle from the corner of his mouth. "Believe me…it's not…intentional."

"Nonsense," Bilbo snapped, quite angry now despite the flood of tears threatening to appear at any moment. "Out of all the dwarves I know, you're the most stiff-necked, foolhardy, idiotic, bloody-minded…" He broke off, choked by a sob. "Don't you dare tell me that you aren't doing this to us on purpose. You're far too stubborn to die otherwise. And we need you. You think you just get to do the glorious fighting bit, and then dump the actual work onto someone else? Well, think again. You are not allowed to die!"

Thorin broke into a long fit of coughing that wracked his entire body, punctuated only by occasional desperate gasps for air. At last, his eyes closed, and he lay still. The Company bowed their heads in silent respect. Only Bilbo was close enough to hear him murmur. "All right. I won't. "

And he didn't. It was days, perhaps weeks, before the others would dare to hope that he was going to live, but Bilbo trusted Thorin's word. He knew that somehow, it would be all right. And as bad as things got, he held fast to that assurance.

Whenever Bilbo talked about that day and the days that followed, he would say "And then, after we won the Battle of Five Armies, peace was restored and Thorin Oakenshield took up his throne and rebuilt Erebor." This made him quite as bad an editor as all the bards and chroniclers of old, but apparently some things you just couldn't talk about. It was something he had noticed often when Balin or one of the others was telling him some story of a battle, at Moria or elsewhere. They would be in the middle of describing with great relish the gruesomeness deeds of a vicious orc, or some bit of dwarvish derring-do, when suddenly they would break into a flat narration, their eyes growing distant. Bilbo would understand that they were remembering some old horror, too private and too terrible for recounting.

Maybe now that Thorin was here in the Shire, Bilbo would be able to stop remembering. Even though the images were so vivid, even after all this time. Maybe he could replace them with memories of Thorin eating at his table, sitting in front of his fire, walking through the green and rolling hills of Hobbiton and Michel Delving.

"What are you staring at?" Thorin rumbled, breaking his reverie.

"Just remembering what it looked like when your guts were all on the outside," Bilbo said, aiming for flippancy. It worked. Thorin let out a very un-kinglike snort.

"Thank you for that, Master Baggins."

But he wondered if Thorin, who had seen many more terrible things in his time, understood how he felt. He thought about an old king, beheaded and defiled in Moria, and imagined that Thorin probably understood as well as any dwarf ever would.

"I should have mentioned it earlier, but I'm very glad you've come," Bilbo said, and this time he was able to look at Thorin directly without seeing the blood and gore and the path of every scar on his body.

"Didn't I tell you I would? You should know by now that I keep my word. But come, I've brought a few things from the Mountain for you. In fact," Thorin said, very gravely, "I doubt I would have been able to carry everything they wanted to send you. I imagine you'll have to come to Erebor to collect the rest of the lot."

Bilbo laughed at the image of eleven dwarves crowding around Thorin trying to get him to pack their gift.

"Well, no hobbit can resist a present. Let us proceed, my liege!"

Merry Brandybuck's attempts to boost Frodo up into one of the Twofoot's apple trees weren't going very well. The branches were too high, and the hobbits were too short.

"Maybe we should get a ladder," Frodo said dubiously.

"It'll be fine," Merry said. "Here, stand up on my shoulders, and then I'll lift you up. Ow!" Frodo had managed to grab onto of one of the lower branches, and was now dangling wildly from it, but had accidentally kicked his friend in the face while attempting to strengthen his hold.

At last, Frodo was securely in the tree and filling his pockets with the Twofoots' apples, which were beautifully red and crisp and sold for very high prices at market.

"Aren't you going to tell me about your guest?" Merry called up. "Or at least toss me down an apple after all the work I did getting you up there."

Frodo shushed him. "I'll tell you later. Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear you?"

It was too late. Clematis Twofoot emerged from her house shaking her mop in the air and threatening to give the young rascals a good thrashing. Frodo scrambled down from the tree, sending apples flying, and he and Merry made a break for it.

"Please tell me you at least saved me an apple," Merry panted a good while later, when they had reached relative safety.

Frodo pulled four from his pockets. They were a little battered, but still delicious.

Merry inspected the loot. "This is what our bruises are going to look like, if Mistress Twofoot ever gets hold of us."

"Great warriors we are," said Frodo. "Fleeing in the face of the mighty mop."

"Show some respect, Frodo. Many a young hobbit has quavered and quaked in the face of that mop. Did we hesitate? No! We ran away as quickly as we could, and lived to scrump another day."

When the apples were gone, and Frodo's stomach was pleasantly full, he finally told Merry who had arrived at Bag End the night before.

Merry listened attentively to the whole story, a rarity for him, and when Frodo was done he let out a long whistle. "Royalty in the guest bedroom! Well, they always did say old Bilbo was strange. So, are you going to introduce me to Thorin Oakenshield?"

"Are you mad?" Frodo demanded. "He's hardly said two words to me. He has Bilbo running around like a servant. To be honest, he's not really what I expected from Bilbo's stories."

"Can't you be a little more excited? How often do famous dwarf warriors come to the Shire? Anyway, here's what we're going to do: if you're determined to be stubborn about it, we don't even have to go inside. Just let me get a good look through the window. He won't even know we're there."

Chapter Text

Frodo elbowed Merry in the stomach. "Get down from there. They're going to see you!" He still didn't know how his cousin had persuaded him to spy on his own home. At the time it had seemed like a clever solution to the dangers of facing Thorin Oakenshield, but now it just seemed like a suicide mission.

Merry ducked down beneath the window, his face shining with excitement. "Thorin looks just like I thought he would. He's so tall! He must over five feet."

Frodo shoved him down just as Thorin started to turn around. "Can we stop this now? I don't want to get in trouble."

Since moving to Bag End a few weeks ago, he had been very careful not to let Bilbo catch him at any kind of mischief making. The adoption hadn't even been formalized yet. He didn't want Bilbo to change his mind about the whole thing, especially with such an important guest in the hole. Bilbo might realize the whole idea had been a terrible mistake, and pack him back off to Buckland. And what if Uncle Rory didn't want to take him back? Frodo had lived there on his charity for twelve years already.

"What's wrong with your sense of adventure, Frodo? I didn't see you hesitating to climb up that apple tree an hour ago. Besides, it looks like they're bringing something out into the front parlor." Merry managed to squirm out of Frodo's grasp and they both popped up to peer over the edge of the windowsill. Of course, it was at that very moment that Bilbo turned around. The two young hobbits froze. Frodo fought off a moment of panic. What would Bilbo think of this kind of behavior? To his astonishment, Bilbo just grinned and quickly looked away, pretending not to see them. Frodo breathed out a long sigh of relief.

"I told you it would be fine," said Merry. Of course, at that exact moment Thorin turned around to see what Bilbo was looking at, and caught sight of the two curly hobbit heads sticking up over the window. His eyebrows rose slightly, and then his expression darkened.

They dropped down underneath the window. "Whoops," said Merry.

"Do you think we can make a break for it?" Frodo whispered. "Or is it too late?"

They cringed as the window above them slid open, and braced for an onslaught of dwarvish wrath.

"Good afternoon, lads," said Bilbo, quite cheerily. "Thorin was just about to show me some things he brought all the way from the Lonely Mountain. Would you two like to see them?"

"Please!" Merry exclaimed, any shame he might have felt about getting caught immediately evaporating. He would have probably climbed in through the window, if Frodo hadn't grabbed his arm and marched him around through the front door.

Thorin didn't look angry at them, at least not any angrier than usual. To Frodo's disgust, Merry gave him a neat little bow. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, of Buckland. Frodo and I grew up together."

Thorin actually returned his bow with a solemn inclination of his head. "Indeed. Are the two of you related as well?"

"Oh, yes!" Merry said eagerly. "Frodo's mother and my old granddad and Mr. Bilbo were all first cousins."

"Bilbo does seem to have a great number of cousins. An inexhaustible supply, one might say."

"Is that a moral failing on my part, Thorin?" Bilbo asked laughingly. "I'll try to have fewer if you like, but I warn you that they're a difficult lot to get rid of."

Thorin stroked his beard. "It's strange to me how your folk seem to grow to such great numbers in so few generation. But then, my people are of stone, and yours belong to fertile earth, so I suppose it must be only natural."

"Don't you have family, sir?" asked Merry, ignoring Frodo's swift "shut up" kick to the shins and stepping on his foot in retaliation. "Not even cousins or anything?"

Thorin shook his head, sending his braids swinging. "I have kin with whom I share a great-grandfather, or some more distant ancestor, although Durin's line has become somewhat weakened in these days. But as for close-kin, I've only a nephew yet living."

"Oh," said Merry, a bit abashed. "I'm sorry." But Thorin had already turned his attention to his travel pack, and was drawing forth an assortment of marvelous gifts for Bilbo. There were several books that looked as if they were very old and somewhat the worse for wear, but Bilbo stroked their cracked leather bindings lovingly and seemed to be quite enraptured. Then came a beautifully carved pipe with silver inlay, and another pipe in the shape of a dragon, where the stem was a spiked tail and the bowl a nastily grinning head.

"Bofur's work?" was Bilbo's only comment.

Then came a miniature double-headed battle-axe, magnificently decorated and entirely hobbit-sized.

"That's from Dwalin and Gloin," Thorin told him. "They said that if you were going to keep carrying an elvish blade, you needed to have one of our weapons to match."

"Very considerate of them," Bilbo said. "It's beautiful." It was also apparently quite heavy, and Bilbo had to strain to lift it even with both hands. He shot a warning glance at the two younger hobbits, who had darted in to "assist".

"I did tell them that I doubted you would have a use for such a thing in a peaceful land like this, but they insisted, and then Balin said…"

"What?" Bilbo prompted.

"Never mind." Little lines were appearing at the corner of Thorin's narrowed eyes. Frodo was starting to think that might be his smile, although the rest of his expression remained impassive.

Thorin reached into the pack one last time, and withdrew a small, securely wrapped oilskin package. He handed it to Bilbo.

"From Kíli," he said. "He wouldn't tell me what was in it, but apparently he made it himself."

Bilbo set to work unwrapping the package, and at last removed a little carved box the size of his fist. It was simply decorated with a pattern of stars and diamonds, but made from some glossy black wood that Frodo had never seen before. Curiously, he reached out a finger to stroke its smooth and inviting surface. Bilbo lifted it away from him.

"Just a moment." Gently, he lifted the lid, and drew out a shimmering golden chain, a richer color than any gold Frodo had ever seen. But it was the ornament that dangled from the chain that was the true marvel. It was a tiny pendant, only the size of a thumbnail, but it looked as if it had been spun out of moonlight rather than crafted by living hands.

"Mithril?" Bilbo asked, holding it up for Thorin to see. Frodo could see that it was some sort of flower, although not one he recognized. However, now that Bilbo had said it, Frodo did see that the metal was the same one that Bilbo's mail shirt was made from.

The dwarf king nodded confirmation. "He must have had to melt something down to make that, we don't mine it. Does the vezedrûn have some personal significane to you?" Bilbo cupped the flower gingerly in his palm and ran a finger over the silvery blossom. The cheery expression he had been wearing moments before had entirely vanished. He jumped to his feet.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back."

Merry shot Frodo a confused glance, as if to say What is your crazy cousin doing now?

Frodo shrugged. Like Uncle Rory always said, who knows why he does anything?

Bilbo locked the bathroom door behind him and splashed his face with cold water from the basin. Silly of him to get upset, he knew, but he had suddenly and desperately wanted to be alone. He had been about to blurt out, "Yes, the first time I saw that flower was at Fíli's grave." This was a happy occasion. He was getting presents. It wasn't fair how the memories had to come back so vividly sometimes.

He stared at the little mithril ornament dangling from its chain. Vezedrûn, the dwarves called it. Stoneflower. It grew only in Erebor, and apart from a few dried blossoms he had tucked away, he hadn't seen one in years. He had first seen them about ten days after the Battle of Five Armies, three days after Fíli had been laid to rest.

Perhaps a year before, Bilbo would have been frightened to enter the vast and gloomy catacombs of Erebor, but it seemed that little frightened him these days. Making his way through rows of stone warriors bound in eternal slumber, he found Kíli sitting curled against his brother's tomb. Since the funeral, he had refused to move from this spot, and was apparently also refusing to eat. The left side of his face was still bandaged, and the bandages were none too clean. He did not raise his head as Bilbo approached, although Bilbo made sure not to walk too quietly and startle him.

"Thorin is asking for you," Bilbo said eventually, when Kíli showed no sign of acknowledging his presence.

Silence.

"I don't think he's actually going to believe that you're alive until you come and see him. He refused to believe it at first, he was so sure you had…anyway, if you don't go and see him soon, he'll think we're all lying to him."

"So you're Thorin's messenger boy now?" Kíli snapped, his voice breaking through the stillness in the air like a whip. It was the most he had said to anyone in days, as far as Bilbo could tell, and it sounded like he had been weeping so much he could hardly remember how to talk.

"Oh yes," Bilbo said, forcing lightness into his voice. "There's not a lot of burgling to do around here these days, so I've been demoted to errand-hobbit, sickroom attendant, and general busybody." Kíli didn't respond, already retreating back into his private world of sorrow. Bilbo should try to get him talking again. But he could not think of a single thing to say. He should leave now, before Kíli's utter despair swallowed him up. There was enough creeping shadow in his own heart already, enough fear, enough grief. And he could not afford to falter now.

His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness. Looking about him, he noticed little flowers sprouting from the ground all around them. He reached down to pick one, hoping he wasn't committing an act of sacrilege. You never knew with dwarves.

"What are these?" he asked. "I thought nothing grew here."

Kíli shrugged, and Bilbo turned the flower between his fingers. He'd have to look at it in real light to be sure, but it seemed to be a tiny, colorless sort of thing. A little ghost of a bloom, seven-petaled and grey.

Suddenly, exhaustion hit him. He felt like he had just been stepped on by a troll and couldn't possibly move another step or cry another tear. So he slid down onto the cold stone floor to lean against Fíli's grave, and bowed his head to his chest.

"I wasn't made for this," he heard himself saying. "People die in the Shire all the time, but it's mostly of old age, or illness, or really stupid accidents. I got myself all worked up about Smaug, I guess, but the battle wasn't something I was ready for. I couldn't even imagine it. I don't think I was made for this kind of life."

"Me neither," Kíli whispered a moment later, so quietly that Bilbo almost didn't hear him. "I wasn't ready either. I'm not a prince, Bilbo, not really. I've never seen a real battle before, and I hope I never see another one. I failed Thorin and I failed…" He couldn't say his brother's name.

"You didn't fail Thorin. He's going to be fine."

"He's not fine. They told me…" Kíli couldn't say it. "They told me that even if he doesn't die, he'll be, you know, crippled."

"This is Thorin we're talking about!" Bilbo said. He was getting quite good at his falsely cheery voice, and no wonder, with the amount of practice he'd had lately. "He's stubborn. But he wants to see you."

Kíli shook his head. "I can't face him. I'm supposed to be the heir now. How am I supposed to do that? I'm useless. I never want to see another battle again. Fíli was supposed to be the heir. He was always the heir. I'm the one who should be in here. I can't go on without him. I want to die. " He slammed his fist against the tomb. "I should have died."

Wearily, Bilbo got to his feet. Maybe it was too soon after all. The funeral had only been three days ago. Surely even Kíli's grief must run its course eventually.

He cupped the wispy little flower in his palm. He'd ask one of the others about it. "I'd better get back. But come soon, if you can." As he picked his way out of the catacombs, he noticed that the blossoms were growing all around in scattered patches, seeming to sprout from the very rock. He had been so sure that nothing could grow in Erebor, but he didn't mind being proven wrong.

That night the sky over Hobbiton was beautiful and clear, as if the storm of the night before had never existed. Bilbo and Thorin sat outside the front door smoking, although Bilbo had left his new dragon-pipe on display inside. Bilbo asked after the various members of the Company, who he had received very little news of in recent years. They were all well, Thorin said, and flourishing along with the new Erebor. Balin and several others been talking for a long time about an expedition to reclaim Moria. Thorin had not forbidden it outright, but had done his best to discourage them. But now, with Thorin away and Kíli in need of good counsel, he doubted Balin would be leaving Erebor any time soon.

This reminded Bilbo of something else he had meant to ask about.

"So what did Balin say about the axe that you didn't want to tell me earlier?"

Thorin tilted his head to one side, and somehow produced an uncannily accurate impression of his cousin. "Just bring it to him, laddie, an' if he doesn't want to use it, you can always mount it over the fire for him."

Bilbo burst out laughing. "Careful there, I might start to suspect you have a sense of humor."

The dwarf only grunted.

"Never mind," Bilbo said, sending an enormous smoke ring sailing off into the night. "I can see my suspicions are quite unfounded. So, you felt comfortable leaving Kíli to rule in your absence?"

"He has grown into a good prince," Thorin said. "Well-loved by his people. I think he will lead well enough, after I'm gone."

Coming from Thorin, this was effusive praise, and the pride in his voice was evident.

"He and Gloin's son are very close," Thorin continued. "I believe Kíli relies greatly on that friendship. It is important for a king to be surrounded by those he can trust, and it would not do for Kíli to rely forever on his uncle's counselors, even if they are also his own comrades in arms. And there are not many of his generation."

Bilbo remembered Glóin telling him once that the numbers of dwarves born in the Blue Mountains had been so few that the birth of his son had seemed a miracle.

"I wish I could meet Gimli," he said. "And see Kíli again, of course." What was Kíli like now, he wondered. Bilbo still could not really imagine him sitting on Thorin's throne, ruling in Thorin's absence. But Kíli would do anything to please his uncle. That would never change.

"Come back with me," Thorin said suddenly, interrupting his musings. "Come back and see my Erebor. It has changed so much since you were there. It's thriving again now. You should know what you helped to create."

A warm feeling spread from the crown of Bilbo's head to the tips of his toes. Wouldn't it be wonderful to see all his old friends again? Wouldn't it be wonderful to see Erebor again, fully rebuilt and glorious as Thorin described it?

And then, he felt as if a ton of rocks had suddenly been dumped on his chest. He couldn't go back. Not there. It was a long journey. He was getting old, even if it wasn't showing yet. Frodo was too young to bring, and what would happen to him if Bilbo left?

And if even Thorin's presence here brought back so many memories, surely Erebor would break his heart. He had always though that time and distance could heal all wounds,

"I've always wanted to go back," said Bilbo. "But it's a very long journey."

If he went, he knew it would be for a long time, perhaps years. Perhaps permanently. Could he bear to leave the Shire for so long, or forever? Could he stay in the Shire, knowing he might have given up his last chance to see his old companions?

"You need not decide now," Thorin said. "I think the earliest we could hope to travel safely would be the spring. But you should know that as long as I and my descendents live there will always be a place waiting for you in Erebor. And a family, as well."

Bilbo felt tears spring to his eyes unbidden. Kin meant everything to the dwarves. Declaring an outsider to be equal to one of Durin's folk was not a casual statement.

"I know, my lord," Bilbo said. "I have not forgotten it." And that was the truth of the matter. He had too much in Erebor to stay here—in some ways, his friends among the dwarves understood him better than Shire folk ever could. And yet, he had too much in the Shire to abandon. His heart belonged to two homes now.

He touched the mithril flower on its chain beneath his shirt. Everything had worked out, hadn't it? Everything was all right now. Whatever he decided, it would have to be all right.

They talked until late into the night, speaking only of good and pleasant times, and Thorin's hopes for how Durin's line would prosper in fifty and a hundred years and down through the ages, and never again be touched by poverty and exile and despair.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was in a cooking frenzy. This mood seemed to strike him about every ten days, and it made Frodo terribly nervous. Bilbo would simply wake up of a morning and set upon the kitchen with an almost violent determination, as if he had an entire army to feed by midday. He would bake, stew, boil, and pickle without rest until some mysterious point at which he decided there was now enough food in the pantry. Satisfied, he would collapse for the rest of the day with a book, too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Frodo had quickly learned to stay out of his way when he was in these moods. Most of the time Bilbo liked having help in the kitchen, and unless he was being tasked with a particularly dirty bit of tidying up, Frodo enjoyed helping him. But on these mad days, Bilbo would reject all offers of assistance with a snappish, "Yes, you can help by keeping out of my way!"

So that Thursday morning, Frodo was curled in a corner of the kitchen with a beautifully illustrated volume of birds and beasts of the Shire. He had positioned himself far away enough from Bilbo to be unobtrusive, but close enough that he would be on hand if Bilbo did actually need him to do something, like run out to the market to get a missing ingredient or pick an herb from the garden. Normally he would have loitered in the dining room, to put a little more distance between himself and his cousin, but that space was presently being occupied by none other than Thorin Oakenshield.

Occupied was a highly appropriate term. Thorin had spread out several maps from Bilbo's collection on the dining room table, and spent the morning covering them with little chips of semi-precious stones and then moving the chips back and forth. Frodo had no idea what he was doing, but the heavy furrow in his brow indicated that he found it extremely absorbing.

Occasionally, Thorin would get up from the table, wander into the kitchen, and grab some of whatever Bilbo was cooking. This earned him a succession of evil glares that he completely ignored. Frodo was greatly impressed by this display of bravery. Orcs and trolls were something of an abstract concept to him, but Bilbo on a cooking day was a danger that he understood and respected.

Frodo tried to keep his attention on his book, but he was fascinated by the mystery of the maps. Normally he would have asked Bilbo to explain, but today the interruption was not likely to be well received. Sometimes Frodo wished he had a little more of Merry's daring. He was sure that if his friend had been here rather than back in Buckland, he probably would have marched right up to Thorin and asked directly. On the other hand, Frodo seemed to spend most of his time trying to keep Merry out of trouble, so he wasn't sure what would happen if neither of them knew how to be careful.

He gazed longingly at the maps. Finally, curiosity won out over caution, and he tiptoed into the dining room for a closer look. Thorin was staring at a map of Erebor and its surroundings, arranging pieces of amethyst around the Lonely Mountain and the city of Dale. A much larger number of turquoise nuggets were positioned around Esgaroth and the Long Lake. Since Thorin did not seem to object to his presence, Frodo moved even closer.

"These are my dwarves," Thorin said suddenly, pointing at the amethysts. He jabbed a finger at the turquoise. "And these are an orc horde come down through the Grey Mountains."

Frodo began to understand. "It's a battle?"

Thorin grunted an affirmative.

"A battle that already happened?" Frodo guessed.

"A battle I hope to never see," Thorin said shortly. "But if it happens, my plans will be in place. I'm checking every direction the enemy might come against a defending force of our current numbers." He pointed at the amethysts again. "When I've finished, I will do it again with different numbers of orcs and with my estimates of how many warriors Erebor will have in fifty years."

Frodo gazed down at the arrangement of dwarves and orcs. He didn't understand the strategy Thorin was setting up, but there seemed to be a lot more turquoise than amethyst.

"There's a lot of orcs," he said. "Isn't there anyone else who could help you? Like…the Big Folk in Dale?" He remembered just in time not to mention the elves. Bilbo had cautioned him that Thorin could be sensitive on the subject of elves.

Thorin shook his head. "I cannot count on outside help. It is true that we have fought alongside the men of Dale before, and likely will again, but I am determined that Erebor should be able to defend itself alone against any foe." He patted a full pouch on the table, which clinked. "I do have some 'Men' in here. But it is likely that I will be responsible for their defense. I need to be prepared for that as well." Seeing Frodo's confused look, he elaborated. "I am the lord of a fortress city, the most defensible spot in the entire region. That means that if war comes to our corner of the world, the people of Dale, Esgaroth, the surrounding settlements, and possibly even our kin from the Iron Hills will show up at my door seeking shelter. They will bring warriors and supplies, but not enough. I have to be able to deploy them, defend them, and feed them at very little notice. That is the responsibility of the King Under the Mountain. They love my smiths and my gold, but not as much as they love my walls in these troubled times."

"Responsibility," mused Frodo. It wasn't something he had given much thought to, except for when an adult was telling him he lacked it. In Brandy Hall, he hadn't even been allowed to have a pet. But Thorin had to be responsible for the lives of thousands of people. No wonder he was so serious all the time.

Just then, Bilbo shouted from the kitchen telling Frodo to go down to the market and buy him some currants for a batch of scones. Frodo hurried to obey, only realizing on his way out the door that for the first time, Thorin had actually talked to him. And he hadn't treated him like a child, either, but like an adult old enough to understand the difficulties of kingship.

The market was Frodo's favorite thing about living in Hobbiton. Twice a week, the local farmers, butchers, bakers, and craftsmen put their wares on display. It might have been a small affair compared to the Big Market every Sunday in Michel Delving, where more serious business was transacted and goods from Bree and further outside the Shire were available, but the residents of Hobbiton took their market seriously. Almost every family in the village grew or made some offering (mostly of the edible variety), and would at least occasionally set up a table. To Frodo, it was paradise. Brandy Hall had been directly supplied with food and other necessities by the village of Bucklebury and nearby farmsteads of the Eastfarthing, importing from elsewhere in the Shire when necessary. Frodo had rarely had opportunity to stroll through rows of stalls and tables, taking in the sights and smells of all the Shire had to offer. As wonderful as a well-laden table was, nothing could compare to the pleasure of wandering through a market with a handful of coins from Bilbo burning a hole in his pocket. Should he buy some of the little meat pies? A peck of apples? It was so hard to decide.

Sometimes Frodo became so lost in serious contemplation of the alternatives that he would spend several hours without buying anything at all. The possibilities were as delicious as his actual purchases. Today, though, he was in something of a rush. It wouldn't do to keep Bilbo waiting. His cousin often gave him a little too much money for an errand, with a wink and the understanding that he should buy himself something extra, but right now the best plan would be to get Bilbo his currants before it got too late in the day. Also, if he hurried back, he might be able to take another look at Thorin's battle maps.

The line in front of the dried fruit seller's stall seemed unnecessarily long that day. Frodo gave his order to the assistant, and then settled down to wait. Impatiently, he scuffed his feet in the dirt and then picked up a little stick he found there, swinging it back and forth and imagining that he was a mighty warrior wielding a sword of Gondolin. He wondered where Gondolin actually was. Bilbo had probably told him at some point, but he had been more focused on battles and adventures than on geography.

A hand fell on his shoulder, making him jump. He wheeled around, dropping his stick-sword back into the dust. A mistake, he knew. A true warrior would never let go of his weapon.

A grey-haired older lady was peering down at him with a pinched and sour expression. Her hair was aggressively pinned up in a bun, with spiky hairpins protruding in all directions. Her dress was starched and ironed within an inch of its life. Frodo could tell that she was the kind of person who made a habit of beating young hobbits with the temerity to track dirt within a mile or so of her doorstep. He tried to take a step away from her, but her bony grip tightened on his arm.

"You must be the Baggins boy," she said. "The one from Buckland."

He nodded mutely.

"Living in Hobbiton, now, I hear?" This sounded quite accusatory.

Frodo nodded again, and made another attempt to squirm out of her grasp.

He would not have thought it possible, but her gaze became even more displeased. "Well, boy? Where are your manners? Didn't they teach you to greet relatives properly in Buckland?"

Frodo's tension was reaching an unbearable level.

"But I don't know who you are!" he practically wailed, sounding like a much younger hobbit.

She drew herself up to her full height, mouth working furiously.

"I?" she hissed. "I am Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and my husband Otho is the rightful heir to Bag End!"

Now he recognized her, mostly from Bilbo's less-than-flattering accounts, although he must have met her a few times at extended Baggins family gatherings. Her son Lotho was a few years older than him, and was a horrible boy who had delighted in tormenting his younger relatives at parties by snatching away their presents, even though they were things that he was too old to really want for himself.

Frodo tried to remember his manners.

"Frodo Baggins at your service, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins," he said weakly, extending his left hand to her, as his right arm was still immobilized by her grip. She ignored him.

"Is it true that there is a dwarf living in Bag End?" she demanded.

He sighed. Of course word would have got out. It was the Shire, after all, and gossip such as this would have been irresistible. Thorin hadn't exactly been hiding inside, either, although he had not ventured far from Bag End in the past few days. And while Merry hopefully possessed the good sense not to tell anyone who Thorin was, he might not have been able to resist dropping a few hints about Bilbo's mysterious visitor.

"We do have a guest," he admitted.

"A guest who is a dwarf?"

"Well, yes."

Lobelia looked as if she had just smelled something foul.

"I hoped he had stopped all that nonsense," she sniffed. "He used to have unsavory types coming and going at the oddest times, but we haven't seen any of them in years. But even then, they didn't stay for days and days. What is the family coming to? Nobody will believe the Bagginses are respectable now! A dwarf! Some no-good thieving tinker, I don't doubt, making his living off robbing honest folk."

"He's not!" Frodo snapped. "He's a very honorable person!"

"Hah!" snapped Lobelia. "What nonsense! What does a Buckland brat like you know about it? I hear they associate with all sorts across the river!"

Frodo opened his mouth. How he wanted to tell her the truth! But Bilbo had insisted that the resulting storm of gossip if Thorin's identity became widely known would be unbearable for all of them. The Shire-folk might not know where Erebor was, but they would be quick enough to associate "dwarf" and "king" with "gold", and be crowding around Bag End at all hours hoping for a peek or asking for a handout. Bilbo didn't care much for public opinion, but he valued his privacy—another trait that made him strange in the eyes of the Shire.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was still talking.

"No good will come of associating with such shady characters! You tell Bilbo—!"

Thankfully just then the shopkeeper waved to Frodo with the little parcel of currants, allowing him an excuse for a speedy escape.

On his way home, he kept thinking about swords. If he had one, surely people would stop backing him into corners and grabbing him and asking unpleasant questions. A real hero wouldn't be afraid of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, he imagined. Although, he couldn't imagine Bilbo whipping out Sting and using it to subdue gossipy relatives. Bilbo had showed him the little sword a few times, and even let him hold it once. But after Bilbo had caught him trying to take it to go show Merry, he had locked it away in a trunk, admonishing Frodo that a real weapon was not a toy and he hoped he would never have an occasion to use one.

What Frodo hadn't seen yet was Orcrist, and it had been sitting by his front door for days now. Thorin had left it propped there rather than to go armed in Bag End, although Frodo was sure that he had some other pieces of concealed weaponry. When he had inspected Thorin's boots the previous day, he had found a little sheath sown into the side of each one. He hadn't found the knives anywhere, though.

So after delivering the currants to Bilbo and retreating from the kitchen, Frodo found himself out in the hallway staring at the great curved sword in its scabbard. He could ask Thorin to take it out and show him, but that didn't seem quite respectful somehow. As Bilbo had said, a sword was not a toy.

But would it really hurt just to take a look at it?

Tentatively, he tried to slide the sword from its sheath. But he was too short in relation to the length of the blade, and merely succeeded in dragging the whole thing a few feet along the floor. It was surprisingly heavy. He could hardly lift it off the ground. Looking about him, he spotted a little table against the wall, and hopped up on it, propping the tip of the sheath against the ground. It wobbled dangerously, but he ignored it in pursuit of his goal. He yanked up with all his strength, and the sword slid free. For a moment, the Goblin-Cleaver was extended magnificently in front of him, the weapon of mighty warriors of Gondolin (wherever that had been), rediscovered in a troll-hoard, and now wielded by the heroic Frodo Baggins—

A sound in the doorway caught his attention. He looked up from the sword and saw Thorin Oakenshield standing there observing him, arms folded across his chest.

Just then, the rickety table collapsed, unable to bear Frodo's slight weight for any longer. Frodo slammed into the floor with Orcrist extended before him and skidded forward, leaving an enormous gash in the flooring. Cautiously, he uncurled his fingers from the hilt and picked himself up to regard the damage. It took a moment for him to gather his courage enough to look up at the sword's owner.

Thorin threw back his head and let out a roar. Frodo trembled. Then, he realized it was not a sound of rage. Thorin was laughing.

When Bilbo emerged from the kitchen half an hour later, with his last batch of scones finally out of the oven, he was met by an astonishing sight. Thorin was adjusting Frodo's grip on a stick of firewood, showing him a simple thrust and parry.

"My people mostly depend on strength in a fight," Thorin was saying, "But you will never have that kind of advantage, even when you're grown. Better for you to rely on your natural speed and agility. But even so, you should have some experience blocking the attacks of an opponent a great deal stronger than yourself."

Bilbo had been meaning to offer them some scones, but he took one look at Frodo's rapt expression and headed back into the kitchen to start dinner. He didn't want to interrupt.

Later, Thorin told him the whole story of Orcrist, the table, and the two-foot long scrape on the floor in Bilbo's front hall. Thorin had rescued his weapon from the young hobbit and set about supplying him with something less likely to cause permanent damage to the hobbit-hole and its inhabitants.

"I wouldn't have expected you to take an interest," Bilbo remarked. Thorin had seemed to take very little notice of Frodo so far.

Thorin's mouth quirked into a slight smile, but the expression was tinged with sadness. "It reminded me of my lads," he said. "At his age, they were getting into everything—the forge, the kitchen, the weapons. Keeping them out of trouble was impossible. You just had to try to steer their destructive capabilities towards something useful, or at least stop them from doing themselves too much harm."

Bilbo had known that Thorin had been the primary guardian to his nephews for much of their upbringing, but he had never really imagined Thorin with a rambunctious preadolescent Fíli and Kíli in tow. The image was unexpectedly touching, but also more than a bit frightening.

"I think you know a lot more about raising boys than I do," he admitted. "I'm a little out of my depth. I acted on an impulse, bringing Frodo here, and now, well...I'm responsible for him, aren't I? To be honest with you, it's terrifying."

Thorin shrugged. "It's like everything else. You do what you must."

Bilbo glanced down at where the stoneflower pendant was concealed beneath his shirt. He couldn't protect Frodo forever. One day, his heir might face challenges and dangers that he could not shield him from. But until then, wasn't his responsibility to keep him as safe as possible?

Chapter Text

Sometimes when Bilbo could not sleep, he would tiptoe down the hall to Frodo's room and crack open the door to make sure all was well with his young cousin. Tonight, as with every other time he had checked in the last few weeks, Frodo was fast asleep, moonlight falling across his tousled dark curls.

Suddenly, Bilbo felt quite absurd. He could remember his mother looking in on him when he had been a very small hobbit, but Frodo was a big lad, nearly in his tweens. And although he had always enjoyed the company of his younger relatives, he had certainly never wished for children of his own, or experienced much in the way of parental instincts. He was old enough to be the boy's grandfather, after all, even if he still looked as if he was in his sixties. Bilbo still wasn't sure bringing him here had been the right decision. At the time he had thought it kind, but perhaps he had only been indulging his own foolishness. After all, he could easily have made Frodo his legal heir without taking him away from Brandy Hall. But Bag End had grown to seem very empty in recent months, with only maps and memories to keep him company. After nearly seventy years of perfect contentment in his bachelorhood, it seemed that at last loneliness had caught up with him.

Quietly, Bilbo shut the door again. But on his way past Thorin's room, he again had that overpowering urge to look inside and check to make sure all was well. He slipped inside, and watched the steady rise and fall of Thorin's chest beneath the blankets. Thorin peacefully asleep was a rare sight. In all the time Bilbo had known him, he had almost never seen him sleep through a night. If he had nothing else to occupy him, he would brood silently or pace back and forth for hours. Kíli had once admitted that as a child, he had been convinced that his uncle actually did not sleep, because every single time he got up in the night Thorin had been awake.

Even hovering between life and death, there had been a restlessness about him, as if he was unwilling to remain unconscious for long.

Almost out of habit, Bilbo seated himself in a little wicker chair next to the bed. It was a familiar vigil. The first few months in Erebor, he had been at Thorin's side almost constantly. That first night, he had been afraid to leave even for a moment. He was the only one who seemed to believe that Thorin was going to live. Thorin's promise had reached his ears alone. What would happen if he stopped watching?

The healers had streamed in and out of the room for what seemed like hours. They cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and conferred with each other in a mixture of Westron, Khuzdul, medical jargon, and several other languages that Bilbo understood equally poorly. Then, one by one, they started to leave.

"Nothing more can be done now," said the one who seemed to be their leader, a squat fellow with elaborately curled black sideburns and a bristly beard. "We will return later. In the meantime, there are many other wounded that have not yet been seen to."

"Wait," Bilbo called after him. The healer gave him a look of forced patience. Bilbo was almost tongue-tied by the magnitude of his questions. He wanted to demand if it was really possible for Thorin to live through the night, if he was in much pain, how long it would take for him to wake.

"How is he?" he managed.

The healer gave a professionally ambiguous shrug, no sign of optimism visible in his expression. "He's already made it for longer than I would have thought possible. Perhaps he'll surprise us and survive after all. But if he does, he may wish that he hadn't. Nobody can bounce back from injuries like this, no matter how strong his will to live."

And so Bilbo had been left alone to his silent watch. Where were the others of the Company? He had not seen them since Thorin had been carried from the field of battle, but he guessed from their absence that there was a great deal of work to be done before any of them could be spared. In his experience, the cleanup always took longer than the actual event. Well, if it was true of parties, why shouldn't it be true of battles as well? Some principles were universal.

"It's very cold," Thorin whispered sometime in the early hours of the morning. His lips had started to acquire a bluish tinge, and his hand felt cold and clammy to Bilbo's touch. Bilbo searched for extra blankets, and found nothing. This had to be the worst equipped sickroom in Middle-Earth. Curse Erebor! Most of the wounded had been brought to tents in the ruins of Dale. But even though the gatehouse was cold, dank, and felt like a tomb, Bilbo could not deny that Thorin certainly would prefer to be in any part of Erebor than anywhere else. Hopefully with the help of Dain's army, they could get the place up and running soon.

"I'll be right back," he promised, not sure if Thorin could actually hear him. There were several other groups of injured being kept elsewhere in the gatehouse. Perhaps there would be more supplies with them.

He darted out into the hall and hurried along until he ran into a guard wearing an enormous fur cloak. It would have to do. He grabbed at it, ignoring the warrior's horrified look and attempts to swat him away like an overgrown insect.

"It's for the king," he snapped at last. "And go find me some more blankets, while you're at it."

The dwarf blinked at him in confusion. "Do I look like a servant to you, halfling?"

Bilbo felt a blaze of rage rising in his chest. "No, you look like a damn fool. Now make yourself useful!"

The warrior scurried off. Bilbo glared at his retreating back. He was not feeling kindly towards dwarves that night. Clearly they all had nothing but gravel between their ears.

Bilbo tucked the cloak around Thorin and pulled the blanket back up over him, trying not to look at the mangled body beneath. He wished one of the confounded healers would come back. Shouldn't at least one of them have stayed here? He felt useless and alone and afraid, and it was far too quiet.

In a few minutes, Thorin's shivering did seem to ease, and he rested more quietly again. Bilbo was starting to feel rather chilled himself. He wrapped his arms around his chest, sticking his hands underneath his armpits for warmth. He tried thinking of the Shire, as he often did in dark moments, but for the first time he could not summon up any pleasant images of home. He could not remember what it had been like to sit in front of a cheerfully crackling fire with a musty old book, or to putter about his garden on a sunny April afternoon. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the field of battle.

"Bilbo!" croaked a familiar voice. It was Bofur, carrying some sort of bundle. He was staggering with exhaustion, and smeared with dirt, but other than a nasty gash across his forehead he looked uninjured. "I've brought you change of clothes."

Bilbo glanced down at himself, and was astonished to find that he was covered in blood. His shirt and pants were stiff with it. He looked like he had gone for a swim in a very unpleasant sort of red jam. A gore-encrusted hobbit was an unusual sight indeed. He shuddered. No wonder the guard in the hallway had looked at him so strangely.

He stripped off his ruined clothing, shivering in the chill air, and pulled on the rough wool tunic Bofur offered him. It was far too long, and the sleeves came past his hands, but it was warmer than what he had been wearing, and blessedly clean.

"What I'd give for a bath," he muttered.

"We're not exactly set up for it yet," Bofur said. "At least you've a lot less hair than the rest of us. I fully expect to be picking orc bits out of unlikely places for the next week." He sank down onto the floor and slumped against the wall. "Just going to rest a minute…then back to work."

"What's going on out there?" Bilbo asked. "Where is everybody?"

"Clearing the battlefield," Bofur said, exhaustion causing him to achieve more succinctness that the exhortations of his friends ever had. "Making sure we've found all the wounded. Identifying the bodies. Setting defenses. Digging graves. We've got to bury our fallen, and then deal with the bodies of the orcs and wargs . But there aren't that many uninjured, so everyone with both legs and at least one good arm is out there right now."

"Should I be helping too?" Bilbo's stomach lurched at the prospect of pawing through piles of orc corpses looking for the bodies of his allies.

"Nah. Better stay here. One of the Company should, at least."

Bilbo sighed. "I don't think I'm exactly part of the Company after that business with the Arkenstone."

Bofur nodded towards the cot that held Thorin's still form. "It's not the time to worry about that. I heard it's pretty bad." With a wince, he heaved himself to his feet and adjusted the hat. "I'd better get back to it. It's almost dawn. You seem to be holding up all right, considering. I'm glad. " He turned to go.

Bilbo wanted to shout at him not to leave him here alone. Instead, he asked: "Have you seen Kíli?"

Bofur shook his head wearily. "They took him to Dale. With…with the body." He patted Bilbo's arm. "It's good you're here. You'll come fetch us, if..." he swallowed. "If something happens." He gave Thorin another pained look. He didn't expect their king to make it through the night, Bilbo realized. None of them did.

"Don't worry," Bilbo said. "Everything will be all right. And I'll come get you right away if anything changes."

"Everyone will be here when they can be," Bofur promised.

And then, Bilbo was alone again. Sometimes Thorin stirred and muttered a few words before slipping back into unconsciousness. Bilbo grew frightened when his breathing started to seem too quiet, although he thought that if he was in much pain, maybe it was better for him not to be awake.

The night seemed to stretch on endlessly. It could be dawn already, for all he knew. He was not sure if Bofur had come minutes or hours before. He was growing so tired, and could not remember the last time he had slept. Several times his head started to droop before he caught himself and snapped back to alertness. But he could not seem to stay awake.

A flutter of motion and a faint touch on his wrist brought him back to full awareness once more. Thorin was reaching towards him, but did not have the strength to close his fingers around Bilbo's arm.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, taking his hand and placing it back carefully by his side. Thorin's eyes were open wide, staring. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. A spasm of pain flashed across his face.

"Promise," he rasped, almost inaudibly. "Promise…"

"Promise what?" Bilbo asked, leaning closer.

But speaking appeared to be too much effort. Thorin sagged back into the cot. "I do hope this isn't supposed to be some sort of dying wish," Bilbo told him, tucking some of the now thankfully plentiful blankets back around him where they were coming loose. "I warn you, whatever it is, I shall do precisely the opposite to spite you."

"I don't…doubt it," Thorin said, seeming a little more alert now. "Stay. If you want me to stay…you have to stay. Only fair."

Bilbo's hand flew reflexively to his pocket, and then retreated. Thorin was right. He had an obligation now. He did not yet understand its extent, but that was no excuse.

"Did I earn one fourteenth share of the mess, your majesty? Very well then. I won't leave this filthy, gloomy fortress until you have no more need of me here."

Gradually, as night melted into morning, the members of the Company trickled into the room in little groups. Bifur and Gloin came first, carrying armfuls of fuel and kindling, and Gloin managed to get a fire going in a grate that had clearly not been used for centuries. Ori staggered in with a bandage wrapped around his forehead, but was clearly more exhausted than hurt. He told them that Oin was down the hall with some other wounded that had just been brought in, but would join them soon. Then came Bombur, supporting a limping Nori on one arm and carrying a pot of some sort of lumpy stew with the other. Bofur and Dori showed up a few minutes later with a stack of bowls and spoons, and began to share out the meager meal. They all spread out blankets on the floor and ate in silence. Then, they settled down on the floor and closed their eyes.

Finally, after most of the others were asleep, Balin and Dwalin arrived. Their faces were grim and troubled.

"What a mess we're in," Balin murmured, passing his brother a bowl of cold stew. Dwalin prodded at it dubiously with a spoon, and then began to eat. They slumped down by the fire, and Balin buried his face in his hands.

"Have you been in Dale?" Bilbo asked quietly. "Did you see Kíli?"

"Aye," Balin said, grimly forcing down his own meal. "But I'd rather not think about that at the moment."

Dwalin started to get to his feet. "I'm going back. The lad shouldn't be alone."

Balin held up a hand to stop him. "Not now. He was asleep when I left. Finally wore himself out. Go back in a few hours. The first waking after a loss is the worst."

"Is he badly hurt?" Bilbo asked.

"There's no risk to his life, although the healers don't know about that eye of his. It took six of us to hold him down long enough to tend to it." Balin's obvious desire to speak no more on the subject filled Bilbo with dread. When he had seen Kíli after the battle, he had been hysterical to the point of insensibility. From what Balin said, it sounded like he had not calmed down in the hours that followed.

"Thorin woke up a few times during the night," Bilbo said. "I don't think the healers really know much. They kept saying to wait and see. They wouldn't tell me anything else."

Balin groaned. "They weren't so considerate of our tender sensibilities. Or Dain's. We got a wonderfully detailed description of his condition. Which I will spare you for the time being."

Dwalin, who had been stalking back and forth in front of the fire, directed his wrath towards Thorin's motionless body. "You never thought about this, did you? You were so sure the dragon would turn us all to ash and cinders that you didn't bother thinking what would happen if we actually succeeded! Please, tell us exactly how we are supposed to deal with this situation. Do you want us to put Dain on the throne? Steal away his people with the treasure that Bard and the elves are so eager to haul off under our very noses? Or would you like us to hold Erebor for an entire winter with ten dwarves and hope that we haven't starved or frozen or been driven out by the time our kin can get here from the Blue Mountains next spring? Because I'm sure that the Lake-men are going to be extremely tolerant and generous in helping us with supplies. Here's an idea—why don't we just eat the treasure? At least then we'll be rid of it before our enemies realize that Dain might not stop them from taking it away from us! So if you're going to die, could you just hurry up and do it? Everything would be a lot simpler that way. Empty throne, empty city, Dain's army, lots of gold."

Balin slapped him hard across the face.

Dwalin did not flinch at the blow, but stared at his brother in astonishment. All the anger seemed to drain out of him, and he slumped back against the wall. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Balin said. "I know." Gently, he brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across Thorin's face. "But we will find our way out of this mess, as we have before. That's what Durin's folk do. With or without our king, we'll endure."

"Thorin's going to live," Bilbo insisted. "He promised. Twice." They looked at him in confusion, as if they had forgotten who he was for a moment.

Balin patted his arm. "If anyone could make it through this, it would be Thorin," he agreed. "Let's just hope he recovers in time to aid us with his unique style of negotiations."

Dwalin managed an amused snort. "Dain will be overjoyed."

Thorin stirred and growled something rude in Khuzdul. Dwalin shot him a glare. "You were awake for all of that, weren't you?"

"You were…being loud." Thorin broke into a fit of coughing. Balin hurried to raise his head and held a cup of water to his lips.

"Rest now," he said. "Don't worry about anything else. Everything will be fine." He passed Bilbo a blanket from the pile. "You get some sleep, Master Baggins. I'll sit with him a while."

Bilbo dragged the blanket across the floor to settle in a space between Bofur and Ori. The stone floor and scratchy blanket felt as wonderful to him as the best bed in Rivendell. An image of the Shire, lush and green, flitted before his eyes and vanished into Erebor's gloom. It was like waking from a dream. A moment later, he was fast asleep.

"Is everything all right?" Thorin's sleepy voice rumbled, jolting Bilbo out of his dream.

"Sorry," Bilbo said. "I couldn't sleep so I came in for a minute. Your insomnia must be spreading."

"Clearly not. You were snoring." Thorin rolled over and lit a candle on the bedside table. The sudden light made Bilbo's eyes water.

"I was having an awful nightmare," he said. "I was baking a pie, and all of a sudden it jumped out of the oven, grabbed a rolling pin, and started chasing me down the road. I looked back, and realized that it was actually Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and she had just succeeded in getting me out of Bag End."

Thorin shot him a deeply skeptical look, which was punctuated by a yawn. He reached underneath the bedside table to pull out a lap-sized harp.

"To cure you of such terrible visions," he said.

"I didn't know you still played."

Thorin settled the harp in his lap, testing the strings and tuning a few of them. "My fingers don't have their old cleverness, but I can manage a bit."

Bilbo smiled. "I remember they said you'd never hold a sword again, or even walk. I supposed at this point, I shouldn't be surprised by the harp."

Thorin struck a chord. "If I gave any consideration to the expectations of others, I'd still be grubbing about for work in the Ered Luin in my dotage. Or, more likely, back in the Iron Hills watching the last days of my line."

Bilbo considered telling him that the parents of Erebor probably lived in constant terror that their children would settle upon him as a role-model for achieving greatness through sheer obstinacy. Instead, he shut his mouth and listened to Thorin play.

Frodo woke in the middle of the night, and tossed and turned for some time without being able to fall back asleep. Finally, he decided to visit the kitchen for a drink of water or a midnight snack, if one was handy. Bilbo might have left out a few currant scones from the most recent batch.

As he crept down the hall, he heard strains of a melody drifting out of Thorin's room. It was hard to make out, but as he got closer, he thought it might be the sound of a harp. He put his ear to the door, and listened. It was unlike any music he had heard before. He had heard plenty of dance music and fiddle tunes in his life, along with children's songs and a few mildly inappropriate drinking songs, but this was none of those things. It sounded sad to him. Not mournful, but filled with a desire for something that would never return. It reminded him of how he felt sometimes when he thought about his parents, who he could hardly remember.

More than all the books he had read and stories he had been told, the existence of such music made him understand that there was a world outside the Shire. It woke a restlessness in him that made him feel a sudden and sharp longing for places that he could not imagine, and he knew that he would never be whole again until he had seen them with his own eyes.

Chapter Text

Sam's Gaffer had been keeping him clear of Bag End for weeks. He always had a good excuse, but Sam was pretty sure that it was all part of a plan. Back in early September, he'd been around to see to Mr. Bilbo's garden nearly every day, and to see Mr. Bilbo as well. But the last few weeks, since just after Mr. Bilbo's birthday, the Gaffer had been doing the whole garden himself, and sending Sam out to work elsewhere.

That morning, however, the Gaffer had absolutely been needed to plant the rest of the bulbs the Underhills had ordered, and Sam had seized his chance. Quick as anything, he'd volunteered to go over to Bag End and deal with tidying the remains of the garden.

"Winter's not nearly here yet," the Gaffer grumbled. "You're just looking for a chance to loiter about and pester Mr. Baggins, and I told you I'd have no more of that."

Sam did his best to look innocent. He was the youngest of the family besides little Marigold, and not above some wheedling to get his way. Sure enough, the Gaffer had relented.

"But only to do the garden, mind you," he cautioned. "I don't want you to come back with your head full of elves or notions of book-learning. It's not for you, Samwise Gamgee."

Sam was too pleased with the way the situation had worked out to argue. He knew that learning to read had been a foolish scheme. He was the gardener's boy, after all. But Mr. Bilbo was always full of such schemes, and that was why Sam loved talking to him. Mr. Bilbo didn't seem to much care who Sam's father was, only that he was curious and interested in the things that Mr. Bilbo could tell him.

The truth was, Sam loved gardening. He loved the feel of the earth between his fingers, the smell of it, the sight of the tiniest flower poking up towards the sun. He'd never resented his lot in life, and he knew that reading was of no use to him.

But he still didn't see why it was so terrible to hope to see an elf or two in his time. He could easily go back to his gardens afterwards.

That was part of why he had been so keen to get to Bag End as soon as possible. It was widely known that Mr. Bilbo had a visitor who had been in residence for some days already—a dwarf! Such types had been seen coming and going from Bag End in the past, and had been equally talked of at the time, but nobody in Hobbiton could remember Bilbo's guests staying for anywhere near this long. Nobody had any idea who this dwarf was, but rumors were flying about like leaves in the October wind, and Sam wanted to get a look for himself if he could. He'd have to be careful though—he wasn't about to go hiding under the window and spying like a fool.

As he came around the side of the hill, he saw a hobbit boy of about his own age in front of Bag End brandishing a long stick and making some sort of stabbing motion over and over again. Sam bent over to pull out his hedge clippers from his bag of tools, and studied him. He was fairly slight for a hobbit, with enormous blue eyes and lots of curly dark hair. This must be Frodo Baggins, Sam realized. He had seen him before, running around Hobbiton with gangs of his Brandybuck cousins on trips from across the Water. They were well known to be terrible rascals, badly disciplined, and frequent garden-thieves. Their leader, of course, was Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was the wildest of the lot of them, but so charming that no one ever minded him for long. Frodo, on the other had, was widely believed to be a bit strange. Sam's Gaffer had strongly disputed this in recent weeks, arguing with all who would listen that Frodo Baggins was a perfectly normal lad who had just been unlucky enough to lose his parents at a young age.

Just from looking at him, Sam couldn't tell if he was strange or normal. He seemed completely absorbed in whatever it was he was doing with that stick, and didn't even notice that Sam was there until Sam started trimming the hedge. He jumped about a foot in the air at the first snick of Sam's clippers, and wheeled around to stare at him. He didn't look annoyed though, or even alarmed. He just looked at Sam for a long time, with his wide, curious eyes.

"Hello," Sam said at last, when the silence was starting to hurt.

"Hello," said Frodo, offering him a hand. Sam glanced down at his own hands, which were covered in dirt, and then back at Frodo. Frodo grabbed his hand anyway and gave him a firm handshake. "I'm Frodo Baggins," he said.

"I know," was all Sam could think to say. And then, a bit embarrassed: "Samwise Gamgee, at your service. Though folks mostly call me Sam."

"Oh!" Frodo said. "You must be one of Gaffer Gamgee's boys then, am I right?"

"That's right, sir," Sam said. "Maybe Mr. Bilbo mentioned me?"

Frodo gave him a baffled look. "Not particularly." Sam felt a twinge of disappointment, which he tried to keep from showing on his face. There was no reason for Mr. Bilbo talk about him, really, although he'd been stopping by Bag End rather often in the past. He had almost dared to hope that Mr. Bilbo would notice his absence, and might say something to his Gaffer about it. Because if Mr. Bilbo really wanted to teach him, the Gaffer couldn't really object—he had too much respect for him. But clearly Mr. Bilbo had been far too busy to thing about such things, what with him adopting Frodo, and having dwarf visitors, and so on.

Suddenly, he felt a bit of a fool, and turned aside to busy himself with the hedge. After all, he had work to do.

"What wrong?" asked Frodo. Sam supposed he hadn't done a very good job wiping the glum expression of his face. He shrugged.

"It's nothing, only I'd better be after getting to work."

Frodo went quiet and just stared at him again. Sam was starting to see why Hobbiton folk thought that he was odd.

"Do you want help?" he said at last.

Sam couldn't have been more astonished if Frodo had sprouted wings and soared off into the blue. For a moment, he floundered, his mouth flapping wordlessly. Then, he blurted out the first objection he could think of.

"But…your clothes!"

Indeed, Frodo's clothing was rather fine—deep green breeches, a snowy white shirt, and a chocolate-brown waistcoat. Frodo glanced down at them, and shrugged.

"I'll go change, then!" And he raced off into Bag End, letting the door bang shut behind him.

Sam shook his head, and started on the weeds—there were far too many of it for this time of year. The Gaffer must be more overwhelmed with work than he was letting on. He was looking forward to the winter, when their gardens wouldn't need nearly so much keeping up with.

Frodo returned a few minutes later wearing an old shirt.

"Bilbo says you're to come in for elevenses when we've finished."

"Oh!" said Sam. "I really couldn't. I mean—he doesn't mind you being out in the garden?" It still didn't seem right to him, but he couldn't exactly object to the help if both Frodo and Bilbo were insistent. Bagginses could really be so strange.

Frodo grinned. "I think he's just glad to get me out of the kitchen. Says it's too crowded with both me and Thorin hovering in there."

Sam assumed that Thorin was the dwarf. It looked like he might get a glimpse of him after all. Wouldn't that be something! But first, these weeds had to be dealt with.

Frodo proved to be an enthusiastic (if unskilled) weeding assistant. Sam managed to stop him from pulling up too many plants that were not actually weeds. He had to admit that he liked Frodo's company. If things were different, they probably could have been friends.

When they were done, they trooped inside to find Bilbo, with Frodo leading and Sam following behind a bit hesitantly. It had been one thing to visit when it was just Bilbo alone in Bag End. Now that there were other people living there, he felt more like an intruder.

Mr. Bilbo heard them come inside and met them in the front parlor with a tray laden with tea and cakes. Sam hurried to take it out of his hands.

"Why, hello there young Samwise!" Bilbo said. "I haven't seen you in my garden for quite some time. I was starting to think you'd abandoned it."

Sam ducked his head in greeting, suddenly embarrassed. Bilbo could look quite severe at times, although he probably didn't mean it.

"Sorry sir, only we've been so busy. My Mum's been ill again, and it's just me and Marigold at home now, so…" he trailed off, his excuses sounding weak to his own ears. Not that he was lying, but his Mum had mostly been sick since Marigold was born, and that was sixteen years ago.

Bilbo laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, lad. I wasn't trying to scold you. But if you intend to learn your letters properly, you must come more often. These things take time and discipline."

Sam felt a flush creeping over his face.

"I know Mr. Bilbo, I really do. And I do want to learn to read, more than anything. But my Gaffer says that there's no use in folks like us getting that kind of learning. He says all I need to know is how to write my name, and an X will do for that in a pinch."

Bilbo pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I understand, Sam, I really do. Of course I'm happy to teach you any time, but your father is a practical hobbit, and I'm sure he knows best."

Sam's stomach lurched with disappointment. He had hoped that Mr. Bilbo would intervene for him. The Gaffer would never deny Mr. Bilbo anything, he thought too highly of him. But Sam should have known that Mr. Bilbo wasn't the sort to throw his weight around in other people's families.

"I really do want to read and write," Sam repeated. "It's just, I suppose he thinks I shouldn't be spending so much time on things a gardener doesn't need to know."

"He's wrong," rumbled a deep voice from the corner. Sam and Frodo spun around in surprise, while Bilbo merely lifted an eyebrow.

In a large armchair by the fire sat the dwarf—Thorin. He sat leaning back in the chair with his feet (covered in soft leather indoor boots, how strange) up on a footstool, but even in that reclining position there was a sense of power about him. He was like some large animal crouched down in hiding, but ready to pounce on his prey as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Sam could see why he had spawned so many rumors. He was completely unlike any of the itinerant tinkers and other dwarves that Sam had seen pass through the Shire. He looked dangerous. His eyes were half –closed at the moment, but Sam had no doubt that they possessed a fearsome glare. His heart gave a little flutter. This had been excitement worth coming over for.

Frodo let out a little laugh. "I didn't see you over there."

"Your father's wrong," Thorin repeated softly, almost as if he was talking to himself. His voice still carried throughout the room. "It is important for you to know how to read."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Sam said, glancing at Thorin's fine blue tunic and the gold chain around his neck. "Not to disagree, but you look like more the educated sort myself, if you take my meaning."

Thorin's eyes snapped open, and he half turned in the chair to look at Sam more intently.

"I do, but I have some experience with the matter. I did not learn my letters, as you would say, until I was over a hundred years old."

Sam gaped at this, before remembering that dwarves had much longer lifespans than Shire-folk.

"Now that I didn't know," remarked Bilbo. "Fascinating. But you did read and write runes, I take it?" And then, turning to Sam and Frodo, he explained "Thorin's people use a different writing system than our alphabet, an older one."

Sam hadn't known there was more than one way to write. He had figured that letters were letters, and that was that. But he supposed it made sense that people who spoke other languages wrote other letters.

"True," said Thorin. "I was not of a scholarly bent as a lad, but I could read three different rune systems and spoke several languages. We were a trading people, after all. But we never wrote in the Tengwar, even if we were transcribing the common tongue. We preferred to use our own writing for all that. You see, if you are rich, you can write how you please. But when you are poor, you become subject to the whims of others."

"You see," Thorin continued, his eyes darkening with anger at some old memory, "When I was younger, and first came to this part of the world, I went out to work as a traveling blacksmith."

Sam nodded. He had seen plenty of those types before. He was a bit disappointed, though. He had thought that Thorin was something grander than a blacksmith.

"There was no trust between me and the Men I worked for. They thought that I would try to cheat them if I could, and I assumed the same of them. I, at least, was correct. They had no honor, placed no value on their word. They thought nothing of sending me away with a pittance after a week of labor, claiming that they had promised me no fee. I soon learned that the only way to collect my pay at the end of a job was if I had a written contract in hand, signed by me and by my employer. Contracts were almost always enforceable by the local law. If one of them signed his name to a piece of paper, he would abide by what was written on it."

"But soon they found another way to cheat me. I could not read their letters. I had to ask to have the contracts read out to me before I signed. And after I had done business in town this way once—"

"They started lying about what the contracts said," Frodo finished.

Thorin nodded at him. "Exactly. At first it would be small difference in pay, small enough that I might question my own memory. But then, one wretch actually read out a completely different agreement to me than the one I put my name on. The one I signed said that I would receive no money at all if the work was not completed 'to his satisfaction', whatever that meant. I tried to argue, but of course I had signed my name, and so there was not much I could do about it."

"I needed that money. Winter was approaching, I had family to support, and I hadn't earned nearly enough that year. I worked for that man for three weeks, and he tried to send me off without a single coin. I…grew angry."

"Oh dear," Bilbo murmured. "Did you kill that Man?"

Thorin smiled. It was the most terrifying expression Sam had seen in his life.

"No. But he certainly wished that I had."

Sam shivered.

Bilbo sighed. "Thorin, I'm not sure that this story is serving the instructional purpose you intended."

"I'm coming to that," Thorin said. "You see, it did not change anything. In fact, I ended up giving over most of my earnings from that season as blood-money to his relatives. I had to return empty handed to the Ered Luin. It was not a good winter. But I spent it learning to read. If I had only done it sooner, a lot of trouble could have been avoided."

"Hah!" said Bilbo. "I think that's the first time I've heard a dwarf suggest that a solution other than violence might be preferable."

Thorin glowered at him. "We are a simple people. We tend to solve our problems in the most direct way possible."

"What's wrong with that?" Frodo chimed in. "Us hobbits can gossip and backstab for a quarter of a century without ever trying to do anything about our problems at all."

"The problem with that, my boy, is that if I hear about you punching anyone in the face over some dispute, I will most certainly be having words with you."

"Do you see what I mean?" said Thorin. "He would take you far more seriously if you threatened to thrash him for it."

Frodo gave Thorin a horrified look.

"Don't worry," Bilbo reassured him. "He's joking. Probably."

Sam stared at them all like they had gone crazy. Thorin didn't look like he was joking to him.

"Anyway," Bilbo said, turning back to Sam. "I believe Thorin's point, other than that sometimes hitting things doesn't work, is that knowledge is power. If someone you are dealing with can read and you can't, that is power that they have over you."

"You're the philosopher," Thorin said. "But yes, that is what I was saying. Here in the Shire, you are mostly dealing with honest people, and people you have known all your life. But you never know where life will take you. You might some day be in a position where it is dangerous for you to be illiterate."

"Oh," Sam demurred. "I don't imagine I ever will leave the Shire, Mr. Thorin, but I do see what you mean. I'll be sure to talk to my Gaffer about it."

Upon returning home that evening, Sam was able to confidently inform his neighbors and family that Mr. Bilbo Baggins's guest was a retired blacksmith, who had come from money in his youth but had fallen upon hard times later, although he was now clearly not suffering from financial hardship. No doubt Mr. Bilbo had encountered him on one of his trips to Bree-land.

This story made so much sense that it quickly spread throughout Hobbiton and the rest of the Shire, although more creative minds were loath to give up on the idea that Bilbo's guest was a smuggler, fortune hunter, or fugitive. But at last even they were forced to concede that it was much more likely for a visiting dwarf to be some sort of blacksmith or tinker than any of those things.

When the rumor reached Buckland, Merry Brandybuck so much forgot himself as to exclaim: "He is certainly not a blacksmith!" before remembering that Bilbo had told him not go spreading around Thorin's true identity. And so all that he could say was that he was sure Thorin was something much grander, to which all his older relatives replied that he had an overactive imagination and should probably spend less time visiting his Cousin Bilbo.

The other thing that happened that evening was that Bilbo spoke to Gaffer Gamgee and arranged for Sam to come to Bag End twice a week to be tutored along with Frodo.

"It will encourage Frodo to pay more attention to his studies," was how Bilbo phrased it. The Gaffer was so flattered that he couldn't possibly argue.

Bilbo did not tell either of the younger hobbits that it had been Thorin's idea.

Chapter Text

Frodo prodded the porridge with his spoon. It squished, but failed to look any more appetizing. No one had ever given him porridge for breakfast in Buckland, which he thought showed admirable good sense on the part of his Brandybuck relations. He was hungry enough, but staring into his bowl was starting to make him lose his appetite.

"Add some honey," Bilbo said unsympathetically. He tucked into his own bowl with gusto. "I don't know what you have against it, it tastes perfectly fine."

It was just Frodo's luck that Bilbo, who was normally as lax a guardian as anyone could wish for, was absolutely stubborn about food. The kitchen was his domain, and all meals were planned, prepared, and distributed by him. Under his watchful eye, Frodo was allowed to assist with certain food-related tasks that did not involve use of fire or anything very sharp. Most of the time, Frodo got asked to do the washing up. But like all hobbits, he was glad for any excuse to be in the kitchen, and Bilbo was a talented cook. Frodo rarely had any reason to do other than eat what he was given. But Bilbo had no patience for finicky eaters. If Frodo didn't like his porridge, he had better eat it just the same.

He poured a generous dollop of honey into his bowl and spent more time than was necessary mixing it into the porridge. He was just about to lift a tentative spoonful to his lips when Thorin took a seat beside him at the table. The wooden chair he had chosen emitted a soft creak. Thorin's long-term residence in Bag End was making it quite clear that hobbit furniture was not built with a dwarf's height or bulk in mind. Thankfully, the late Bungo Baggins had believed that sturdy furniture was a worthwhile investment, and so long as Thorin didn't go about in full battle armor nothing seemed in danger of imminent collapse.

As usual, Thorin started the day by gulping down several cups of black tea, which Bilbo brewed for him to be so strong that one sip of it had made Frodo think his eyes were about to fly right out of their sockets. This tea, he had observed, appeared to be vital to Thorin's ability to speak in complete sentences. Before the third cup, he rarely did more than grunt irritably.

Today, he was giving the pot of porridge a baleful stare that very closely mirrored Frodo's own feelings. Frodo felt suddenly grateful to have an unexpected ally.

Bilbo looked from the porridge to Thorin and back again. Then, some strange emotion flickered behind his eyes. He stood up from the table.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I wasn't thinking. I'll go make something else. Do you want bacon?" He bustled off into the kitchen.

Frodo gave Thorin a long, considering look.

"Why don't you have to eat it?" he asked. True, Thorin was a lot larger and more frightening than he was, but Bilbo wasn't the type to be intimidated. After all, he had faced down a dragon before. There must be some other reason why Thorin was not subject to the tyranny of the kitchen.

Thorin took another long swallow of tea.

"Did you ever eat something while you were sick, or feel sick after eating something, and then find that later on you could not abide the sight of it?"

"Sure," Frodo said. "Once Merry and I stole a whole bunch of Aunt Esmeralda's pecan pies —well, it was Merry's idea really—and we ate so many of them that I spent the whole night throwing up. And ever since then I haven't been able to eat pecan pie. Merry still can, though. It's really not fair."

Thorin nodded gravely.

"It's something like that, I imagine."

"So you ate porridge while you were sick, and now you can't eat it at all?" Frodo asked.

"Not just porridge," Bilbo said, coming back into the room with a plate of bacon and eggs for Thorin and a single piece of bacon as a pity offering for Frodo. "That winter I stayed in Erebor, we didn't have enough food. It seemed like all we had to eat for months was gruel and terrible stew."

"You don't seem to mind," Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo shrugged. "I wasn't sick at the time. Besides, it takes a lot more than that to put hobbit off his food."

Frodo picked up his spoon and started to eat the porridge. At least he had never had to worry about a food shortage, although he knew that there had been at least one terrible winter in the past hundred years when even the Shire had suffered from a famine. He could manage to eat porridge for one morning, as long as he didn't have to have it every day for months.

Bilbo chuckled inwardly as he watched Thorin sneak Frodo a couple more pieces of bacon. Like most dwarves, he was not particularly gifted at subtlety. Nevertheless, Bilbo pretended not to notice. He didn't care that much what Frodo ate. It seemed that whatever he tried to be strict about with the boy failed miserably, probably because he had no idea when to be strict and when to be lenient. He had realized quickly that Frodo was probably too old to have his cousin telling him to clear his plate, although he could certainly remember his own mother crossing her arms over her chest and telling him that until he was the master of the house he should shut up and eat what he was given. He had been thirty-five at the time.

He hoped he would get the knack of being a guardian eventually.

He was also glad that the bacon seemed to be distracting Frodo from asking too many questions about Thorin's "illness". Frodo knew that Thorin had sustained serious injuries in the past—the dwarf king still had enough of a limp to make that much obvious. But he showed astonishingly little evidence now of how bad it had been. And if Bilbo had any choice in the matter, Frodo would go on forever looking at Thorin as an invincible warrior who had appeared out of the blue to make his life more exciting. He didn't want Frodo to be exposed to the truth of Thorin's world—how much he had lost, and how much he had suffered, to become the king that he was now. Thankfully, Thorin seemed to agree with him about that, and had not chosen to burden Frodo's ears with any of the details. Not that he had ever been given to speaking openly about what he had lost, at least not in a personal sense.

There was a sharp, impatient rap at the door. Buried deep in his own thoughts, it took Bilbo a moment too long to notice it. But he knew that sound.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Don't open it!"

Frodo had already headed off to answer it, abandoning his unwanted porridge with alacrity. At Bilbo's yell, Thorin jumped to his feet, and a small, wicked looking knife appeared in his hand. Now where had he been keeping that?

He shook his head wildly at Thorin, trying to indicate that they were not in actual, physical peril. Then the sound of the door swinging open sent him into a further panic and he did the only thing he could think to do.

He stuck a hand into his waistcoat pocket and slipped on his magic ring.

Thorin stared at the place where Bilbo had been a moment before, shrugged, and followed Frodo to the door. Bilbo trailed after him wringing his hands and having a care to walk silently.

"I'm here to speak with Bilbo!" said a shrill, carrying voice. "Where is he?"

As he had suspected, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was standing by the front door, loudly making demands. Bilbo felt a twinge of shame at deserting his family in a time of crisis. But it was not a very substantial twinge of shame. Sometimes, his sense of self-preservation was just too strong.

"I'll…just go get him," stammered Frodo, sounding as if Lobelia had clobbered him over the head with her purse.

Thorin stepped up behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

Lobelia somehow managed to peer down her nose at him, an impressive feat considering that she was a full foot and a half shorter than he.

"Bilbo is not at home," Thorin rumbled. Frodo looked confused.

"Pish-tosh!" exclaimed Lobelia. "I heard his voice just now, I know I did!" She fixed Thorin with her fiercest glare, and reached up to fiddle with her dangerous-looking hairpins, unsure of how to deal with someone who did not immediately get out of the way for her.

"I believe," said Thorin, "That any business you have with Mr. Baggins can be addressed to young Frodo here."

"Oh, what a state this family has descended to!" cried Lobelia, sounding slightly more daunted but no quieter. Bilbo winced, and covered his ears. This could go on for a while. "And all because of him. Running off on adventures! Favoring stray relatives over his lawful heirs! Do you know what they call him behind his back? Mad Baggins, that's what. The head of the family! And we were one of the most respectable families in the Shire, in his father's day."

Thorin took a menacing step closer to her, and she drew back in alarm, stumbling against the door.

"Any business you have with Mr. Baggins," he repeated, "May also be addressed to ME. I will see he receives any message you would care to leave for him. But I will hear no words spoken against him in my presence, and if you have come only to shout abuse in someone else's hallway you had better be on your way."

Lobelia was actually silent for a full fifteen seconds. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. Thorin opened the door behind her and she stepped back out onto the front step.

"Er." she said, in a normal speaking voice this time. "Um. Well. You see, I really came to…to invite him to a tea I am hosting this Thursday. Yes, that is precisely why I am here."

"Is that so?" Thorin said coolly, ignoring Frodo's desperate tug on his sleeve. "Then we will be delighted to attend. Good day." And he shut the door so quickly that the tip of Lobelia's pointy nose was nearly caught in its trajectory. Bilbo watched as she marched off down the road, with her fists clenched, but staggering slightly.

He was impressed in spite of himself. He had certainly never managed to get rid of her so quickly. He tiptoed into the kitchen, removed his ring, and walked back out to rejoin Thorin and Frodo.

"Did I miss anything?" he said. Thorin gave him a look of disgust.

"Bilbo!" Frodo wailed. "Thorin accepted an invitation to tea from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!"

"Oh dear," said Bilbo, shaking his head in mock alarm. "I suppose I'll have to write and tell her we can't make it."

"You'll do no such thing," said Thorin. "Hospitality is hospitality. It would be dishonorable to decline it. I do hope that no Baggins would be so cowardly as to run from such an invitation."

"No, of course not, " Bilbo said weakly. He had survived much worse things, after all. Trolls. Wargs. Dragons.

Confound the Sackville-Bagginses, though.

On rainy afternoons, Thorin would sometimes bring out his harp and play for them. That day, he did so, at Frodo's request. Frodo listened with shining eyes, and Bilbo allowed his mind to drift off to earlier days, when he had sat around a campfire with thirteen dwarves and a wizard and listened to them make a different kind of music. Thorin had rarely played back then. For him, music had been something solemn and nostalgic. But Fíli and his fiddle had entertained them many an evening. The young dwarf knew a good many tavern songs, some from the Ered Luin where he had been raised, some from the Men he had traveled among, and even a few that reminded Bilbo of tunes from the Shire.

One night, early on their journey, Kíli had tried to sing a bit of something in Khuzdul, and Thorin had cut him off with a fierce look and a glance at Bilbo and Gandalf.

"Not among outsiders. Haven't your mother and I taught you better than that?"

"But Thorin," Fíli said, interceding for his brother as always. "It's not forbidden to speak it around them, just to teach it to them."

"Leave it to me to decide what's forbidden," Thorin snapped. "Our tongue is the only treasure we have left. We should guard it carefully."

"But–"

"Behave yourselves! Do you want me to regret bringing you?"

There had been no more music for several days.

Of course, Thorin had relaxed his attitudes about language as time went on. Bilbo had heard plenty of Khuzdul in Erebor, and even a few songs.

Thorin sang one for them that night. Bilbo had not heard him sing in a long time.

"I was put in mind of this song recently, when I saw Kíli's gift to you" Thorin said. "I believe I heard it in my youth. It's an old song of Erebor, and quite mysterious in its way." As he began to sing, Bilbo felt a chill run down his spine, and he trembled. Thorin's voice was low and quiet, and yet seemed to fill every nook and corner of Bag End. He could not escape it.

Sof lilan na dhazad rûk

Mahal olak sezt chanlukh?

Vezedrûn o vezedrûn,

Na dern lilan hanfun?

Bachar duzgul mendanun,

Tanden zos asof nantukh.

"What does it mean?" Frodo wanted to know, still rapt.

Bilbo shushed him. "It's not polite to ask, my boy."

Thorin shrugged. "I can tell you, although I won't do the poetry much justice, nor can I tell you what it means. Quite literally, it says something like 'The flower that blooms at night beneath the earth, did Mahal put it there? Vezedrun, do you only bloom when he is watching you? You are pale next to the riches of our mines, but point out greater mysteries.'"

Frodo shook his head. "I don't understand it at all. It doesn't sound like proper poetry to me."

"Well, it's poetic enough in Khuzdul, I think. Perhaps your cousin could do it more justice in the common tongue." They turned expectant eyes on Bilbo, who flushed. He seriously doubted his own merits as a poet. But he did love to try.

"If you insist, I'll make a stab at it" he said, and cleared his throat.

A tiny greyling blossom there,

born far away from sky and air,

not so proud and not so fair

as other treasures of our mine,

and lacking gold and mithril's shine,

were you yet a gift divine?

Little stranger, born from stone

and scorning light 'mid earth and bone,

you bloom for Durin's folk alone.

Frodo applauded him, and Thorin favored them with one of his rare smiles.

"I like it," he said simply. "I think it captures the spirit of the original. You certainly do know our ways by now. If I could teach you our tongue, I'm sure you'd make quite the translator."

Bilbo laughed. "Well, it's not my fault you keep your songs to yourselves." In truth, he was not half the linguist that Thorin was. The dwarf might claim that he was no scholar, but Bilbo knew him to speak five or six languages quite fluently.

A few minutes later, Sam arrived to tend to the garden, and Frodo went outside to bother him while he worked. Bilbo approved of what seemed to be a growing friendship between the two boys. Sam might not be as socially appropriate a companion for Frodo as Merry Brandybuck was, but he possessed a far more calming influence.

"I've been meaning to ask you again about going to Erebor," Thorin said suddenly. "I intended to spend the winter here, but I'm beginning to fear that I should not remain away for so long."

"Well," said Bilbo, a bit discomfited, "As long as you don't leave before the Sackville-Baggins tea. I'd never forgive you, you know."

Thorin snorted. "I'll not desert you in your hour of need."

"Are you worried about Kíli?"

"I suppose I am. I do think he is ready for the responsibility, but it sits ill with me to leave for so long."

"But he's not still…" Bilbo couldn't think of a tactful way to put it. "He was doing a lot better by the time I left Erebor, but I was still afraid he'd never be the same."

"He won't be," said Thorin flatly. "But I don't think he's unhappy. He's not in thrall to his grief. You know, sometimes looking your boy reminds me of him a bit, at that age. As he used to be."

The comparison startled Bilbo, but then, he had only known Thorin's nephew as an adult.

"Do you think you can decide in the next few weeks whether you'll make the journey?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo did not want to tell him that he was already fairly sure what the answer must be.

"I'll do my best. Gandalf always did say it was impossible to get me to make up my mind about going anywhere."

On the sixth day after the battle, Gandalf had taken Bilbo from Thorin's bedside for a while to bring him down to the ruins of Dale, where Fíli had been lying in state. Many of the dead had already been buried, but the most important among the fallen warriors were being given a formal seventh day burial. As Thorin's heir, Fíli's ceremony would be the last of the day, and the most grand.

Fíli was clothed in white, and crowned with gold from the hoard. A fine old sword of Erebor lay by his side, and diamonds glittered from his fingers. His beard and hair had been unbraided and combed out. He looked every inch the prince, and not a thing like the cheerful lad Bilbo had known. He would rather have seen Fíli buried wearing his traveling gear and holding his fiddle. But that would not have been proper, by dwarvish standards.

Until he saw the body, the death had not seemed real to Bilbo. He had been too worried about Thorin to think much upon anything else. But now, he realized that Fíli was truly gone, and he wept freely for a moment before collecting himself. He did not have time to give way to his sadness. There would be time later to grieve.

"Are you ready to leave?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes, I should be getting back to Thorin. Balin is with him at the moment, but he has so much work to do. I'm really the only one who can be spared right now…"

"That's not what I mean, Bilbo," Gandalf said gently. "Are you ready to go back to the Shire? I intend to leave tomorrow, after Fíli has been set to sleep among his ancestors."

"I don't know," Bilbo stammered. "This is so sudden."

"I should have thought you would be eager to be on your way, return to your home. I know how much you miss it."

"I do," said Bilbo. "More than anything. But I gave Thorin my word that I would stay here, and I intend to stand by that."

"Your loyalty to the king who cast you out is commendable, but I don't see what use Thorin can have for you now."

Bilbo frowned.

"Perhaps he only wants to make sure I suffer as much as everyone else."

Gandalf shook his head. "I should prefer to see you safely back to the Shire."

"I will go back, Gandalf, but I can't go back now. Do you disapprove so much that I've thrown my lot in with the dwarves? After all, I wouldn't be here without you."

Gandalf ruffled his hair, a gesture that Bilbo would have found infuriating from anyone else among the Big Folk. But Gandalf was so very old, and Bilbo did feel much like a child in his presence. A particularly stubborn child, no doubt.

But he knew he would see the Shire again eventually. And when he got back to Bag End, he would sit himself down among his books and never, ever leave again, no matter what the temptation.

"I don't disapprove, my dear boy. I would just hate to see you come to further grief. That was never my plan for you." Suddenly, the wizard looked tired. "I would stay with you, if I could, but there is other work that I must do, and it is far away from here."

Bilbo nodded. "I should get back to Thorin now."

"Promise me you will think further upon this decision before tomorrow, Bilbo. If you stay, it may be a good while before you see your home again."

"I will think about it," Bilbo promised. "But I don't expect my decision will change, whether it's a wise one or a foolish one."

"As to that," Gandalf said, with a smile, "Not even the Wise can always tell the difference in advance."

Chapter Text

Bilbo's decision to stay in Erebor had been so obvious to him that he had felt too busy and too sad to give its implications much thought until after Fíli's funeral. At that point, all of the casualties from the battle had been properly laid to rest in stone. There was still an air of sadness about the place, but some of the grim tension was beginning to be replaced by hopeful busyness.

Gandalf left soon after the ceremonies ended, and Bilbo no longer had an easy way home. He expected to see the wizard again eventually, but for the foreseeable future, he was going to be a lone hobbit among a vast number of large, violent, and thoroughly exasperating dwarves. That would have been strange enough, had he not also found himself in constant attendance upon their even more thoroughly exasperating king.

Although time and tribulations had brought him to consider himself one of Thorin's Company, Bilbo had from the beginning been Gandalf's creature. He had, after all, only joined the Company at Gandalf's instigation, and had served the wizard's purposes (whatever they were) as much as the dwarves'. Some of them mistrusted Gandalf more than others, but Thorin had certainly doubted his motives. He knew that he needed the wizard, and disliked the fact, as he disliked needing to put his trust in anything or anyone other than himself. But by staying in Erebor when Gandalf departed, Bilbo had effectively transferred his allegiance from the wizard to the King Under the Mountain. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

Bilbo had always respected Thorin, but he still wasn't sure that he liked him very much. An uneasy sort of friendship had sprung up between them during the journey. Thorin had started to show more respect for Bilbo, and even, at rare moments, genuine affection. But most of the time he remained prickly, distant, and difficult, keeping his own counsel and refusing perfectly good advice. But despite his unpleasant personality and pigheaded obstinacy, he had a natural charisma and so many excellent qualities besides that Bilbo could not help but crave his approval. He had thought that in time, he and Thorin could come to a genuine understanding of and respect for each other's natures, if the dragon didn't roast them first.

Of course, that business with the Arkenstone had put an end to such fancies. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known that nothing would induce Thorin to compromise, even had he not been in the throes of gold-madness. Thorin clung to what he regarded as his own with single-minded ferocity. Obviously the kind of leader who led a party of thirteen to reclaim a lost kingdom from a dragon was not the kind of leader who made decisions out of cold, hard logic.

But Bilbo had now thrown his lot in with Thorin, for better or for worse. Some of his decision had in fact been motivated by pity, not that Thorin would welcome that from him or anyone. He saw in Thorin a man who had been crushed by the weight of his own responsibilities, both in body and in spirit. And yet, the spark of life in him remained undimmed. How could someone who had lived for so long and suffered so much continue to fight?

He still didn't know why Thorin wanted him in Erebor, but he supposed that in the last few days he had already proven his utility. Bilbo believed that his struggles had not been destined to end before he could enjoy the home he had been dreaming of since his youth. He could still be a great king, and Bilbo intended to stay and watch it happen. The adventure had not ended with the death of the Smaug, whatever Gandalf might think.

The day they were to take tea with the Sackville-Bagginses came far more quickly than Bilbo would have liked. He steeled himself for the occasion, still annoyed that Thorin had managed to undo years of careful avoidance in a moment of dwarvish bluster. Well, he had survived many such a gathering in his youth, before his deliberately cultivated reputation for eccentricity had cut down on the number of invitations he received.

Thorin donned his best tunic and what was, for the Shire, a completely inappropriate amount of jewelry. Bilbo argued him down to a single ring (a truly ostentatious diamond), a gold chain, and some mithril hair ornaments that would have made eyes pop in Erebor but whose worth was unlikely to be recognized in Hobbiton.

Just as they were due to leave, Frodo emerged from the garden covered in mud. He had probably been helping Sam Gamgee again, although Bilbo had observed that Sam never ended up half so grubby as Frodo. His young cousin had a wonderful ability to attract dirt. Bilbo tried to send him inside to clean up.

Frodo crossed his arms over his chest in a very tween-ish way.

"I don't need to clean up. I don't care what Lobelia Sackville-Baggins thinks of me anyway."

Bilbo turned a laugh into a cough.

"Well, that makes two of us, but I'd still recommend you go and change your clothes. Lobelia with go into hysterics if you try to sit on her furniture in that state, and I'd rather spare our ears."

They were only about fifteen minutes late. Thorin looked unusually contemplative as they approached the Sackville-Bagginses' large house on the outskirts of Hobbiton. It was long and sprawling, after the fashion of most hobbit-built dwellings. But rather than being round and cheerily painted, the door was crafted out of some dark, heavy wood that seemed to discourage visitors, especially those who might be selling something.

"I thought your folk all lived in holes," Thorin commented. "Or do these Sackville-Bagginses think themselves too elevated to dwell beneath the earth?" His tone of voice indicated that he had met some who held this attitude and he found it backward beyond belief.

Bilbo snorted. "Oh, they'd live in a hole if they could. But there aren't more than five or six hills in the whole Hobbiton area suited for a smial like mine, and they aren't easy to get a hold of. My father built Bag End with my mother's money, but the land was in the family for generations."

"So that's why they're so desperate for Bag End?" Frodo asked.

"Could be," Bilbo agreed. "I imagine it has more to do with the fact that they had practically moved in already when I got back from Erebor all those years ago."

"They what?" Thorin growled. Oh dear, Bilbo had never gotten around to filling him in on that old story.

And now was not the time, for there was Lobelia opening the front door to welcome them, if that was the appropriate word. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave them an irritated look.

"Thank you for the invitation," Bilbo choked out. "As you see, here we are."

"My pleasure," replied Lobelia, struggling to hide her sour expression for politeness' sake and failing miserably. Her chin acquired a combative set as she stared at Thorin. "I don't believe we have been properly introduced."

Bilbo did the honors.

"Thorin, this is my cousin-in-law Lobelia Sackville Baggins. Lobelia, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror." She didn't need to know the rest.

Even so, he wondered if he had overdone it when Lobelia replied,

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Oakenshield."

"It's a style," Bilbo corrected quickly, before Thorin could take offense. Both parties looked confused. "Oakenshield isn't a surname. His people don't use them."

"Oh?" Lobelia's tone made quite clear her opinion of any race so uncivilized as to fail to have surnames.

"Thrainson," Thorin cut in. "Thorin Thrainson will do." Bilbo gave him a grateful look for having been spared the necessity of attempting to explain naming conventions among Durin's folk. He was still nervous about how Thorin might react to the vast number of questions that were sure to be directed his way in the course of the afternoon. Patience and understanding had never been among his virtues, and Bilbo did not imagine that half a century of kingship had changed his ability to tolerate fools.

He had been quite curious to see what relatives and acquaintances Lobelia would manage to round up for tea at such short notice, for while the invitation a few days ago had clearly been quite spontaneous, he knew she couldn't stand to be in his company for long without a few cronies to act as a buffer.

She had indeed managed to assemble several guests, mostly the sort of people he would have expected. Her husband Otho was there, of course, and their son Lotho, a tween a few years older than Frodo. The rest were all female relatives: her sister-in-law Violet Bracegirdle, her niece Hilda, and Tansy Proudfoot, the wife of old Odo. Bilbo was amused to see that Dora Baggins, who was Frodo's paternal aunt, had been prevailed upon to attend. She and Lobelia didn't see eye to eye about a good many things, but Dora was an unabashedly nosy old spinster who could never turn down an invitation to something she would be able to gossip about later.

As soon as they seated themselves in the Sackville-Bagginses' front parlor, the questioning began. Bilbo would have found the sight of Thorin being interrogated by a horde of aggressive hobbit matrons more than a little laughable, had he not been worrying about an eventual explosion of dwarven wrath and the potentially destructive forms it might take.

He and Frodo exchanged looks that were a combination of amusement and desperation as Thorin accepted a cup of tea from Lobelia. He appeared to be quite fascinated by the workmanship of the delicate china with its pattern of blue and purple flowers. In his enormous, scarred hand, it looked like something from a doll's tea set.

Hilda Bracegirdle looked Thorin up and down, her eyes resting for a long time on his neatly trimmed beard and haughty expression, and even longer on the enormous diamond ring. Bilbo could read her thoughts—definitely not the kind of dwarf they usually saw passing through the Shire.

"What do you do, Mr. Thrainson?" asked her mother, Violet.

Thorin only blinked at her, clearly not taking her meaning. Frodo leaned over to his ear, and Bilbo heard him whisper, "She means, what do you do professionally?"

Thorin opened his mouth, and Bilbo intervened before he could come out with an answer like, "Kill miscreants," or "Order my subjects about."

"He's what you might call a man of property," Bilbo said. "His family owns several mines."

Thorin acknowledged this with a nod. "I suppose you could say I'm in resource management," he added dryly.

"Oh, how interesting," said Hilda. "We had heard you were a blacksmith."

"In my youth. The family business…ran into some difficulties."

Bilbo suppressed a snort, and had to hastily set down his teacup to avoid an accident. Perhaps, he thought, they were now done with the awkward questioning portion of the afternoon, and could move on to unnecessary discussions of the weather. Alas, it was not to be.

Dora Baggins came straight to the point, posing the question that all the ladies had clearly been itching to ask.

"Are you married, Mr. Thrainson?"

Thorin choked on his tea, turned beet red, and began to splutter helplessly. Bilbo resisted the urge to pound him on the back in a very undignified fashion, and enjoyed his discomfiture for a full ten seconds before attempting a rescue.

"That's a very personal question among dwarves, Cousin Dora, and not something they like to discuss in company. At least, not with outsiders like us."

It had taken Bilbo a long time and more than a few very awkward conversations to figure this out. He had noticed that Gloin talked about his son proudly, but had never mentioned his wife. Bilbo had assumed that she was dead, until he made an unfortunate comment about it and was corrected in his error. His attempts to ask the others whether they too were married had been rather disastrous. The younger dwarves and natives of the Ered Luin had reacted as if he were only being amusingly inappropriate, but the older members of the Company had been quite offended by his audacity.

He still wasn't sure why dwarves were so hesitant to discuss their family lives. He knew that their women were few, and he got the sense that they were both very private by nature and held in extremely high esteem by their men. He was fairly sure that Gloin was in fact the only married member of the Company, or at least the only one with offspring. Fíli and Kíli had mentioned their mother on occasion, speaking of her with reverence and not with great detail. But Bilbo had learned not to ask about dwarf women, and especially not about marriage. It was the only subject he had found that could send a fearsome dwarven warrior into a shocked silence.

Bilbo's female relatives were not so easily deterred as he had been.

"How peculiar," Lobelia said. "You mean, you don't tell people if you are married or not?"

"Not outsiders," Thorin said in his iciest tones, having recovered most of his composure.

"How about children, then?" asked Hilda, fascinated and completely undeterred. "Can you talk about those?"

"Well of course not," hissed Tansy Proudfoot, giving her a scornful look. "Because that would prove whether or not he was married, wouldn't it?"

This debate continued between them for some time. Under the table, Bilbo saw Frodo aim a kick at Lotho Sackville-Baggins, who seemed to have been pinching him.

This was going well.

Around them, the ladies continued to speculate on dwarvish customs, having abandoned their attempts to interrogate the obviously uncooperative Thorin. Otho, who had mostly remained silent thus far, waded into the fray.

"What I'd really like to know about is their inheritance laws," he said around a mouthful of cake, giving Bilbo a look so pointed it could have drawn blood. "I can't imagine that they allow people to cut out their rightful heirs and name whoever they want as a replacement."

Lotho let out a combination of a wail and a howl, sounding much younger than his twenty-four years. Apparently one of Frodo's blows had finally found its mark.

"Mother! Frodo kicked me!"

Lobelia looked at Frodo as if he was an insect that had somehow crawled into her house through a crack in the wall. Bilbo knew from experience that being on the receiving end of that look was highly uncomfortable.

"Clearly he should have stayed in Buckland, where his manners would have been more appropriate," she sniffed.

"Bilbo, you really should teach him how to behave before letting him out in company," agreed Tansy, ignoring the fact that her grandson Sancho, several years younger than Frodo, had just that week caused a ruckus at birthday party by switching around the labels on all the presents.

"There's really no excuse for marrying a Brandybuck, when there are so many good families right here in the Westfarthing," said Violet, who had at one point rather had her eye on Drogo Baggins. "They're all, well, a bit wild."

"Drogo never was the same after marrying that Primula," Dora agreed. She had always been annoyed at the amount of time her brother spent in Buckland, especially since he never answered her letters. And then he had dared to disgrace the family by doing something as unrespectable as drowning!

"Really, Bilbo," said Otho, "I know you've always indulged your whims, but I hope you'll reconsider the matter. There's more at stake than your private affairs. Do you really believe that an adoption can make this right? Blood is blood, after all."

Thorin rose in one swift motion, knocking the table askew. One of Lobelia's teacups, which had been perched perilously close to the edge, slipped off and hit the floor with a sad little crunch.

Bilbo grabbed his arm, knowing there was little he could do to restrain him if he got angrier.

"I'll ask that you keep to your own affairs, Otho, and let me keep to mine. Who I choose to name as my heir is my business."

"Do you really intend for a Brandybuck to become the head of the family?" Otho shot a nervous glance at Thorin, who was still looming over the table.

"Obviously," Bilbo snapped. "And now, I think we'll take our leave." He stood up, put a hand on a dazed-looking Frodo's shoulder, and steered him out of the house. Thorin trailed behind, looking menacing enough to ward off any objections to their departure. None were forthcoming.

Once they were safely out the door and down the road, Frodo actually started to giggle.

"Are you quite all right?" Bilbo asked anxiously. He hadn't thought it was very funny.

Frodo wiped his eyes.

"It's only, you know how sometimes you go into situations thinking it can't possibly turn out as badly as you imagine? And then somehow it turns out even worse?"

"Frodo, my boy, when you're as old as me, I think you'll find your imagination quite up to the task of picturing how bad tea with the Sackville-Bagginses can be. Although by the time you're my age, I do hope they'll be long gone, even that wretched child of theirs." He turned to Thorin. "And please, don't go accepting any more invitations from my relatives without my express permission. You see how it turns out."

"I won't," Thorin said darkly. "In fact, I would much prefer that you not accept any further invitations while I'm here. I'd rather not have innocent blood on my hands."

"Oh, I don't think Lobelia is terribly innocent. But I appreciate the sentiment. I promise not to accept a single invitation. Right now, I feel about ready to barricade myself in Bag End for the rest of the week."

Thorin nodded his agreement. Frodo tugged at his sleeve.

"Thorin? If you don't mind me asking, did you ever want to get married and have children?"

Bilbo stiffened. "Frodo, I told you that's not polite."

Thorin looked down at the boy curiously, but did not seem to be angry.

"No, I didn't. And then my nephews were born, and so I didn't have to."

Frodo nodded, seeming satisfied by this answer.

After the trials and tribulations of the afternoon, Bilbo was far too exhausted to cook anything. He extracted some bread and cheese from the pantry, along with a lot of wine, and they all sprawled out on the floor of the sitting room for a picnic. His joints protested a bit at the position—another sign he wasn't as young as he looked—but he felt delightfully delinquent, as well as (after they got through the first bottle of wine) more than a bit tipsy. Home was really the best place for him, right here in Bag End, where he would never have to deal with anyone who annoyed him ever again.

They were just breaking into the third bottle of wine, and Bilbo was wondering blearily if he should have let Frodo drink quite so much, when there was a knock on the door.

"Don't answer it," he said. "Don't answer the door ever again. Maybe they'll go away."

But there was another knock, and then another in quick succession.

"What if it's an emergency?" Frodo asked. He brushed some crumbs off his lap and took another long drink from his glass.

They heard a muffled shout from outside.

"I know you're in there, I can see the light!" It was a young voice, definitely not Lobelia. Maybe it would be safe to answer after all.

"I think that's Merry's voice," Frodo exclaimed, and raced away to answer the door. His gait was more than a bit wobbly, but at least he didn't crash into any of the walls. He returned a minute later with Merry at his unsteady heels, his face bright and flushed, partly from excitement at seeing his friend and partly from the wine."

"Well hello!" Merry said, giving them all a cheeky grin. "What a very festive bunch you seem to be tonight." He plopped down on the floor and accepted a glass from Bilbo. "I'm delighted to see you all looking so well. As it happens, I've just come over from Buckland to deliver an invitation!"

Chapter Text

Balin found that as the years passed, he needed less and less sleep. He often rose in the early hours of the morning, and wandered around Erebor in solitude. He liked solitude. It allowed him to imagine that he was back in the home he remembered from his youth. Once he had thought that living in the new Erebor would gradually erase the pain he experienced from his memories of the old one. Instead, the opposite seemed to be true. The past was growing ever more vivid in his aging brain, until it seemed that at any moment he might run into Thrain pacing in a corridor muttering about the defenses, or his father Fundin bellowing that little Dwalin had got into the treasury again and would Balin please come remove him from underneath that pile of gold. Out of all the city, the throne room was one of the places that had been least damaged by Smaug, and was thus the least altered from his memories. Often, this was where he found himself on his morning rambles, before the bustle of the day's business caught up with him.

He was getting used to the sight of an empty throne. Thorin had been gone for some months now, and Kíli preferred to hold court from his usual seat to the side. He claimed it was out of respect for his absent uncle. Balin couldn't fault him for that—Thorin's boots were big enough that Kíli might never be able to fill them. But Kíli was becoming a competent ruler in his own right, and things had gone smoothly these past few months. Thorin had named Balin as a co-regent in his absence, but he suspected it was less out of necessity and more an attempt to keep him occupied.

He studied the carvings on the walls, some of which had been left unfinished since Thror's day. Thorin had decided that structural work was more important, along with the operation of the mines, and that further decoration would have to wait until the next generation. Over the last fifty years, large parts of the city had been entirely restored, some had been redesigned, and new mines had been discovered. Thorin was a relentless improver, completely lacking in nostalgia. He would rather bend every fiber of his being to create the best city possible than try to recreate what had been lost.

Balin never would have thought that Thorin would end up being the practical one. But then, like the rest of his comrades, he had never really expected to reclaim this city. And if he had imagined what it would be like should they by some chance succeed in their mad quest, he had probably envisioned his childhood home brought to life once more. But that place was gone forever now. Few yet lived who he had known in those days. Many had been lost to the dragon, many more at Azanulzibar. Others had settled in the Iron Hills, and while they and their descendants were returning in droves to Erebor, their language and customs had altered, and they were not the same people he had known.

He was beginning to realize that he was part of a lost generation. Thror's Wanderers, they had been called, the mad, loyal ones who followed their aging king into exile rather than choose a life in the Iron Hills. They had never thought that by making this choice, by refusing to accept that the world they knew was dead, they were sacrificing their future generations.

But aside from Dís, there had been no unmarried women of Durin's folk among their number. Very few of the Wanderers who had been unwed at the fall of Erebor had taken wives. Children had not just been scarce, they had been miraculous. So many lines had ended with his generation, including his own family's. And he knew that Thorin silently mourned that Kíli looked to be the last of the Elder Line of Durin.

Balin should have known that they could never go back to Erebor. More and more, his thoughts turned to Thror in his last days. In his youth, Thror had made Erebor glorious. But in his old age, he had wanted to build a new home, more splendid even than what they had lost. Had it been such a bad idea?

He had only dared to mention Moria once to Thorin. Thorin had absolutely forbidden him to go. But they both knew that if Balin chose to pick up his sword and walk out the front gates of Erebor, no one could stop him. And so, Thorin tried to convince him that he was still needed here.

"You're up early," said a voice. Balin turned, startled back to the present.

It was young Thorin Stonehelm, the only son of Dain. A few years younger than Kíli, he had a long beard that hung in a single plait down to his waist. His brown hair was curly and forever springing free of its braids to hang wildly about his good-natured face, which was marred by an angry red scar running from the crown of his head to the bridge of his nose. Helm (as he had become known, to avoid confusion with the King Under the Mountain) was primarily responsible for communications and coordination between the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain. Balin suspected he used this position as an excuse to spend a lot of time hanging about Erebor and out from his father's watchful eye. He was unusually even-tempered for a dwarf, enduring the sometimes chilly reception he received in Erebor with remarkable good cheer. Balin himself liked Helm, and what was more, was relieved that while he and Kíli were not especially close, they did not appear fated to continue Dain and Thorin's often tempestuous relationship.

"What are you doing here?" Balin asked. "Isn't it time for your morning bloodbath?"

Helm might not look as warlike as some of his relatives, but in his case, looks were deceptive. He was a true berserker, such as had not been seen among Durin's folk in several generations—all for the best, in Balin's opinion. His personal preference was to fight alongside warriors who didn't go insensible and start foaming at the mouth when they got excited, and who might reasonably be deterred by little inconveniences like a mace to the head. One of Balin's least favorite sights in the world was Gimli and Helm having at each other with axes before breakfast, with Dwalin cheering them on from the sidelines. Still, Helm was a useful fellow to have on your side in a fight, if you knew how to keep him pointed towards the enemy.

"Gimli's busy," Helm said. "Kíli wanted him for something. I guess I could go see if Dwalin is up for a spar."

"No," said Balin firmly. "That's going to get too messy. Do you remember how many people it took to separate you two last time? I refuse to let Thorin come back to find his relatives all missing bits and pieces."

Helm grinned. "And that's why Thorin appointed you babysitter-in-chief, I'm sure." He punched Balin in the shoulder affectionately. Balin winced.

"Someone has to be sensible," Balin said. "Since it appears it's not going to be any of you lot, it will have to be me. As usual."

"I think Kíli's a lot more sensible than you are," Helm said. "He generally lets everyone do whatever they want, as long as they do their own clean-up."

"Yes, well," Balin said. "He's the product of a misspent youth himself, so he probably doesn't feel it's fair to judge others."

"And you never caused trouble yourself?"

"Hmm, well, I must have at some point. Mostly I seem to remember chasing around after Thorin and Dwalin while they came up with new and creative ways to self-destruct."

Helm stood beside him in momentary contemplation of the throne room. Something seemed to catch his eye, and he pointed to a spot in the wall above the throne.

"Isn't that where the Arkenstone used to be?"

"In Thror's day. It was truly a sight to behold." Balin closed his aging eyes, letting his memory show him an image of the throne room that had been and the king he had lost so many years ago.

"So what happened to it?"

"Hmm? Oh, the Arkenstone? Thorin had it in his possession after we retook Erebor, but he's never said what he did with it, and unless he chooses to give up that secret at some point, I don't think we'll ever know."

Helm elbowed him. "You must have a guess."

Balin did indeed have a guess, but it was entirely his own. Thorin had never even hinted at it. And if he was right, even speculating with Helm about it could cause problems.

Thankfully, he was spared from making a reply, because at that moment there was a yell and a red-haired blur came barreling around the corner. It appeared to be Gimli. Unfortunately, he had picked up too much momentum in his sprint to slow down before an inevitable collision occured. Balin and Helm braced themselves, and pushed back as he crashed into them, preventing everyone from going down in a clanking heap.

Gimli stood there panting, too out of breath to speak. His face was flushed with excitement or some other strong emotion. Balin felt a surge of dread.

"In Durin's name, what's the matter? Speak up?" He grabbed Gimil by the shoulders and shook him hard.

Gimli stared at him mutely, held out his right hand, which was clenched tight in a fist, and uncurled his fingers. When Helm saw what he was holding, he took an involuntary step forward and let out a low whistle.

"So it's actually happening."

Gimli turned on him, his powers of speech miraculously restored by a burst of temper.

"Not a word! If you breath a word of this to anyone, I'll–" He trailed off, unable to think of a sufficiently dire threat.

Helm looked wounded. "I can keep a secret."

"Gimli has a point," Balin said. "Helm, if anyone finds out about this before the news reaches Thorin, especially your father, heads are going to roll. Namely, ours." In Erebor, this was not a metaphorical threat.

The thought of an enraged Thorin chasing him around Erebor with Orcrist at the ready was apparently enough to make Helm experience at least a small dose of terror. He threw up his hands.

"Oh, all right! I swear on Durin's beard and my father's axe that I will keep this a secret until Thorin gets back. Whenever that is."

"Can we throw him down a mine shaft for a few months to make sure?" growled Gimli. Helm was not his favorite person.

Balin gave them both his sternest look.

"I trust that won't be necessary. I'll find a way to keep him occupied. Aren't you two supposed to be practicing swordsmanship along with Kíli while Thorin is away?"

A look of horror spread over the faces of the two younger dwarves.

"I'm supposed to be taking this off to the forge after I talk to you!" Gimli waved the object in his hand at Balin desperately.

"Balin, you know that's a terrible idea," Helm said at the same time.

Balin silenced their objections with a raised hand.

"All right, all right. Obviously we need to get in touch with Thorin as soon as we can. This matter can't be dealt with until he's back, and he said that wouldn't be until late spring at the earliest. But maybe if we can reach him soon enough, he can make it back before the worst of the snow hits. Gimli, did Kíli tell you how we should get a message to him?"

Gimli looked sheepish. "Kíli's asleep. I think he might be in shock. And when he wakes up and remembers what's going on, I have the feeling he's going to drink a lot of ale and go back to sleep again."

"In that case, lad, you're in charge. Go tell your uncle Oin to send out two ravens with a message. One directly to Thorin in the Shire, and another to Radagast the Brown in Mirkwood."

"That crazy fellow? Why?"

Balin sighed. "I know he's unreliable, but trust me, sometimes wizards know how to get things done in a pinch."

Once Thorin heard the news, he was going to come racing back to Erebor like someone had lit a fire under his boots. Balin just hoped he wouldn't be too reckless about it. While they did need him back as quickly as possible, it would be no good to anyone if he got himself killed en route. The roads had been getting increasingly dangerous these past few years.

Balin had on occasion dreamed of living out his later years in peace and quiet (when he wasn't dreaming about leading expeditions to Moria), but he strongly suspected that he had been cursed to live in interesting times.

Chapter Text

Bilbo had completely forgotten that his cousin Rory Brandybuck was due to celebrate his birthday that very Sunday. Merry did not have just one invitation to his grandfather's party, but a whole bag of them. They were hand-addressed by his father Saradoc on creamy embossed paper with gold ink, and Merry had taken charge of personally delivering them throughout the Shire.

The Master of Buckland's birthday was traditionally celebrated with great fanfare, not just with a party thrown by the family for friends, relatives, associates, and hangers on, but by a festival in the village of Bucklebury that went into the next week and caused hangovers that lasted even longer.

Merry, who looked exhilarated rather than exhausted by several days of dashing about with invitations, informed them that this year was going to be particularly magnificent, as a large contingent of Took relations had promised to attend. Bilbo winced. When the Tooks and the Brandybucks met in large numbers, the resulting parties tended to be especially memorable. Bilbo did not feel up to attending such a party at the moment.

He looked over at the bottles of wine that he, Frodo, and Thorin had emptied, and then back at Merry, a little blearily.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to attend this year," Bilbo said. "Next time around, I promise I'll be there."

"If you're worried about Thorin, I've an invitation for him as well," Merry said, handing over. Thorin slipped open the envelope with a finger and examined it with some interest, apparently fascinated by the calligraphy in gold ink.

" Iss' not that," Bilbo said. He tried to fold his arms over his chest, and missed. "We've decided not to accept any invitations ever again."

"Maybe we can make an exception for Uncle Rory," Frodo said quietly. "I think we should go. I know the Sackville-Bagginses are dreadful, but Brandy Hall isn't like that at all."

"Absolutely not," Bilbo said. "No more relatives. None. I'm staying inside Bag End for the next year at least." It occurred to him that Frodo might be eager to see his Brandybuck and Took cousins, who he had spent so much of his childhood with. "You can go if you like. Thorin and I are staying here."

Merry and Frodo exchanged a hesitant look. Then Merry said,

"Can we go into your study for a minute, Cousin Bilbo? I need to ask your advice about something."

"About what?" Bilbo grumbled, not wanting to get up. At that moment, he was finding the floor very comfortable.

Merry floundered.

"A book?" he hazarded, clearly unsure what Bilbo actually kept in his study. "No, I know—a map! Yes, that's it exactly."

Reluctantly, Bilbo got to his feet. Or rather, Thorin seized him by the arms and hoisted him up into a standing position. The wine seemed to have rather gone to his head, and the room spun about a few times before settling. A little unsteadily, he followed Merry out of the room.

Frodo was also feeling slightly drunk. Bilbo's wine was potent stuff, and Thorin had generously refilled his glass several times before he had noticed that hobbits lacked the alcohol tolerance of dwarves and placed the bottle out of reach.

Thorin himself, either due to his dwarven constitution or just his greater bulk, did not even look tipsy. However, the normally rigid line of his jaw had relaxed slightly, and his eyes had softened from their usual piercing stare to a more gentle contemplation of his surroundings.

Emboldened both by this and his own inebriated state, Frodo blurted out something he had been thinking about for several days.

"Can I go visit Erebor with you?"

Thorin instantly snapped back into alertness, his spine stiffening. Frodo flinched.

"I just thought I'd really like to see it," he said. "You know, the mountain and the gold, and everything…"

"Did Bilbo talk to you about going, then?" Thorin asked. "I thought he had decided not to, since you never mentioned it and neither did he. Although he told me he would give me an answer soon."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Frodo said. He and Thorin stared at each other in confusion for a moment.

"Nothing," Thorin said curtly, shaking his head. "Forget it." He reached over for the bottle of wine, and poured Frodo another generous helping.

But as Frodo's wine-soaked brain began to work through the implications of what Thorin had actually said, he realized a trip to Erebor must have been discussed—was still being discussed—between him and Bilbo.

Bilbo just hadn't told Frodo about it.

Merry handed Bilbo a cup of cold water, and then hopped up onto the edge of his desk.

"Listen," he said, ignoring the stack of papers he was crumpling. "You really need to come for Granddad's birthday."

"I told you," Bilbo said, shaking his head to try to clear some of the fog. "I'm not going anywhere. The Sackville-Bagginses, you know?"

Merry made a face. "You aren't comparing us Brandybucks to the dreaded Sackville-Bagginses, are you?"

"Of course not," Bilbo protested. "I just don't feel up to facing a crowd right now. I need a few months to recover from Lobelia. Or at least another week." He took a long drink of water. "I told you already," he repeated. "Frodo is quite free to go without me."

"He shouldn't though," Merry said. "Go without you, I mean."

"And why is that? I hardly think he needs my supervision to travel to Brandy Hall."

Merry leaned forward. "His parents," he said simply.

Bilbo could have slapped himself, he felt such a fool. Drogo and Primula Baggins had been staying at Brandy Hall during Rory's birthday festivities just over a decade ago. They had, for some reason, decided to take a boat out on the Brandywine that chilly night in November. Then, the boat had somehow been overturned and they had drowned.

For the next few years, Rory had celebrated his birthday in a much more subdued fashion, but natural hobbit cheer had eventually won out over melancholy. Frodo could hardly forget the anniversary, however, even if he had been a little boy at the time. He had never mentioned his parents to Bilbo, not even once, but that very omission must mean that he was not as unaffected by their deaths as he seemed.

"Of course," Bilbo said. "I'll go with him. Thorin will probably come along too, although he may grumble."

A fine guardian he was, forgetting such an occasion. Truly, he was unsuited to the role. And Frodo was at such an awkward age, just a year away from being a tween. The adoption had been a sudden decision, as well. Perhaps he should have waited until Frodo was of age. Such an old fool he was, to be so caught up in his own loneliness that he had dragged a boy away from his home and the people he knew best without really thinking through how it might change their lives. And now here he was forgetting about Frodo's parents, and inflicting the Sackville-Bagginses on him, and contemplating leaving him behind for a trip to Erebor.

He had clearly not been meant to be a parent. He supposed they would all just have to muddle through as best they could.

The four of them set out the next morning, once Merry had delivered the remainder of his invitations in Hobbiton. They made good time to Buckland, traveling on foot and then by pony and cart. Even the weather cooperated, until the evening of the second day, when the sky turned grey and began to produce a sad, lazy drizzle. Thorin's limp worsened in the rain and cooler autumn weather, but he moved along quickly enough in spite of that, his stride being naturally much longer than a hobbit's.

At the last stage of the journey, they took Bucklebury Ferry across the Brandywine. The ferry was usually left unattended, but a young hobbit from the village had been conscripted to transport birthday guests back and forth across the river. This cheerful fellow chattered away as he rowed, telling them which families had arrived and which were still expected. Bilbo mostly ignored him, distracted by increasing concern for Frodo's well being.

The water was rough and choppy in the rain, and Frodo had turned as white as a sheet as soon as the ferry pushed away from the bank. It was at that point that Bilbo realized how quiet and withdrawn he had been for the duration of the trip. He was usually such an easy-going, talkative lad when among friends that his silence was surprising, and if Bilbo had not been so lost in his own thought, he would have noticed it sooner. He had expected Frodo to be happier about going back to Buckland, where he had spent so much of his childhood. Perhaps he was thinking about his parents. Hopefully he had not been upset by Bilbo's initial reluctance to make the trip. Bilbo still felt irresponsible for forgetting about the occasion.

Maybe Frodo just didn't like boats, a perfectly understandable sentiment given the circumstances. Bilbo put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to reassure him. Frodo stiffened under the touch, and it was quickly withdrawn. Color flooded back into his cheeks when they reached the other bank and stepped off the ferry. And he seemed to perk up as they made the short walk to Brandy Hall.

Bilbo had not been to Buckland in some time, and he always managed to forget how magnificent the Hall really was—only the Great Smials in Tuckborough could begin to compare. It occupied an entire enormous hill, and many of the surrounding hills had been tunneled and turned into separate little guesthouses. Construction had peaked in the days of old Gorbadoc, Rory's father, who had been a particularly enthusiastic host. Many of them now sat empty for most of the year. But by the end of today, they were all going to be stuffed with birthday guests.

Merry raced on inside through one of the front doors, and emerged again a moment later with his father Saradoc and his uncle Paladin Took. Following them was a stream of assorted relatives eager to see Bilbo (the older ones), Frodo (the younger ones), and the mysterious dwarf (everybody). Rory himself made an appearance once the general hubbub had settled, cutting a path through the throng of relatives to clasp Bilbo in a warm embrace. Then he moved on to Frodo, asking him how he liked living in Bag End and how he found Hobbiton.

"Tell me," Thorin said, leaning down to speak in Bilbo's ear. "How much older than you is Master Brandybuck? I confess I find it difficult to estimate the age of halflings."

"Rory?" Bilbo asked, startled. "Why, he's about a decade younger than me, I think. I still remember him as a little rascal who used to toddle after me whining because he hadn't been allowed to play with the older children."

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "You're older, you say?"

Bilbo looked back and forth between himself and his cousin. He supposed Thorin was right—Rory really did look older. A good deal older, in fact. His face would have been heavily lined had it not been so round, and he was starting to stoop a little. On the other hand, Bilbo had changed very little over the past decades, except that his hair had gradually faded out from brown to grey.

He shrugged.

"I'm well-preserved. Comes from the Tookish side of the family. And you're a fine one to talk. How are you? Over two hundred?"

Thorin grunted noncommittally. "Not young, but not decrepit yet either."

They watched with some amusement as Frodo and Merry were dragged off by a horde of younger cousins, all apparently desperate to show them some new toys they had been given in advance of Grandad Rory's birthday celebrations. Bilbo was relieved to see Frodo respond to their enthusiasm.

"So many children," Thorin marveled quietly. "There are more here right now than were borne in all our years in the Ered Luin. How do your folk get so many?"

Bilbo snorted. "The usual way, I expect."

Thorin gave him a severe look.

Really, dwarves could be such prudes.

Saradoc assigned Bilbo one of the separate guest-holes, a cozy little smial with two bedrooms and a sitting room. Bilbo suggested that Frodo might be more comfortable if he went and stayed in his old room in the Hall, but Frodo rather sulkily protested that he did not mind sleeping on the floor.

Once they had settled in, they decided to go visit the grave of Frodo's parents before the festivities began in earnest, knowing it might become increasingly difficult to slip away as even more relatives arrived.

Drogo and Primula Baggins were buried underneath a willow tree, a little distance from the river, a place they had been very fond of in life and had often walked out to when staying at Brandy Hall. Hobbits did not generally lay their dead to rest in graveyards or catacombs, as they were not a people that liked to dwell on past sorrows. Instead, they tended to choose peaceful spots where family members could come to remember their loved ones, and perhaps enjoy a picnic if the weather was good.

Frodo stood in front of the grave, like a solemn little statue, his hands tucked inside his pockets. His face was expressionless. Bilbo struggled to think of something to say that wouldn't sound trite. He had lost his parents as an adult, and had no idea what, if anything, to tell a boy who had hardly known his own.

Thorin bent over and plucked a pebble from the ground. This he set on top of the grave. Something behind Frodo's eyes flickered and came back to life.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"It's custom among my people to leave such an offering when visiting a grave," Thorin said. "In Erebor we often use precious gems, but any stone will do. Mahal made us out of stone, you see. And we place our dead in stone, so that at the end of days he can restore our spirits to our bodies and we can live once more."

Frodo nodded seriously.

"But my parents were hobbits," he said.

"That is true," Thorin agreed. "But we leave offerings so that Mahal will see that we value our dead. I'm sure he also wants to see us pay our respects to your parents."

Frodo rooted around in the dirt, until he came up with another pebble. This he placed on the grave next to Thorin's offering.

Bilbo stood a short distance back, and rubbed his empty palms together. He tended to avoid visiting graves if he could help it, and stayed far away from funerals. He hadn't come for Drogo and Primula's, nor that of any other family member that had died in the previous half-century.

Even now, just looking at this grave, he felt sick to his stomach. He remembered the terrible day of Fíli's funeral, how there had been five other young dwarves entombed in stone before him, none yet reached full adulthood. He remembered the chanting in Khuzdul that had echoed in his bones, so deep and terrible that he thought the mountain would tear itself asunder. He remembered the offerings of diamonds and emeralds laid at the grave, and how he felt ashamed he had not known to bring an offering of his own.

He remembered how Dwalin, standing in Thorin's stead, had lowered Fíli into the tomb. The scarred old warrior had been weeping openly, tears streaming down his face and splashing onto his beard.

He remembered Kíli's vacant stare as the tomb was closed, how he had shut himself off from the world so completely that he had seemed half-dead himself. He had refused to move or eat or sleep without being prompted, and had not heard or spoken a word as far as any of them could tell.

Bilbo had understood then that some wounds could not ever really be mended. Just as he understood now, deep in his bones, that he could not go back to Erebor. He could not risk Frodo on the Road. And even if they made it safely to the Lonely Mountain, it was not a place fit for a child of the gentle West.

As he looked at his young heir, he saw a boy who had known some loss in his few years, but who had yet to experience true suffering. Frodo had never seen the world outside the Shire. He was still an innocent.

Bilbo knew that he was not a very good guardian, but he would do what he could to keep Frodo safe from all kinds of harm for as long as it was in his power to do so.

He told Thorin of his decision later that night, when Frodo had gone off with his cousins again and they were alone in the guest-hole. He did not realize how agonized his face must look until Thorin laid an unexpectedly gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I cannot say I am surprised at your decision," Thorin said, after Bilbo had spoken all he had to say. "Although I wish it could be otherwise, I understand your reasons. Perhaps when the boy is older, things will be different."

Bilbo nodded, although they both knew that if Bilbo was not going to go to Erebor when Thorin was here to make the journey with him, he was hardly going to go by himself in another decade. He was getting old, even if it wasn't showing yet.

"Don't look so torn," Thorin ordered. "It was an invitation, and nothing more. Did I not say when you left Erebor that I released you from my service?"

Bilbo kneeled, as he had done at their parting so many years ago, and kissed Thorin's hand.

"That's not true," he said. "No matter what you said then, you will always be my king. Always."

Thorin shook his head, and raised Bilbo up by the arm.

"You are my friend," he said. "And my burglar, I suppose." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the tiniest of smiles. "But I will never be your liege. You know you are far too stubborn to obey anyone properly, in any case."

Bilbo's jaw dropped in outrage.

"I? Stubborn? Now if that isn't the pot calling the kettle–"

Thorin ignored him.

Suddenly, all of Bilbo's feigned anger melted away, along with a host of sorrows and regrets and painful memories. In that moment, he only felt a yearning for adventure, powerful enough to sweep him out of his door and onto the Road in an instant if he had been a younger, more carefree hobbit.

"Thorin, you know if circumstances were otherwise I would go back with you in an instant, and confound the dangers!" He was so caught up in his own storm of words and emotion that he did not hear the door creak open. "If I had only known you were coming, I would have managed things differently. I wouldn't have brought the boy to live with me, I would have–"

A muffled exhalation from behind them caused Thorin's head to jerk up and swing in the direction of the door. Bilbo turned along with him.

Frodo stood just outside the threshold, his eyes wide and wild like a startled animal. Without saying a word, he spun around and fled into the night.

Frodo's heart was thudding so painfully that he thought it might leap right out of his chest. All he knew was that he had to get away, as far from everyone as possible. He was angry with all of them. And so he ran as fast as he could. The ground was growing slippery in the rain, and his bare feet skidded dangerously as he charged along. Several times he fell, but he just picked himself up again and kept running, without paying any more attention to where he was going.

He had never asked Bilbo not to go to Erebor. He wanted to go to Erebor himself! And yet Bilbo had decided, without even asking him, that they should not go. Without ever intending to, he had become a burden once again. All of his life, he had been nothing more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, passed along from relative to relative but not really wanted by any of them.

Soon he found himself running along a trail above the river, heading down towards his parents' grave. He started to slow down. He was getting wet and cold, and this began to cool his anger. He was going to have to go back at some point. He did not have to go back to Bilbo, though. If he asked, Uncle Rory would probably let him come back to Brandy Hall. Merry and the others would be delighted to have him back. His friends were the only ones he could really trust.

Settling upon this plan, he turned around abruptly and started to jog back the way he had come. But within a few paces, one of his feet snagged on a root, and he went flying. It was just bad luck that the grass where he landed was slick with rain. His feet went out from under him, and he rolled sideways off the path, bouncing over more stones and roots.

Then, there was nothing but air beneath him as he plummeted down towards the Brandywine River.

Chapter Text

When Frodo bolted out the door, Thorin reacted on instinct. Bilbo just stood there sputtering, horrified at what Frodo had overheard and at his flight. Thorin was already over the threshold and off in pursuit of the boy. It was no use waiting to decide whether following him was a good idea or not. If he did not pursue immediately, it would be too late, and they would never find him. He had seen the look on Frodo's face, and boys at that age did not make good decisions when in distress. He was going to get himself in some kind of trouble.

He was not at all surprised when Frodo headed for the river trail. In the dark and in the rain, it was a risky place to wander at night. Thorin's eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness, and his bad leg throbbed in protest when he slipped on a patch of grass. Frodo was barely visible on the path ahead, a silent little blur in the night.

Suddenly, he saw Frodo slow down, hesitate, and turn around to jog back up the path. He prepared to duck out of sight and let the boy make his own way home without interfering. Apparently he had been wrong about the dangers of the situation, and Frodo had only needed to let out some energy. Hobbits were more sure-footed than dwarves, perhaps the trail did not pose much of a danger to them, even in such poor conditions.

Then, when Frodo was about a hundred feet away, he stumbled, fell, and rolled all the way off the trail toward the river. Thorin heard a distant splash, and a muffled cry.

He launched himself down the path at a sprint, ignoring the howling protest from his leg, and dove off the trail at the same point where Frodo had gone over.

The impact knocked the breath out of him, from the temperature alone. The Baranduin in November was as cold as death. He gasped for air, and flailed about, restoring some feeling to his arms and legs.

Durin's folk were not natural swimmers, being too dense and bulky to float well, but Thorin had grown up near Esgaroth and the Long Lake, and knew how to handle himself in the water. What he lacked in buoyancy, he could make up for in strength.

He would die before admitting it, but upon hitting the water he had a moment of fervent gratitude that Bilbo had insisted he wear flimsy leather boots and go (mostly) unarmed about the Shire. Had he been wearing his own iron boots, or his usual arsenal of concealed weaponry, he would have sunk like a stone. And had he stopped to divest himself of those things, it might have been too late.

Too late! He splashed and thrashed his way through the water, searching for some sign of the boy. The water was rough and choppy, but he could see no sign of a little hobbit. He was starting to tire, the limited range of motion of his left arm increasing the strain on the rest of his body.

"Frodo!" he tried to shout, but it came out as more of a rasp, his voice apparently too frozen to make much sound.

"Here!" came a thin cry from a few feet away, and then a splutter. Thorin headed in the direction of the sound, and saw a curly little head bobbing up and down, desperately trying to keep afloat. The boy definitely could not swim. Just as Thorin reached him, he sank completely beneath the water, leaving only a faint trail of bubbles to mark his location.

Thorin dove, his arms sweeping desperately in a wide arc searching for Frodo. His hands closed on something solid—a wrist-and he yanked up, bringing them both back above the surface.

Frodo was struggling desperately, his arms and legs flailing. After he kicked Thorin in the jaw in his panic, Thorin shook him roughly.

"Hang on to me," he ordered.

Frodo obeyed, sticking to his side like a burr, and they began to make their way over to the shore. The bank was steep and slippery, and it took Thorin several attempts to get them out of the freezing water. Finally, he gave a powerful kick and flung Frodo onto the bank. The momentum caused him to sink beneath the water for a second and he got an unexpected nose-full of river. His legs were getting tired of treading water. Choking, he hauled himself out of the water and lay there for a moment, spluttering.

Frodo had perched himself on the bank, and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. He was sniffling.

"I'm sorry," he sniveled, as Thorin hoisted himself off his stomach and into a sitting position.

"What for?" Thorin said, remembering one memorable childhood incident involving Dwalin, a fishing rod, and a stolen boat that turned out to have a leak. "You aren't the only one who has ever needed to be hauled out of the water after an accident. Or do you mean you are sorry for running off like a fool? Because that does merit an apology."

"I'm not sorry for that," Frodo hissed, through chattering teeth. "You heard what Bilbo said. He said he wished he hadn't adopted me. He doesn't want me!" Thorin had to admit a grudging admiration for a child that could nearly drown and still be full of so much fire.

"I heard Bilbo tell me that he could not come to Erebor because he could not leave you and would not risk your life on the Road. Does that sound like someone who doesn't want you?"

"He could have asked me! I would have told him I wanted to go. I'm not a baby. What right does he have to tell me it's too dangerous?"

"You can't have it both ways, boy. You can't want him to care for you, and then get angry when he makes decisions for your own safety."

Frodo shook his head, still furious. Water sprinkled everywhere.

"Life can be dangerous in the Shire too! My parents drowned in this river. I would have too, just now, if you hadn't been there. And Bilbo would have felt a fool for trying to keep me safe then, wouldn't he? It would have served him right!"

Thorin was well tempted to slap the boy for his foolish insolence, but hesitated to do it so soon after such a fright. He thought back to his own childhood misadventures. Thror would have thrashed him, and then sentenced him to perform some unpleasant and labor-intensive task in the forges.

And then, his heart wrenching painfully, he thought of Dís with her hands on her hips, shouting as her boys fled from certain retribution. "Get back here you little monsters! Thorin, go after them! Make them pay!" But by the time Thorin caught them, her anger had usually been spent, and her remonstrations had been gentle.

"You have not seen the world," Thorin told Frodo. "You do not understand what Bilbo is trying to protect you from. Perhaps you are right, and you are too old to be thus protected. Even so, I cannot fault him for it. I once took boys, older than you, into danger."

"Your nephews?" Frodo asked in a small voice.

Thorin nodded, shivering. His lips were starting to feel numb, and speaking was difficult.

"I judged them ready," he said. "And perhaps they were, but they and many others suffered. I lost one of them. If I could make that decision over again, I would have chosen differently. I would have given anything to protect him."

"Bilbo was there, and saw some terrible things. And so while I would hope I could convey both of you safely to Erebor, I'm not going to press the issue. Bilbo has the knowledge and the right to make his own decisions, and I have too much respect for that to try and force his hand."

Frodo was silent. Thorin was not sure if his argument had persuaded, or if the boy had merely been chilled into submission. He himself was starting to feel drowsy. His body wanted to go to sleep, and his mind was growing equally sluggish. They should start moving. If he collapsed down here, it was going to take a lot of little hobbits to haul his body back to Brandy Hall.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said at last. "About your nephew. And thank you for pulling me out of the water. I really would have drowned."

"That much was apparent," Thorin said. "Be more careful around the river, if you don't intend to learn to swim." He staggered to his feet and offered Frodo a hand up. Frodo was too shocky and cold to walk, and his legs immediately went out from under him. Thorin swung him up onto his shoulders, and made his way carefully over the riverbank and up onto the path.

Frodo was so light that his weight was barely even noticeable. It was nearly a century since Thorin had carried a child. It was not something he had expected he would ever do again. It was very strange to him, how many children there were in the Shire. And so many of them were girl-children! Even the small number of children being born in Erebor sometimes seemed a shock to him, after all those years in the Ered Luin with almost no children at all. In Erebor, an orphan like Frodo would not have grown up thinking himself of little value, nor would he have been lost among a herd of cousins. He would have been brought up properly.

Bilbo met them at the top of the trail. He was carrying a torch and wearing a cloak against the rain, apparently just coming out to look for them. His worried expression lifted immediately when he caught sight of them, and then descended again as he took in their bedraggled states.

Thorin was again painfully reminded of Dís. How many times had he dragged home an errant child to be met by just that expression? The look on her face, saying "I knew you would bring him back, but for goodness' sake, did you have to take so long?"

Thorin stumbled, and Frodo quickly swung down from his back. His legs felt a lot stronger now, and he wasn't shivering so much. The rain had stopped, and he was starting to dry off.

Thorin, however, was a lot bigger, and had a lot more hair and clothing. He was still soaked through. His teeth were chattering audibly, although he was trying to hide it by clenching his jaw tightly. Frodo felt a flush of shame. It was his fault Thorin had gone into the river, and then he had made things worse by sitting around and arguing instead of insisting they go back right away.

"We had better get you two inside," was the first thing Bilbo said. Quickly appraising the situation, he led them to the nearby front doors of Brandy Hall, rather than to their own little guest-house. Scores of curious Brandybucks clustered around to see the strange sight—one wet young hobbit, one very wet dwarf, one dry older hobbit.

"Out of the way," Bilbo snapped, finally in his comfort zone. He brought them into one of the larger side parlors, where there was a roaring fire in the grate, ordered for blankets and hot tea to be brought immediately, and evicted everyone who wasn't making him or herself useful. Frodo plopped down on the floor by the fire, grateful for the warmth. Bilbo tossed him a blanket, and he curled up in it so that only his face was visible.

Thorin kicked off his ruined boots, which made a sad squelching noise, and tossed them into a corner.

"You'd better get that tunic off," Bilbo instructed. "I don't think it's going to dry any time soon."

Thorin fumbled with the laces on his tunic, and then tried to tug it off over his head. His left arm had apparently frozen up, and he let out a string of muttered curses, trying to extricate himself from the sodden garment. Bilbo stepped in to assist before he gave up in frustration and just tore the whole thing off. Thorin didn't have that much spare clothing, and it would be a waste.

Finally, through their combined efforts, he was free. He stood before the fire, his torso completely bare except for the part of his naked back covered by long, dripping hair.

Frodo held his breath for a moment. It wasn't Thorin's physique that startled him, even though he had never seen a body that was a mass of solid muscle—hobbits tended to be round and plump.

It was the scars that he found shocking.

A gentle soul might have described them by saying that Thorin looked like he had been cut into pieces and reassembled. A more blunt one would have said that looked as if he had been hacked apart and shoved back together by guesswork. The parts of him that weren't marred by angry, raised red scars or pale white lines were pitted and gouged. Some of the scars looked like they had come from cleaner cuts, but Frodo could have sworn that at least a few must have been bite wounds.

Frodo could not even imagine what it would take to make most of those marks on a living body, nor could he imagine what it had all looked like before it had healed. How was it even possible for someone to be that injured and still be alive?

A moment later, Thorin had pulled a blanket around himself, hiding the terrible sight from view. Frodo felt relieved, and then ashamed of being squeamish. . He knew that Thorin had been wounded in battle at some point, probably in the Battle of Five Armies, but he had never realized exactly what that meant.

And Bilbo had been there, hadn't he? Thorin had told him that Bilbo had seen terrible things in Erebor.

Bilbo really did have reasons to be afraid of taking Frodo out of the Shire. Until that moment, Frodo hadn't understood what fears he might have. But suddenly, he realized that as terrible as an accident like falling in the river might be, it was nothing compared to, well, whatever had happened to Thorin.

Frodo was a burden. But not because Bilbo didn't want him. He was a burden because Bilbo was afraid for him. And he supposed that in a way, Bilbo was a burden to him to, because the thought of something happening to Bilbo frightened him.

He hadn't really known, before tonight, what true fear was. The river had changed that. Death had always seemed like something that happened to other people. But as the water closed over his head, he had felt with utter certainty that he was going to die. He was still alive, but he knew now how easy it would be for any of them to cross the boundary between life and death.

There was a commotion at the door, and Merry burst in, followed by a handful of their other cousins. Berilac and Doderic Brandybuck were there, along with the Took girls and their baby brother Pippin, who had lately been trying to follow the older boys everywhere.

"Frodo!" Merry shouted. "Are you all right? I heard you took a tumble into the river." His exclamations were echoed by the others.

Frodo wondered how exactly the news had spread all over Buckland already, when he hadn't even told anyone what happened, and then realized that he had grown unaccustomed to living surrounded by vast numbers of gossipy relatives. At Brandy Hall, it usually felt like everyone knew what you were doing even before you had actually done it.

"I'm fine," he said, forcing lightness into his voice. "I was just being stupid. I was out on the trail in the dark. Thorin fished me out right away, though," he added, before Merry could ask whey they had been out by the river at night.

Merry let out a low whistle. "That's lucky for you. You know, if you'd actually managed to drown it really would have spoiled the party. The family never would have forgiven you."

Frodo grinned. Merry didn't mean it, of course, he was just trying to cheer him up. "Well, I'd hate to be an inconvenience and spoil everyone's digestion."

Pearl Took, who was twenty-two and considered herself very grown up, crossed her arms over her chest and gave Merry a severe look.

"I don't know how you can even joke about it!" she said. "Frodo really could have died. That river is dangerous!"

"Do you have to be so serious all the time?" snapped her sister Pimpernel. "Frodo's fine, he said so himself. There's no need to scold."

Pervinca, the youngest Took sister, grabbed Frodo's hand.

"They're about to start the dancing," she said.

"For everyone who isn't already too full to stand up," Berilac broke in.

Frodo glanced back at Bilbo, who waved him on.

"You might as well go enjoy yourself," he said. "It should warm you up, at any rate. Thorin and I are heading back to the guest-house. I've had enough excitement for one night."

Frodo allowed himself to be led out of the room by his cousins. In truth, he would have rather stayed with Bilbo and Thorin. He wasn't sure what to say to Bilbo, though. He wasn't angry any more, but he felt confused about everything.

These friends had been with him for as long as he could remember, and he loved them dearly. They had been the only constant in his childhood. But after a few months in Bag End, he was starting to feel like an outsider here. If he told them about Thorin's scars, or his dreams of a faraway mountain, they would not understand. And so, there was now a part of him that he had to keep secret from Merry, Pearl, and the others.

But at least for that night, he would try to join in the dancing, feasting, and merriment, and be his old self for a while. He wasn't comfortable yet with the new one.

Chapter Text

Sam sat on a tall stool at the kitchen table, letting his legs dangle in the air. He was writing "Samwise Gamgee" over and over again on a scrap of paper with a quill and ink Mr. Bilbo had let him borrow for that purpose. Mr. Bilbo said that his reading was coming along well enough, but that his penmanship was going to be a problem if he didn't make an effort to improve it, seeing as he hadn't learned to so much as hold a pen properly until he was almost a tween. So Sam was doing his best to improve it, and he had to admit that his name was starting to look quite fine, much more confident and firmly lettered than it had just a week previous.

When he was satisfied with that, he tried writing other people's names too, to add some variety to the exercise. He wrote "Frodo", and "Bilbo", and then, feeling rather daring, "Thorin Oakenshield".

He'd been very sorry to miss his lesson with Frodo that morning. Bilbo had been teaching them together three mornings a week, and Frodo had been awfully patient with him, despite the fact that he was miles ahead of Sam in most areas of book learning. Frodo was kind like that, not at all what Sam would have expected from one of those wild boys from the Hall, as everyone called them in Hobbiton.

Although Sam had to admit, he had been pretty patient himself, letting Frodo help him in the garden despite his total lack of sense when it came to plants. Frodo would get distracted and prune some poor bush or shrub to bits if Sam didn't watch him closely. Luckily Mr. Bilbo didn't share his lack of garden-sense, or there wouldn't be anything left at Bag End to tend to.

They had only been gone a couple days, and only to Buckland (although Sam had never been so far as Buckland himself), but life was a lot more boring when Bag End was empty. He didn't usually feel impatient with his work, but now he was restless even when up to his elbows in dirt, something that usually made him feel peaceful. He and his Gaffer had finished planting bulbs that week, and were almost done harvesting the last of the late-growing turnips, so there wasn't much work left to be done that autumn anyway.

There was a rap at the door, not too loud, but firm and insistent.

"I'll get it," called his sister Marigold, dropping her sewing.

"Stay where you are," said their Gaffer. "Something's funny here, and it's getting late too. I'll get the door."

Sam didn't think they were likely to be getting much trouble at Number 3, Bagshot Row, but he realized that the Gaffer was right. There was something funny about the knock. It had the hollow sound of wood striking wood, rather than a fist, and it was too high up on the door. He shook his head in appreciation. Not much slipped past his Gaffer.

Sam and Marigold stood behind him as he warily opened the door. At first, they seemed to be met by nothing but a vast expanse of grey cloth. All three Gamgees stood frozen with confusion.

"Good evening," said an old man's voice, and the hobbits looked up. Why, it was one of the Big Folk! He was clothed all in grey robes, and had a long grey beard and a tall grey hat. He was a little stooped in the shoulders, and one of his hands gripped a sort of walking stick, which was probably what he had been using to knock on their door.

"Good evening," said the Gaffer cautiously. Big Folk never came into Hobbiton, leastways not that Sam could remember. "Can we help you?"

In response, the old man held up a weather-stained piece of a paper that Sam had posted to the front gate at Bag End the previous morning. In Bilbo's scrawl, it read:

Please Deliver All Letters, Packages, Parcels etc. to Number 3, Bagshot Row, Until Further Notice.

"Do you have a Letter, Package, or Parcel?" Sam asked. It seemed unlikely, somehow.

"You could say that," said the old man. "I'm looking for Mr. Baggins. Well, to be precise, I'm looking for someone who I have been led to believe should be with Mr. Baggins right now. And yet, I find that Bag End is completely deserted."

"Do you mean Mr. Thorin?" Sam blurted. The Gaffer was about to shush him, when the combination of their visitor and Bilbo and Thorin apparently clicked into place in his brain. He snapped his fingers.

"I know who you are! You're Gandalf!"

The old man looked quite pleased to be recognized.

"I have been known by that name, yes."

"I'm Ham Gamgee, the gardener. I seen you and him come back all those years ago, after he went missing. Not that you'd recognize me now, of course—I was hardy more than a lad then, and I'm getting a bit long in the tooth."

"Of course, of course." Gandalf peered around the room a bit vaguely. "And a fine family you have now, I see."

"Yes, sir," said the Gaffer. "These are my youngest two, Samwise and Marigold. I've four others, all out making their way in the world, as it were."

"They've gone over to Buckland for the Master's birthday," Sam said. "Mr. Bilbo and Thorin and Frodo, that is, not my brothers and sisters."

"And who is Frodo?"

"One of Mr. Bilbo's younger cousins, sir," said Sam. "He just came to live at Bag End last month, but he grew up in Buckland, and—"

Gandalf cut him off by raising a hand.

"Never mind that now. I had better start out for Buckland immediately. I can see already that Bilbo and I will have a great deal to discuss once I finally catch up with him. Thank you all for your information, I'm very much obliged."

"It's so awkward talking to the Big Folk," Marigold commented, when he had gone down the path and vanished into the night as if by magic. "My neck hurts."

Sam gave her a brotherly shove.

"Get back to your sewing."

He wondered why Gandalf was looking for Thorin. If the Gaffer recognized him as a friend of Mr. Bilbo's, he was sure it was all right. But he had to admit that something about Thorin didn't make sense to him. He had always thought that Thorin didn't seem like any of the blacksmiths and tinkers and traveling merchants that he had glimpsed passing through the Shire. It wasn't just that he was taller and more dangerous-looking than other dwarves.

It was the way he behaved that was making Sam wonder. When he spoke, he clearly expected everyone around him to be quiet and listen, as if being in charge was as natural to him as breathing. He didn't have conversations with people, either, although sometimes Sam saw him direct a quiet comment to Bilbo. When he wanted to talk, he talked, and at length. When he didn't want to talk, he was silent, and nobody dared to bother him. Sam supposed this could all be described as arrogance, but Thorin didn't come off as arrogant, at least not in the way that some of the stuck-up Hobbiton folk Sam knew were arrogant. It was more like it never occurred to him that he couldn't do whatever he wanted. He was clearly used to always being the most important person in the room. Was that really the attitude of a former wandering blacksmith?

No, Sam was starting to think that something about Thorin did not add up.

Rory Brandybuck's pre-birthday-party party was in full swing. Most of the older hobbits were already too full to move. The younger ones, who had more energy and stronger stomachs, were dancing the night away to the accompaniment of a pair of lively fiddlers from Buckleberry. Frodo had to admit that part of him had missed the excitement and bustle of Brandy Hall, and always being surrounded by hordes of cousins for company. On the other hand, the general madness of the whole place meant that there was no privacy and most of the time it was too noisy to think. Maybe he should come back here for a while. It would certainly distract him from thinking about a lot of things.

The crowd of young hobbits finished the circle dance they were doing, and after a short pause the fiddlers struck up the tune to a popular couple dance. Frodo and Merry quickly headed for the refreshments before any of their girl-cousins could intercept them.

Unfortunately, Pearl Took was too quick for them. She blocked their path, folding her arms across her chest and tossing her curls so that her ribbons fluttered.

"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, Frodo?" she asked.

"No," Merry said. "He wasn't. Obviously. Go bother someone else."

Frodo expected Pearl to throw a fit—being the eldest of four had made her the bossy type. Instead, she went quiet, and she looked so crestfallen that he heard himself agreeing to dance with her.

"But just this one," he said. She grinned, and grabbed his hand.

"Wimp," Merry muttered, kicking him in the shin as he retreated.

The dance was fast, but uncomplicated. Frodo found his attention wandering. When he and Pearl spun in dizzying circles, he imagined the Brandywine closing over his head, and shuddered. If Thorin hadn't found him in time, he'd be dead by now. How long would it have taken for anyone to find him? Thorin must have seen him fall into the river. Which meant Thorin must have followed him directly when he had run off down the trail. Why would he do that?

Pearl was saying something.

"Hmm?" he said.

"I said that you seem a lot more grown-up since you went to Hobbiton," she repeated, somewhat irritably.

"Oh," he said, not sure how to respond. He wasn't feeling more grown-up tonight. "Thanks."

She leaned towards him.

"What you think of my new dress? Do you like it? I got it especially for the party."

Frodo glanced at it. It looked like most of the other dresses he had seen in his twenty-one years of life, although he had to admit he had never paid very much attention to dresses, or clothing of any kind.

"Sure," he said. "It's nice."

"You're impossible," she sniffed. Turning on one heel, she spun around and fled the hall.

Frodo stood there, mystified, until Merry came to rescue him.

"Told you that was a bad idea," he said. "Come on, I've got a bottle of wine stashed away in my room. Reggie and Berilac are up supposed to swipe some food and meet us there in a few minutes.

It was just like old times. Paladin Took and Saradoc Brandybuck, deep in conversation in a corner of the Great Hall, gave the two boys an amused look as they snuck out. Clearly, they knew exactly what was afoot, and were not of a mind to stop it.

Reginard and Berilac weren't there yet, and Frodo took the opportunity to tell Merry everything that had happened with Bilbo and Thorin that evening.

"So Bilbo wants to go to off on an adventure, but he can't, because you're living with him now?" Merry asked when Frodo had finished.

Frodo nodded.

"And you want to go too, but Bilbo thinks it's too dangerous?"

"He could be right," Frodo admitted. "I thought it was silly of him, at first, but then Thorin talked to me about it and I realized that I have no idea what is outside the Shire." He left out the part about seeing Thorin's scars. He was not sure Merry would understand that.

"You don't think you can talk them into it?"

Frodo shrugged. "Actually, I'm starting to think that I should tell Bilbo to go without me."

The thought had been growing in his mind all night, although he had only just now started to put it into words.

"Frodo, are you sure about this?"

"No," he admitted. "I have no idea. But I don't want Bilbo to feel like he can't go because of me. I don't want it to be my fault that he doesn't get to see Erebor again. I can tell he wants to. At least, I think he does."

"Well," Merry said, "We'll be glad to have you back here if you like. Farmer Maggot's crops were looking unusually untouched this last fall."

Frodo thought about the farmer's three huge and ferocious dogs, and shuddered. Maybe he wasn't fit to go adventuring. What if he ran into a warg, like the ones in Bilbo's stories?

Merry got tired of waiting for their other cousins to show up, and popped the cork out of his stolen bottle of wine. He took a long swig, and passed it to Frodo.

"I've been meaning to ask—why is it that everyone seems to think that Thorin is a blacksmith or something?"

Bilbo and Thorin had retired to the guesthouse, so that Thorin could change into a set of clothing that hadn't been soaked in river water and so that Bilbo could collapse after all the excitement.

Bilbo got the fire going, and they sat and smoked in silence for a while. Bilbo allowed his mind to wander. A lot still remained unsaid between him and Frodo, but everything had turned out all right for the time being. Was Frodo still angry? Was he? Was one or both of them owed an apology? He didn't know, and didn't want to think about it. He was confused and very, very tired. He had the strangest sense of floating up from his armchair, of being in some sort of trance.

"I'm staying," Thorin said.

Bilbo snapped back to alertness.

"Sorry?"

"I've decided to stay here for the winter after all." Thorin had that steely glint in his eye, a sure sign that saying anything to contradict him would lead to a savage argument, and that Thorin was probably already gearing up for the argument. There was no point in disagreeing with him when he was in this kind of mood, but then again, being too conciliatory would probably just goad him into starting an argument anyway.

"You know you're welcome to stay as long as you want," Bilbo said. "Did your little dip in the Brandywine increase the attractions of the Shire?"

Thorin winced.

"Hardly."

"I thought you were worried about leaving Kíli for the whole winter."

"Kíli will be fine. He is of age, and I have done my best to teach him what it means to be a ruler. He knows how to make good decisions. Now he needs to get used to the idea that it's his job to make them, and that will not happen while I'm in Erebor."

Bilbo nodded. He could well remember the desperate look on Kíli's face the first time Thorin ordered him to lead out a scouting party. "I'm not supposed to be doing this," he had said, looking panicked. "Fíli was always the one in charge. What if I do something wrong? What if I get them killed?" Bilbo had needed to practically shove him out the front gate.

Thorin blew out an enormous smoke ring, and then exhaled deeply.

"My nephews grew up in modest surroundings. When they were younger, it was hard enough to keep them fed and clothed. I taught them to hunt, and fight, and work a forge, but how could they learn to take pride in being lords of Durin's Line? They never knew Erebor in all its glory, or saw the walls of Moria, or held so much as a single diamond in all their lives."

"They still grew up to be a credit to you."

"I suppose." Thorin closed his eyes. "I think they were spoiled. The only children among Durin's Folk in exile, for so many years. I was gone so often. They should have had more discipline. My grandfather took a much firmer hand with us."

"Your grandfather?" Bilbo wondered what was causing this flood of reminiscence. Thorin rarely talked about the past, and never about his family.

"It was usual among us for the head of the family to take responsibility for children. Thror had much more to do with my upbringing than my own father did."

Bilbo could hardly remember his father's father, who had died when he was quite small, but he definitely remembered the Old Took.

"My grandfather was pretty odd," he offered. "He lived to a hundred and thirty, too. Gandalf was an old friend of his. Gave him a pair of magical cufflinks. Hmm, I do wonder what happened to them. Ferumbras must have them somewhere, I suppose. What was Thror like?"

Thorin considered this.

"Very powerful," he said. "Strong. Stubborn, you might say. As a youth he built Erebor up again from nothing, and after Smaug came he was ready to start again from nothing, despite his age. He was very proud—he would have died—did die—before taking shelter with his younger brother's people in the Iron Hills. He told me it was better to live off the labors of our own hands, however lowly the work, than to beg charity from our kin."

Bilbo thought this description sounded rather uncannily like Thorin himself, but declined to say so. Clearly the grandfather had brought up the grandson in his own image. It matched what he had heard from Balin, that Thror possessed a will so strong that entire generations of Durin's folk had molded themselves to it.

"Is it so strange?" Thorin asked, "That I would wish for a grandchild to carry on my line? To be born under my rule, to know his place among Durin's Folk, to know me as a king?"

"Maybe a little vain," Bilbo suggested. "But it doesn't sound strange to me to wish for a grandchild. Never thought of them myself, but I remember how Rory crowed when little Meriadoc was born." He inferred from this conversation that Thorin did not believe grandchildren were forthcoming. He wasn't about to ask directly though, as he expected it would embarrass him terribly. Dwarves were so strange when you asked them anything to do with marriage.

"I suppose I'm the one who has ended up with a child in my old age," he joked. And then, he really thought about Frodo. Frodo, who he, Bilbo, hadn't the slightest idea how to handle. Frodo, who Thorin had just chased through the pouring rain and pulled out of a freezing cold river.

And immediately after that, Thorin had decided not to leave the Shire.

"Wait just a minute," he said. "Are you staying here because of Kíli, or because of Frodo?"

Thorin met his gaze, unblinking, and did not answer.

"He's unlikely to grow up to be a king in Erebor," Bilbo said. "But I'm sure he'll be glad to have you here a while longer."

And maybe in the spring he could think about everything again. Maybe his head would be clearer, and he would be able to tell whether he dreaded seeing Erebor again or longed for it. Maybe he would be able to reconsider letting Frodo come along, if he could let Thorin convince him that the Road was not as dangerous as it had been fifty years ago.

He just needed a little more time.

Chapter Text

Frodo woke in the early hours of the morning. At first, he wasn't sure where he was. Then, he realized that he and a handful of other cousins had fallen asleep on the floor of Merry's bedroom. They had stayed up late eating, drinking, and carousing, until Saradoc had stuck his head through the door to tell them they were making so much noise that they were keeping half of the Hall awake and could probably be heard in Bucklebury. Frodo wasn't sure about that, as Saradoc and his wife Esmeralda slept just a few doors down.

But Saradoc had confiscated their last bottle of wine with a reproachful look at his son, telling Merry that he had better stop raiding the wine cellar because at the rate he was going it would be empty by the time he was Master of Buckland. Merry didn't look very concerned.

"Considering how much Grandfather Rory drinks, it won't even last until you are the Master," he retorted.

Saradoc suppressed a snort and gave them all the sternest look he could manage after an evening of extreme overindulgence. Strict parenting had never been very popular in Brandy Hall.

"Go to bed, lads, or I'll get Paladin in here to help me separate the lot of you." He pointed at Frodo. "You're the oldest, so make sure they stay quiet." Frodo just shrugged. He was the oldest, but no one had ever pointed it out to him before—maybe Pearl was right and he was looking more grown-up these days.

"So you're in charge, eh?" Merry said after Saradoc had closed the door on them. He grabbed Frodo by one pointy ear and twisted. Frodo kicked him in retaliation, and they wrestled for a minute before they realized that they were still far too full for that kind of activity.

And so the boys had sprawled out on the floor and gone to sleep. Frodo had been planning to sleep on the floor in the guesthouse where Thorin and Bilbo were staying anyway, and drifting off to the sound of his cousins' snores put him in an oddly nostalgic mood.

When he woke, the rest of them were still asleep, but he didn't feel comfortable there anymore. The decorative wood flooring of Merry's room felt a lot harder than it had the night before. He tiptoed over to the window, and peeked out. The sun was just barely started to rise. His stomach made a disgusted noise, protesting against the abuse he had subjected it to the night before. And that hadn't even been the real party—that was tonight. And tomorrow, the village of Bucklebury would be hosting its own celebration in honor of Uncle Rory.

He decided to go back to the guesthouse and see if Bilbo was awake. He wanted a chance to talk to him, maybe even tell him he should go to Erebor without him. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? So why did it seem so hard? He knew that Bilbo thought it was too dangerous, and would never take him along, especially after he had acted like such a child about it. If only he had mentioned weeks ago that he wanted to go. But even then, he doubted that Bilbo would have agreed to let him go on such a journey.

After the rainy night, the grass was sparkling with dew under the warm morning sun. Suddenly, talking to Bilbo didn't seem nearly as appealing as stretching out underneath a tree and going back to sleep. So Frodo pulled off the jacket he had borrowed from Merry the night before and spread it over the ground. Then, he curled up on it and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder. He blinked sleepily.

"Can you tell me where I could find Bilbo Baggins?"

The person trying to rouse him, Frodo realized, was not a hobbit, but one of the Big Folk, an old man with piercing eyes topped by very impressive grey eyebrows.

What a strange dream.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, not really awake.

The old man lifted him easily off the ground and set him on his feet.

"I'm sorry to wake you, lad, but better I interrupt you than rouse the entire Hall this early. Are you a Took, by any chance? You rather remind me of someone I once knew."

"My grandmother was Mirabella Took," he offered.

"Ah yes, she married into the Brandybucks, didn't she? And had a rather large number of children, if I remember correctly. I don't suppose she is still alive?"

Frodo shook his head.

"I never knew her." This was definitely a dream, because there was no way he was having a conversation about genealogy with one of the Big Folk. And yet, he thought something in the old man's eyes had softened.

"The years do pass by quickly," he mused. "But enough of this, I can see I'm distracting you from your nap. I'm looking for Bilbo Baggins. Do you know where he is?"

Frodo didn't wake up all the way until the old man had already vanished around the side of the hill. It was only then that he realized who he must have been talking to—Bilbo's descriptions had been quite perfect. If he had been awake and if they had been at home in Bag End, he probably would have recognized the wizard immediately.

But what was Gandalf doing in Buckland?

And then, a wonderful thought occurred to him. If Gandalf was here, something exciting must be happening. Perhaps he had not missed his chance for adventure after all.

Bilbo often thought that nothing in the world could really surprise him any longer, but he had to admit that he was quite startled when Gandalf knocked on the door before he had even finished his first breakfast.

"My dear Bilbo, I don't think you've aged a day since the last time I saw you," said the wizard, embracing him fondly and holding him at arm's length for inspection.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed. In his excitement, the forty years since he had last seen the wizard seemed to vanish, and he felt almost young again. "But what are you doing here?"

Gandalf's keen eyes peered into Bilbo's so intently that Bilbo wondered what he was looking for there, and if he had found it.

"I wish I could say I had come only for the pleasure of your company," Gandalf said, "But the truth is that an errand brings me in search of your friend here." He nodded at Thorin, who stood scowling in the corner with his arms crossed and chin tilted defiantly upward.

Bilbo had always admired Thorin's lack of intimidation in the presence of anyone much larger than himself. Thorin might only be five feet tall, but in his mind, he was always the tallest person in the room.

"What business do you have with me?" he growled.

"There's no need to take that tone, Master Dwarf," Gandalf said, raising his eyebrows. "I'm here as a favor to you, and if I had not been passing through this part of the world and fancied the idea of a short trip to the Shire, I would not be doing it."

Thorin narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps you should not have bothered."

Inwardly, Bilbo sighed. Thorin had never liked or trusted the wizard, and as far as he could tell, Gandalf had not seemed particularly fond of Thorin either. But Gandalf was much older and wiser than he was, and he knew there was probably nothing he could do to get them to like each other any better. They were both his friends, in very different ways, and he owed a great deal to both of them.

"Would anyone care for some tea?" he asked, rather desperately. Neither one of them seemed to hear him. He would just have to pretend not to notice when they sniped at each other.

From inside his robes, Gandalf removed a rather weather-beaten scrap of parchment, which Bilbo could see was marked with some sort of runes.

"I had this from Radagast the Brown," Gandalf said. "Or rather, from one of his birds. Apparently he received a rather urgent plea from Erebor, and seemed to think I would know what to do with it. Fortunately for you, I happened to be only a few days from the Shire when it reached me." He passed the message to Thorin, who took it gingerly.

"You may want to sit down before you read it," Gandalf advised.

Thorin ignored him, and carefully unfolded it.

"This is Balin's writing. Wait—you opened it?" He glared fiercely up at the wizard.

"Of course I did," Gandalf said. "How else would you expect me to know whether it was necessary to divert myself from all the other important things I was doing in order to deliver your mail. I am a wizard, your Majesty, not a postman."

But Thorin was no longer listening. Instead, he was staring at the letter. Slowly, he sank into a chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Bilbo. Thorin looked like someone had just given him a solid whack over the head with a shovel.

"Nothing," Thorin said mechanically, still appearing completely stunned. He looked back to Gandalf. "Is this some sort of joke?" He read the letter again, and then a third time. Then he sprang to his feet and began to pace around the room in agitation. "I should leave at once. Immediately. I have to go back to Erebor."

"Thorin, for goodness' sake—" Bilbo began.

"Don't ask," Thorin snapped, a dark flush rising in his cheeks. "I can't speak of it, not to an outsider."

"An outsider?" Bilbo exclaimed, a little offended. "Is that what I am now? And who was it who was offering me a place in Erebor just the other day?"

Thorin stiffened.

"Of course, and I stand by my word. But some things are not meant to be spoken of." He crumpled the parchment in one powerful fist.

"Thorin, be reasonable," Gandalf said. Bilbo winced. "Do you want me to tell him?"

"NO!" Thorin roared. "Bad enough that you should know what was meant to be private among Durin's Folk."

Bilbo raised both hands.

"Never mind," he said. "If you can't tell me, you can't tell me. Although I'm sure Frodo would appreciate an explanation for your abrupt departure."

Thorin took a deep breath, and let out an agonized sigh. His eyes were no longer blazing, but caught somewhere in between excitement and frustration.

"I should tell you," he said. "Kíli would want you to know." He looked over at Gandalf. "Leave us," he ordered. Bilbo winced again.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, and departed with an expression that said that they were lucky he was in a patient mood that morning.

"I imagine you'll be wanting to return to Bag End this afternoon," he said as he exited. "I shall make the trip with you, as I am headed in that direction. And there are some other things I'd like to discuss with you, Bilbo."

When he was out of the room, Thorin relaxed slightly. Even so, it was clearly difficult for him to choke out even a few words of explanation.

"Kíli is to be married," he managed at last.

Whatever Bilbo was expecting, it hadn't been that. Thorin's reaction seemed more befitting a death in the family or a declaration of war. And yet, now that he thought about it, he could see that Thorin was not exactly upset by the letter, just surprised, and extremely uncomfortable talking about it with Bilbo and Gandalf. But he had often observed that dwarves treated that subject as one of utmost privacy. In that light, Thorin's behavior made perfect sense—he wanted to tell Bilbo, but he also apparently felt that discussing family matters with anyone who was not a dwarf was something bordering on obscene.

Bilbo suddenly felt a surge of appreciation for Thorin. He might be stubbornly traditional, and prickly about it as well, but when he felt it was the correct thing to do it seemed he was able to force himself to break with custom.

Having thought through all of this, the implications of what Thorin had actually said came crashing down on him and he flopped into a chair before his legs could finish turning into jelly.

"Oh," he said weakly. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

Thorin's eyes were gleaming in a way that Bilbo had only previously observed when he was contemplating some magnificent piece of treasure.

"Of course it is," he said. "Do you realize what this means? I had resigned myself to watching the last days of my line, to knowing that Durin would never be born to my descendants."

His face softened, until he looked almost gentle.

"I only wish his mother and brother could be there to see it."

Bilbo touched his stoneflower pendant.

"I know."

After his brother's death, Kíli's depression had been so deep and lasted so long that Bilbo had feared for his mind. The cheerful, careless young dwarf that Bilbo had known had vanished into a silent, grim wraith that would not eat, sleep, or even move without being direction. Bilbo was not a complete stranger to tragedy, but he thought he had never witnessed grief that seemed so absolute and endless.

But when he asked Balin about it, all he got was a shrug.

"Grief takes some of us that way. Thrain was much the same when Thror died, and Dwalin got very odd for a while when we lost our father. Either Kíli will break free of it or he won't, but there's nothing we can do to help him that we haven't already done."

And slowly, gradually Kíli had seemed to emerge from the blackness that had engulfed him. He was not the same youth that they had known, but he was not mad. He had decided to live.

But as the weeks passed, no matter what anyone said to him, he refused to see Thorin. Bilbo could not tell if it was anger, or guilt, or a combination of the two that kept him away. Kíli would not so much as speak his uncle's name, and yet he listened attentively when other members of the Company discussed him. Bilbo wondered how long he could keep up this self-imposed familial exile. Probably forever, given what Bilbo had observed of the stubbornness of dwarves.

The letter came from the Blue Mountains just as winter was starting to set in. They had sent word from Erebor immediately after the battle, informing Durin's Folk in exile that the Lonely Mountain had been reclaimed, but had not expected to hear anything back before the spring. But one small caravan had managed to make it over the Misty Mountains before the snow had closed off the passes entirely.

Kíli looked the message blankly when Balin handed it to him.

"Mother's gone," he said, and walked away. He sounded tired, and so numb that for a dreadful moment Bilbo wondered if they would ever see him again, or if he would simply walk out the front gate of the mountain and keep on going.

Balin buried his face in his hands.

"Never say that things can't get any worse," he muttered, but he offered Bilbo no further explanation.

As some of the older members of the Company gathered that morning, Bilbo got the distinct impression that he was not welcome. This was not his grief. After all that they had shared in the past few months, it felt strange to be shut away from them in this way. He almost slipped on his magic ring, wanting to stay among them and not be observed, so that he would not feel so very far from home.

He did not do it. He had a little more pride than that.

But before he left, he saw Oin pass something tiny to Balin. It was one of the little grey flowers that Bilbo had observed in the catacombs weeks ago, and forgotten to ask anyone about. The little blossom had grown no larger, but its petals had lost their translucence, and glittered faintly, as if tiny veins of ore ran through them.

"A portent," Oin said. "Mahal's sign that one day we will be reunited with our dead."

Balin cupped it tenderly in his palm.

"A sign," he agreed.

If someone had broken the news to Thorin, Bilbo saw no sign of it that afternoon. But unlike the rest of his kin, Thorin seemed to grow stoic in the face of loss. If he grieved, it would be in the time and manner of his own choosing.

It had been several weeks since Thorin had even mentioned his surviving nephew, although at first he had asked after him often. Thorin had asked, and Kíli had not come, and so he had stopped asking. Fíli, he had not mentioned since the funeral, although his grief then had been obvious and profound.

He was dictating a list of instructions to Bilbo about the repairs that were underway on the road through Mirkwood, and Bilbo was dutifully scribbling away, when the door swung open.

"Thorin," said Kíli, and stood there completely motionless, staring at his uncle. Thorin appeared equally frozen in place.

For a moment, Bilbo saw Kíli as if he too had not seen him in weeks. He noticed as if for the first time the scrap of bandage over one eye, the pallor of his skin and the hollowness in his cheeks. He was terribly altered.

Then, Thorin extended a trembling hand, and Kíli went and knelt by his bedside.

"I'm sorry, Thorin," he choked. "It's all my fault. I failed you."

Thorin's hand came to rest on Kíli's head.

"You fool," Thorin whispered, his voice harsh. "Never say that." He pulled Kíli into a rough embrace. "I thought I had lost both of you. I thought I had lost both of my children."

As quietly as he could, Bilbo faded into the shadows and slipped away. He pretended that he had not seen tears glinting in Thorin's eyes, and that they were not at that moment streaming down his own cheeks.

"I must leave at once," Thorin said. "If I hurry, I may be able to make it over the mountains before winter."

"Are you afraid you'll miss the wedding?" Bilbo asked.

"Hardly," Thorin said. "I'm the head of the family. My presence is necessary. I've waited for this for thirty years, and I don't intend to wait another day longer than is necessary. They need me to return as quickly as possible, so that this opportunity does not slip away."

"I'm sorry you'll have to miss Rory's birthday party tonight, though, it was promising to be quite the spectacle."

"It will be nothing compared to the celebrations in Erebor," Thorin promised. He caught Bilbo's arm in a grip so firm and enthusiastic the hobbit feared he might snap like a twig. "You will come?" It was not really a question.

"Of course I will," Bilbo said. And at that moment all doubts had fled from his mind. It was not just happiness that made it an obvious decision, although he thought that he must be happy. He felt more driven by the need to see the completion of something, to close a wound that had never really healed.

He would return to Erebor, although he was afraid of what it might cost him. It seemed that adventure had not quite finished with him after all.

Chapter Text

Merry, Frodo, Berilac, and Pearl were nibbling at a rather pathetic second breakfast in Saradoc's kitchen when Bilbo came looking for them. He looked a bit strange, Merry thought, almost a wild. His expression was serious, but his eyes were strangely alight. It made Merry nervous.

"We missed you last night!" he said, setting down the muffin he was buttering. "Frodo told us old Gandalf is here—is it because of Granddad Rory's birthday? Will there be fireworks?"

Bilbo chuckled, but there was no warmth in it.

"So Rory told you about those fireworks, did he? Alas, we no longer live in the time of the Old Took. I don't think Gandalf has made birthday visits in the Shire for a long time. Actually, he had a letter for Thorin."

He set a hand on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo's entire body stiffened, as if he was expecting some kind of blow.

"Thorin needs to leave immediately," Bilbo said. "He just got some important news from Erebor. And that means the three of us must return to Bag End right away. I'm sorry, I'm afraid we'll have to miss the party tonight."

Frodo pasted on a smile.

"That's all right. I think I did more than enough celebrating yesterday."

"Come over to the guest house after you've said good-bye to your friends."

After Bilbo went out, Frodo pushed his plate into the pile of dirty dishes, shook hands cautiously with Pearl, and thumped Berilac on the shoulder.

Then, he gave Merry a hug.

"I think Bilbo might be going to Erebor," he whispered. "And just doesn't want to tell me yet. So I expect I'll be back at the Hall in a few days. Don't let Uncle Rory give away my room."

Merry nodded, hating the disappointment in Frodo's eyes, but hoping that he was right.

He had always believed that Frodo was a Brandybuck in all but name. After all, he had lived in Buckland for most of his life, and his Baggins relations had made it plain that they wanted nothing to do with him. Frodo might be an orphan, but he had always been part of a large and boisterous family at Brandy Hall, and Merry had never seen him as being any different from the rest of the cousins. He might be a little older than the rest of them, and he did sometimes have strange, quiet moods. But he was still Merry's favorite cousin. Most of the time, he was adventurous and ready for anything, whether it was a daring mushroom raid on a nearby farm or a quick jaunt into the Old Forest. And despite being the oldest, he had never tried to bully his younger cousins or make himself their ringleader.

Merry had been horrified when his father had told him that Frodo was going to live in Hobbiton.

"He's one of us," he protested. "He's a Brandybuck through and through. He doesn't even like Hobbiton folk, even if he is fond of Bilbo."

"He's a Baggins too," was all Saradoc would say. "And if Bilbo wants to adopt him, much better for him that he should go. He'll inherit Bag End someday, and that's nothing to scoff at."

"Is the money that important? He must know we'd always look after him."

Saradoc patted his son's shoulder awkwardly.

"I'm sure he does. But if you were him, what would you prefer—to be master of Bag End, or to live here at the Hall forever as a guest? On your charity, Meriadoc, for that's what it would be someday. I know you will miss him, but you must think of what is best for Frodo."

Merry wasn't convinced. Why should Bilbo have the power to sweep in and change all their lives? All he had ever done before was show up on holidays and the odd birthday with presents and stories, both of which had admittedly always been of the highest quality. But had he ever taken particular interest in Frodo before?

To Merry's shock, Frodo had not objected to joining Bilbo at Bag End.

"I think it could be interesting," was all he would say. "But you'll visit me often, won't you Merry?"

And Merry had done his best. But living in Hobbiton had changed Frodo. His adventurous side seemed to have quieted. He tried to get Merry to avoid trouble, or at least, tried to get Merry to avoid leading him into trouble as often. Instead of running and playing outside, he talked to Merry about Bilbo's stories of distant days and heroic deeds. And more and more often, he had those strange moments where his eyes grew distant and Merry knew he was thinking about something he would never reveal. It bothered him that Frodo was growing in some strange new direction, and, as it seemed to him, becoming increasingly like Bilbo, who everyone knew was odd. But Frodo did not seem unhappy, exactly. Merry had to admit that life at Bag End did seem to suit him.

And then Thorin had arrived. At first, Frodo had seemed so uncomfortable with the dwarf's presence in Bag End that Merry had hoped he would come running back to Brandy Hall. Instead, Thorin had started to fascinate him. And how could Merry compete for his friend's attention with someone like that? Thorin was a warrior-king from distant lands, a figure right out of Bilbo's stories. And although Shire-folk didn't care much for kings (it having been so long since they had bowed to one themselves) Merry had to admit that Thorin cut an impressive figure. But the world he was from was so different than the Shire, and clearly all Frodo could see was the excitement of it.

For the first time in his life, Merry felt afraid—afraid for Frodo. Frodo was his kin, his friend, his brother. What would happen to him if he went where Merry could no longer watch over him?

It would be much, much better for all of them if Frodo came home to Brandy Hall where he belonged.

They left Buckland within two hours of Gandalf's arrival, and riding in the wizard's cart, they made much faster progress than they had on foot. Thorin suggested that they camp for the night rather than worry about finding an inn, and this allowed them to travel until later in the evening than they would have ordinarily. Bilbo smiled to himself. They were still in the Shire, but he was starting to feel like they had already begun a new adventure.

When they finally stopped to rest, Frodo went with Thorin to collect some firewood, and Gandalf took their absence as an opportunity to corner Bilbo. For a few minutes they sat smoking their pipes in silence.

"Do you still have that ring of yours?" Gandalf asked, blowing out a smoke-ring. The question sounded casual, which made Bilbo think that it probably was not.

"Ring?" Bilbo asked, widening his eyes. "Which ring do you mean?" His right hand jerked involuntarily towards his waistcoat pocket. He let it drop, hoping Gandalf hadn't noticed.

Of course Gandalf had noticed. The wizard smiled slightly.

"I think you know which ring I mean."

"Ah," Bilbo said. "That ring." He cleared his throat. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do still have it."

"Do you always carry it with you?"

Bilbo shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I suppose so. One never knows when something like that will come in handy."

"Even in the Shire?"

Bilbo flushed. "Well, there are still some times I'd rather not be seen. By Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, for example."

Gandalf chuckled. "Most wise. But still, would it be fair to say that you extremely attached to that ring of yours?"

"I suppose I am, if you must put it like that. It's gotten me out of a few tight spots in the past."

"And the creature you got it from, Gollum, was he similarly fond of it?"

"I suppose he might have been."

"And yet you somehow expect me to believe that he gave away such a priceless treasure because you bested him in a game of riddles?"

Bilbo looked away. He wished he had never told that story. It seemed more than a bit foolish now, and he knew how implausible it sounded. Was there any reason not to just tell Gandalf the real story of what had happened between him and Gollum beneath the Misty Mountains?

But it had all been so long ago. Why did Gandalf have to be so confounded curious about the ring? And why now, after so many years? Bilbo had been in possession of the thing for nearly half a century. It was his now, as much as it had ever been Gollum's. He had more right to it.

"There is no guile in you, Bilbo," Gandalf. "I know you don't mean any harm by it, but why won't you tell me the truth? It's not like you."

The gentleness in the wizard's voice made Bilbo's temper flare.

"I don't see how it's any business of yours!" he snapped. "I got it fairly, and that's all you need to know."

Gandalf did not say a word, but just kept looking at him, as if he could see straight into his heart. Bilbo's anger vanished as quickly as it had come. He felt close to tears.

"He would have killed me, Gandalf. He would have killed me if I hadn't taken it!"

Gandalf put a comforting arm around him, and Bilbo took a long, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself.

"It's mine," he muttered defiantly.

"I know," Gandalf said. "I know."

Gandalf left them as soon as they reached Bag End, before Bilbo had even had a chance to open the front door.

"I have a few other matters to attend to, but I expect to return in five days," he said. "Thorin, I shall see you to the edge of the Shire, at least." With that, he gave Bilbo a significant look, to let him know that he would have to talk to Frodo at some point.

"That's not necessary," Thorin growled. "We—I mean, I have no need of an escort. I can look after myself."

"Let me be the judge of whether it is necessary," Gandalf said. "I do not question your capability, but I have been on the Road more recently than you, and I have heard some strange tidings."

Frodo stared after him as his cart disappeared below the hill. His blue eyes were wide and solemn. Bilbo could not remember the last time he had spoken.

"You should not be so rude to Gandalf," Bilbo chided Thorin once they were all inside. "He didn't have to bring you that letter. He's done you a kindness."

"If he has," Thorin snapped, "It's for reasons of his own, and not out of affection for me and mine."

Bilbo sighed. He couldn't actually argue with the truth of what Thorin was saying. Besides, it would take greater miracles than the ones he had witnessed in his lifetime to make Thorin and the wizard see eye to eye.

It was hard to return to Bag End knowing that he was about to leave it again so soon, and for what was likely to be an extended period of time. He really did love the place, and the rest of the Shire, too. There was a lot to be said for a quiet, decent way of living. But he had felt for a long time, ever since his adventures, that he would never feel truly, completely at home anywhere ever again. His heart was divided between too many places now, and no matter where he went, part of him would always wish he were somewhere else.

He had decided to go with Thorin, and that was that. It was undoubtedly the right decision, and he needed to pack quickly so that they could be on their way. Thorin was not going to be patient about delays. On the trip back from Buckland, he had seemed quite as distracted as Bilbo. He had often pulled out Balin's letter to read over again, although he had looked at the thing so many times that he must have had it memorized.

But if Bilbo started packing, Frodo would surely realize that he was planning to leave for Erebor. And that was what Bilbo was dreading, because he did not know how Frodo would take the news. He suspected that it would seem like an enormous betrayal. He felt like it was a betrayal, a betrayal of all the responsibilities he had taken on by becoming Frodo's guardian. But he could not take the lad, who was barely more than a child, into the kind of danger they might face on the Road. Could he? No, it was unthinkable. But how could both his options feel so wrong?

Tormented by indecision, he wandered around Bag End making lists and bumping into furniture. He was so lost in thought that when he wandered into Thorin's room, he did not at first realize what Thorin was actually doing.

Thorin sat cross-legged on his bed surrounded by an enormous pile of weaponry, some of which Bilbo had seen in the last few weeks and some of which was unfamiliar. Where had he kept it all? Knives had been cleaned and sharpened, and a bow and quiver of arrows lay unwrapped next to a pair of small axes. Orcrist sat in a place of honor near the foot of the bed.

But Thorin was not inspecting his stockpile. Instead, he was doing something that Bilbo had never seen him do before—mending a tear in one of his tunics. Bilbo stopped and stared at him as he tied a knot and cut off the end of the thread with a nasty looking little dagger.

The sight of Thorin sewing while surrounded by what looked like half of Erebor's armory made Bilbo suppress a snort. Thorin looked up impatiently, needle poised.

"I didn't know you knew how to do that," Bilbo said.

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

"Sew? For almost a century I spent ten months of the year traveling. It's a necessary skill."

Bilbo, who sent his own mending out to a seamstress in Hobbiton, shrugged helplessly.

"I suppose there are a good many skills you have that I've never had occasion to witness." He sat down on the bed, shoving aside a few knives and a pile of clothing to make room. He picked up the tunic that Thorin had just mended. The stitches were not delicate, but were neat and evenly placed.

"That's true enough. I don't think you will ever see me dig a ditch or mend a wagon axle though." Bilbo could certainly not picture Thorin doing either.

"Somehow I didn't think you would do this sort of thing," he nodded at the tunic "Now that you're King Under the Mountain."

Thorin shrugged, setting down his needle on the bedside table.

"Honest work is never beneath anyone, or so Thror taught me. I've done jobs that shamed me. This isn't one of them."

Bilbo smiled. "I never realized you were such a moralizer." He took a deep breath. "I really need to ask your advice, Thorin."

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

"This is a first."

"I don't know what to do about Frodo," Bilbo admitted. "I can't just leave him here, but it seems awfully dangerous to take him along, don't you think?"

Thorin's eyes hardened, and a look of such profound pain passed over his face that Bilbo had to look away for a moment. He wanted to kick himself for what had just come out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have asked you that."

"I'm not the right person to ask," Thorin said. "I've asked myself the same questions so many times. Was I right to take my boys into such danger? They were almost adults. They wanted to come. I needed them. And yet, I thought it more than likely that the entire Company would perish. But I did not see it as my duty, or even as my right to protect them. How could I ask my comrades to accompany me on such a risky quest and then leave behind my heirs in safety? I will never know what the best decision would have been. I have to live with the one I made, just as you will have to live with yours. I can't tell you if keeping Frodo safe at all costs is the right choice."

"I know," Bilbo said. "I just wish there was some way to tell the future. Or change the past. Or both."

"I seem to recall we had a similar discussion before you left Erebor all those years ago."

"That's true." Bilbo smiled weakly. "I wish I could say I felt wiser now, but that would be a lie. I suppose some questions will always be unanswerable, won't they? I will never know what my life would have been like if I hadn't been swept out my front door by a wizard and a crowd of dwarves fifty years ago"

For a while, during the long winter, Bilbo had seriously considered staying in Erebor. The Shire felt so far away, and he couldn't imagine going back to that world after what he had seen and felt. He knew he would never really belong there again. And yet, as spring began to arrive, and true flowers bloomed around the Lonely Mountain, he started to long for Bag End again. They had survived the winter, Erebor was finally ready to be inhabited by more than a smattering of warriors and work crews. Soon, families would be arriving, first more groups from the Iron Hills, and then at last there would be caravans from the Ered Luin arriving through Mirkwood. The city would come to life again, and once it did, it would be a very strange place to be a hobbit.

And so, when Gandalf returned towards the end of the spring, Bilbo gratefully accepted the wizard's offer to take him home.

Thorin walked out to Dale with him. He could walk unaided now, although the limp was still severe. But he refused to let it slow him down, and Bilbo had to trot along beside him in order to keep up. By the time they got near the city, they both had to stop for a while to catch their breath. Thorin and Bilbo leaned against the stone wall of a long-destroyed house on the outskirts of Dale, and spent a few minutes looking at the city.

Balin had taken Bilbo out here a few weeks ago to look at the new work that was taking place now that spring had arrived. In truth, Balin had been more concerned with looking at the ruins of the old city, the one he remembered from his youth. But Bilbo was fascinated with the transformation that was taking place. It was as if a city was growing up from the ground along with the flowers. The Shire had very little large-scale construction of this sort, and tunneling was much less interesting to watch, although (in his opinion) infinitely more comfortable than living above ground.

Dale in its current form was a combination of tents, makeshift buildings, and the foundations of a more permanent city. How long would it take before it was finished? Bilbo would probably never see it. Maybe he could persuade someone to send him a sketch in a few years, so he would know how the building was coming along.

What did Thorin see when he looked at Dale? The ruins of a place he had once known well, or hope for a new future?

"Are you sure it's all right for me to leave?" Bilbo asked. "I know I promised I would stay as long as I was needed here."

"Consider yourself released from my service," Thorin said.

"That's not really an answer."

"The Company will be sorry to see you go, but you've more than earned your freedom. You have been dreaming of your Shire for months. You should go back."

"Come visit me," Bilbo said. It wasn't the first time he had made the invitation, but it was going to have to be the last. "Come see the Shire again some day. I've gotten to know your home rather well these past few months. You should see mine."

Thorin smiled. It was a rare expression, and hard to catch, but Bilbo was much better at reading his moods than he had once been. But then, as so often happened, the smile quickly vanished and was replaced by a darker look.

"If you could choose again, Bilbo, would you still choose to become our burglar? Would you still leave behind your home and your pocket-handkerchiefs and come to Erebor?"

It was a question Bilbo had pondered a great deal himself lately.

"I'm not sure how to answer that. I've seen more than enough adventure for one lifetime, I think, and I do want to go home. But I'm a very different hobbit than I was a year ago, and whether I've changed for better or for worse, I don't think I would willingly go back to being the person that I was."

"So you don't regret coming here?"

"I regret a lot of things, but not that." He kneeled, and clasped Thorin's hands. "If you ever need me in Erebor, for any reason, I promise I will come back. I don't know what use I'd be to you, but I'll come back."

Frodo stared the miniature axe that Thorin had mounted over the fireplace, and wondered if he could take it with him to Brandy Hall. It would be nice to have something to remember Thorin by, but maybe he could find something that wasn't so heavy. The axe's size was appropriate for a hobbit, but its weight was not, something that Bilbo's friends in Erebor had apparently not taken in to consideration when they made the thing. Maybe Thorin would give him one of his knives.

"Frodo!" Bilbo's voice echoed down the hallway. "Come into the kitchen, I need to talk to you about something."

They stood facing each other for a minute, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Frodo tried to steel himself for the blow he knew was coming. Bilbo was about to tell him that he had decided to go back to Erebor. And Frodo was determined to react as calmly and maturely as possible, even if he felt like something inside of him was shriveling up and dying.

"You know that Thorin has to go back to Erebor," Bilbo began.

Frodo nodded.

"Although you haven't told me why." He bit his lip. That had sounded sulky.

"It's a bit private, really," Bilbo said. "Thorin would have to tell you himself. But the point is, he's going. And he's asked me to go with him, which for various reasons, I feel I must do."

"I know that," Frodo said, staring at his toes.

Bilbo blinked at him.

"You know that?"

"I guessed."

"Oh, my, I hadn't realized that." Bilbo rubbed his hands together nervously. "Well, the thing is, Frodo, it doesn't really feel right to me to send you back to Brandy Hall. And Thorin tells me that you want to see Erebor for yourself."

Frodo nodded eagerly, lifting his eyes to meet Bilbo's gaze. This was not how he had imagined the conversation going at all.

"But it also doesn't seem right to take you into what could be a very dangerous situation. We may face many perils between here and Erebor. And Erebor itself is not nearly as safe as the Shire. Part of me thinks you are far too young to see so much of the world."

Frodo waited.

"The truth is, lad, I can't decide. And I'm not honestly sure I've earned the right to. You're young, but perhaps not too young to take your own risks. And you're certainly not too young to know your own mind. So what do you think, Frodo? Do you want to come to Erebor?"

Frodo closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the entire world before it overwhelmed him. His heart was thudding so loudly he thought it might push all of the way out of his chest and land on the floor. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, and now that it had arrived, he was frightened.

He bit back the torrent of words that threatened to spill out of his mouth in a cacophony of excited acceptance, and when he finally spoke, he surprised himself along with Bilbo.

"I know it might be dangerous," he said quietly. "But I think maybe I have to go. I think I was always meant to, somehow."

"Very well," Bilbo said. "In that case, we have a great deal of packing to do."

End Part One

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

Chapter Text

When Sam heard that Frodo and Mr. Bilbo had returned to Bag End several days ahead of schedule, he leapt up from the breakfast table without even clearing his plate and sprinted up the hill. But when he got to Bag End, he found the household in an uproar. They were in the middle of packing, and were planning on going away again almost immediately.

"We're going to Erebor with Thorin," Frodo informed him, his eyes dancing. "Isn't it incredible?"

"Where's Erebor, then?" Sam asked, feeling dazed. He didn't think it was anywhere in the Shire. Honestly, wasn't Buckland far enough for anyone to be traveling to? It was all the way on the other side of the Brandywine River.

"Oh, a long way away, to the east." Frodo waved an impatient hand. "The Lonely Mountain, you know? Where Bilbo went on his adventures all those years ago."

It sounded like an awfully long trip to Sam. But when he said so, Frodo only laughed.

"Yes, it will be. Bilbo thinks we'll be gone at least a year."

Sam's heart sank. It had been so dull for him these past few days, with Bilbo and Frodo in Buckland. What was he going to do if they were gone for a whole year? But Frodo seemed so happy, and it wasn't Sam's place to say anything so selfish. So instead, he helped Frodo sort through his clothing to find what looked the sturdiest for the trip. Frodo was too distracted to help much, but after half an hour, Sam had a neatly folded pile for him. Then, he went to help Mr. Bilbo in the pantry.

"Hello Sam!" Mr. Bilbo said, as soon as he went in. "Just the fellow I was hoping to see this morning."

"Frodo told me that you're going away," Sam said.

"Yes, precisely! I need someone to look after Bag End while I'm gone, and I thought I'd ask you and the Gaffer to take care of that for me. I don't want to come back and find that the Sackville-Bagginses have moved in during my absence."

Bilbo handed over the spare key, and Sam solemnly promised that so long as he held it, no Sackville-Bagginses would so much as darken the doorstep of Bag End.

"Good," said Bilbo. "That's settled, then. I'm very sorry our lessons will have to come to an end for the time being, but you are most welcome to come in whenever you would like and use my library."

This generous offer moved Sam nearly to tears, and he stammered out his thanks. He wasn't yet ready to read most of Mr. Bilbo's books, some of which were even in strange languages, but just looking through them made him feel that he was drawing close to marvelous things.

He fled the pantry, but didn't go home yet. He'd probably be put to work helping Ma and Marigold in the kitchen, and he didn't think he could face their chatter just now. Marigold was sixteen, three years younger than him, and that meant that she was pretty much always annoying.

So he sat by himself for a while outside Bag End, wrapping his arms around his knees. It was starting to get cold, he thought. It was going to be a long winter. It was going to be a long year, if Frodo and Mr. Bilbo really intended to be gone for that long. He didn't want to face it. He knew that once they were gone, his life would go back to being the way it always had. He liked his life a lot. But he liked it better when he got to spend time at Bag End.

"Sam?" someone asked. Frodo had stepped outside carrying two plates with slices of cake. He passed one to Sam. "This isn't going to last, so we'd better eat it up before we leave."

The cake, which Sam knew was delicious, felt dry in his mouth, and it was a challenge to chew and swallow it.

"I wish you could come too, Sam," Frodo said, putting down his plate. "I'm sure we'd have great adventures."

"Me, Mr. Frodo?" Sam laughed. "I'm the gardener's boy, I wasn't meant for adventures. The Shire is enough for me." To his own ears, he sounded insincere.

"I promise I'll bring you back something from Erebor. You probably wouldn't like it there anyway. Thorin says that nothing grows there at all."

"How is that even possible?"

Frodo shrugged. "The whole city is underground. Thousands and thousands of dwarves. They have all sorts of jewels and gold and silver, but not a single plant or anything."

"Hard to imagine living somewhere like that," Sam agreed. Then, he decided to ask something that had been bothering him for a long time. "Mr. Frodo, is Thorin really who he says he is?"

"What do you mean?"

But despite the innocent look in Frodo's blue eyes, Sam could tell he was hiding something. Frodo wasn't a very good liar.

"You don't have to tell me or nothing," he said. "But I've been thinking that he acts like he's somebody. Somebody important, I mean. And Mr. Bilbo kind of treats him like that too—leastways, as much as he treats anyone like that, if you know what I mean. And Gandalf brought a letter here for him, which I reckon he wouldn't do for just anyone."

"Can you keep a secret, Sam?"

"Cross my heart."

"You have to promise not to tell another living soul."

Sam nodded. Frodo leaned towards him.

"You know Erebor? The city I told you about? Thorin is the king of it."

Sam gave him a skeptical look.

"Are you pulling my leg, Mr. Frodo?"

"I swear I'm not. It's true."

Sam whistled. "Well, I see why Mr. Bilbo didn't want anybody to know about that."

"Bilbo just hates fuss, I think. I don't know how many people would have believed him anyway."

"So was it all just a story? What Thorin told me about being a blacksmith. Because he doesn't seem like a blacksmith, but he also doesn't…not, if you know what I mean."

"No, it's all true, I think. When Bilbo met him, he wasn't king of Erebor yet. He'd been a traveling blacksmith for a lot of years." Frodo told Sam about Smaug and the fall of Erebor and Dale, to the extent that he knew.

Sam just shook his head. It sounded like Thorin had a pretty hard life. It was one thing when Mr. Bilbo talked about his mysterious adventures, but another thing entirely thinking about what it would be like having a dragon descend on your home. He was just glad things like that didn't happen in the Shire.

He hoped Frodo wouldn't encounter any dragons, and wondered if he would be a very different person when he came back. Maybe he would have seen so many amazing things in Erebor that he wouldn't be interested in talking to Sam any more.

A few days later, Gandalf reappeared with his cart, and knocked on the bright green door of Bag End. Frodo and Bilbo started to load bundles of their things into the cart, and Sam helped with some of the heavier ones. Thorin paced around the cart, ignoring all of them and clearly impatient to be on his way. Bilbo gave Sam a string of instructions about looking after Bag End, for about the fourth time in the last three days. Then, he handed him a small pouch, which clinked as Sam closed his hand around it.

"For looking after the old place," Bilbo said. "Use it well."

Finally, they were ready. Everyone shook Sam's hand, even Thorin.

"Take care, young Master Gamgee," Gandalf said, peering deep into Sam's eyes. "I have the feeling we will meet again one day."

Then, Sam watched the cart disappear down the road. He ran after it a short ways, watching it get smaller and smaller in the distance, then turn into a cloud of dust, and then vanish entirely. After that, he headed back to Bag End to make sure everything had been left as Bilbo wanted and get the rest of the leftover cake out of the pantry.

He walked through the sitting room, and stopped to look at the axe above the fireplace. He liked to stop and look at that axe, because he'd never seen one like it before. All of the axes he had used had been made for cutting wood. But this axe was double headed, with two slightly smaller, wickedly curved blades that came to a point. It was an axe for fighting, and for cutting flesh. The blades were etched with strange, geometric designs, and the handle was inscribed with some sort of writing Sam could not read. It looked like some sort of runes, which Bilbo had showed him before, but had not taught him to understand. He remembered Thorin's story, about how he hadn't been able to read letters until he was an adult. So maybe Sam would learn to read runes some day, although he wasn't sure what good it would do him.

Now that Bag End was empty, he was able to do something he had always wanted to do. He dragged a chair over to the fireplace, hopped up on it, and took down the axe. It was heavy, and Sam nearly fell right off the chair when he picked it up. But he was a strong young hobbit, who spent a lot of his time digging, chopping wood, pushing wheelbarrows, and hauling heavy bags of soil. So his muscles strained, and he regained control of the axe before it made a dent in the floor. He got down from the chair, and gave it a tentative swing, careful not to damage any of Mr. Bilbo's property. Yes, the axe was heavy, but he could definitely wield it. It made him feel strong, and confident. Brave. Like a hero out of one of Bilbo and Thorin's stories.

He set the axe down on the chair, and opened the pouch Bilbo had given him. As he had suspected, it was full of silver. It might be pocket change for Bilbo, but it was more money than Sam had ever held in his life.

A little bit giddy with his newfound riches, he did something stupid. Or rather, a lot of somethings stupid. First, he wrapped the axe in a couple of big towels. He stuck it in a rucksack, along with a blanket and some food from the pantry that he had been meaning to take home anyway.

He borrowed paper and a quill from Bilbo's study and wrote a short note.

Dear Ma and Dad,

I'm sorry to be leeving like this but I think it is my only chance. I need to see what is outside of the Shire, and also I think Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo may be needing me later on. I would of told you myself only I thougt you would tell me don't go. I will try to be back soon. Here is the key to Bag End what Mr. Bilbo gave me, please look after it.

Your son,

Samwise

Sam frowned down at the note. His letter were untidy, and he was fairly sure he hadn't got all the words right. And his Gaffer was going to have to find someone who could read it to him. He sighed. It was the best he could do on short notice. At least his signature looked good. He locked the door to Bag End, folded the paper around the key, and slipped it under his own front door on his way down the road. Hopefully Marigold or his Gaffer would find it, but not soon enough to stop him from doing what he had decided to do.

Sam walked for a long time. He knew he would not be able to catch up with them very quickly, because they had a horse and cart, and he was on foot. He also did not want to catch up with them too quickly, because then they might send him back home. But Frodo had told him that Gandalf only intended to travel with them until they left the Shire, so after that they would also be on foot.

The best thing would be if he caught up with them right outside the borders of the Shire. It would be too far from Hobbiton to send him back by then, wouldn't it?

He realized that he did not actually know how long it would take him to get outside of the Shire. He had planned to find an inn or the like to spend the night, but as the sun set on that first day, there wasn't a hole or a building in sight. He was going to have to sleep out of doors. He kept walking for a while longer, despite how much his feet were starting to ache. It was getting cold, and the light was almost gone. So he found a spot off the road, wrapped his blanket around him, and shivered silently.

What had he been thinking? This had to be the stupidest thing he, or anyone, had ever done in the history of the Shire. He was stuck alone at night, in the dark. All sorts of wild animals could get him. There weren't very many vicious wild animals in the Shire, but he was sure that if they were out there, they would find him. He was never going to catch up with Bilbo, Frodo, and Thorin. He was going to get hopelessly lost, and die at the side of the road, and his parents and siblings would never know what had happened to him.

Then, he realized he was still only a day's walk from home. He should be more worried about them finding him then about them not finding him. He spent a sleepless night curled underneath a tree, clutching his blanket close, half expecting a search party to show up at any minute, not even sure if he wanted to be found or not. He wanted very badly to go home. But if he couldn't tough out this much, he surely wasn't meant to have adventures. He deserved to stay in the Shire forever. He unwrapped Bilbo's axe and held it in his lap, a guard against the dangers of the night.

The sun rose. Sam nibbled at some cheese, and stared at the road. One way led home, and the other led onward.

He put away his blanket, and kept walking.

The next few days were better, so long as he didn't let himself worry about whether he was actually going to ever find them or not. He hadn't realized how big the Shire actually was. But after that first night, he found inns and farmer's houses to sleep in, which he had the coin to pay for thanks to Bilbo's generosity. Shire folk were generally pretty nosy, but he managed to avoid their questions with some nonsense about being on an errand for his father and something to do with gardening. In general, he found that folk in the East Farthing really weren't so different from the West Farthing. He had thought they might be a bit strange, being closer to Buckland and all.

Just when he was getting used to the constant walking, and being on the road, he reached the Brandywine Bridge. It was all of stone, and looked enormous to him, spanning the river in a series of wide arches. Bilbo had told him once that it had not been built by hobbits, but by Men before hobbits ever came to this part of the world. Sam had thought that hobbits had always lived in the Shire. Where else would they live? But it seemed pretty clear to him, looking at the bridge, that it had not been built by his kind. It was too large, too imposing, and too old looking.

Sam took a deep breath. This was it. He hesitated for a moment at the edge of the bridge, and then kept walking. He tried not to look over the side as he crossed. He'd never been over the river before. Everyone in Buckland was odd, right? What if it was the act of crossing the river that made you odd? On the other hand, he was right now leaving the Shire, which made him pretty odd for a hobbit already. He should probably just keep walking.

When he had reached the other side, he stopped and looked back at the Brandywine River and at the Shire, which was now on the other side.

It was time to pick up his pace if he wanted to catch up with them. Hopefully they were no longer traveling by cart.

A few hours later, and he was already starting to despair of finding them. What if they were too far ahead? What if he had completely underestimated how much faster than him they were moving? He was starting to feel a bit panicked. He didn't have a lot of food left. He had never been outside the Shire before. The country around him didn't look very different from the Shire, but for all he knew strange things could start happening at any moment.

A little while later, he saw that a wagon train was coming down the road, going in the direction that he was walking. He had seen such wagons pass through the Shire before, although he, like most hobbits, had tended to keep his distance. There were at least five or six of them approaching him. His first thought was that he should see if they would take him with them for a while. Maybe he could pay. He would move a lot faster that way. He stepped out into the middle of the road, where they couldn't possibly miss him.

Strong arms seized him, yanking him off the road. A stocky figure in a travel-stained blue hood and cloak, too tall to be a hobbit, had pulled him into the underbrush.

"Get down," hissed a voice from beneath the hood. "Keep low, and try to stay out of sight. I don't think they were close enough to see you. What were you thinking, exposing yourself on the road like that? Anyone would think you were trying to get yourself turned into mincemeat, the way you carry on."

Sam panicked for a moment and tried to break free, but his captor was much stronger than him. His pack slid off his shoulder in the struggle. Half a dozen apples tumbled out, along with the towel-wrapped axe, which made an audible thump as it hit the ground.

"What's this, then?" asked the stranger. He extended a large, square hand and pulled back the wrapping from the axe. Then, he ran one of his fingers along a blade, tracing the etchings almost lovingly.

"I know this work," he whispered. He picked it up in one hand, feeling the weight of it. "But it's so small. How did you come by this, boy?"

He let his hood slip down off his head, revealing a lean, hawkish face and a shaggy mane of grey-flecked hair.

"Thorin," Sam gasped, still half in shock. A moment later, he realized that this was not Thorin, but a dwarf he had never seen before in his life. But other than that the beard was a bit longer, and that he was probably not as tall, he and Thorin did share a certain resemblance. Or maybe it was that Sam had just not seen very many dwarves before.

"What did you call me?" the stranger demanded. He grabbed Sam by the collar, and hauled him off his feet. Sam struggled a bit, but the dwarf did not let go no matter how he twisted, so he gave up and hung there limply.

"I'm sorry, sir," Sam gasped. "I thought you were someone I knew."

The dwarf stared at him. That gaze was familiar to Sam as well. It was the look of a predator towards his prey. But Sam had never been afraid that Thorin would hurt him. With this stranger he had no such guarantees. There was a short sword visibly sheathed at his waist, and he was holding Sam's axe in one hand like he knew how to use it, but he probably could just choke the life right out of him with one hand if he wanted too.

"Please," Sam whispered. "I can't breathe."

The dwarf set him back on his feet.

"This Thorin you know, what does he look like? Describe him to me."

"Well," Sam floundered. "He looks like…a bit like you, I suppose."

The dwarf continued to stare at him, as if Sam's thoughts were ripe tomatoes and he wanted to reach inside Sam's head and pluck them out.

"Dark hair?" Sam floundered. "Blue eyes? Tall?" He could add, he realized, that Thorin was the king of some far off dwarvish city, but that would be betraying Mr. Bilbo's trust. And that he refused to do, even at the cost of his own life.

"And how do you know him, exactly?"

"He's friends with Mr. Bilbo, who I work for. Visited him in the Shire." Sam hoped he wasn't saying too much. But this dwarf had acted like he had been trying to help him keep out of danger. "Do you know him?" he dared to venture.

The dwarf snorted. "I suppose you could say that." Sam could not tell from his tone whether this meant that he and Thorin were acquaintances, friends, or enemies.

"So," the dwarf continued. "A halfling boy, out on the Road, no idea how to stay out of trouble, carrying a tiny axe that was clearly made in the forges of Erebor. I've been watching you for hours, and can't make any sense of it. Who on earth are you and what are you doing?"

Along with the mention of Erebor, it was the resemblance to Thorin that made Sam decide to trust this dwarf. It wasn't that their faces were so alike, really. This dwarf didn't have as low a voice, but he still sounded like Thorin somehow. And something about how he moved just seemed so familiar to Sam. His instincts told him that despite this fellow's threats, he meant Sam no real harm.

"I'm actually looking for them," he admitted. "Mr. Bilbo, Frodo, and Thorin. That's why I was so surprised to see you. I wasn't thinking straight, but I thought for a moment maybe I'd found them."

The dwarf stared again. Sam marveled at his own talent at making this fellow lose his powers of speech.

"You think they're near here?" he asked at last, setting the axe back down on the ground amid the spilled apples.

"Don't know how far ahead," Sam said. "Maybe heading for Bree?"

The dwarf rubbed his palms together thoughtfully.

"All right," he said. "I'll make you a deal. Looks like we're headed in the same direction. So I'll travel with you until you find them. Because otherwise, you'll never make it. That much is obvious for anyone with even a single eye in his head."

Sam gulped. He didn't know this person. But he knew he needed help. He'd take his chances, and just do his best to be careful. He wrapped up the axe, and put it back in his pack.

"What do you want in return?" he asked. "I have some money." He started to reach for the pouch.

The dwarf rolled his eyes. "Don't go showing your money to strangers on the road, you little idiot. But no, I don't want your coin. I want a favor from you. I swear it won't be anything you can't do."

Sam shrugged. "All I'm really good at is gardening. You think I can help you?"

"I'm almost certain of it, if the circumstances end up aligning correctly. You don't need to know the details now. It's going to be a certain matter of information."

"Information?" Sam had no idea what he was talking about. "All right, I'll do my best."

"What's your name, little halfling?"

"Samwise Gamgee," said Sam, gingerly offering his hand. "Though folks mostly call me Sam."

The dwarf clasped his hand briefly, and then offered a little bob of a bow.

"Frerin Fundinson, at your service."

Chapter Text

Frodo woke to the smell of frying sausages. It was only when he felt the hard and lumpy ground digging into his back that he realized he was not in his own bed. He wriggled out of his bedroll and sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes and looking around for the source of the food.

Bilbo was in fact frying sausages in a little pan over their campfire, and Thorin and Gandalf were eating them. Gandalf waited for Bilbo to remove the sausages from the pan and put them on the tray that sat on the ground of that purpose, but Thorin was using a knife to snag them straight out of the pan. As a result of his impatience, Thorin was getting a lot more sausages. But perhaps wizards did not much care for breakfast.

Frodo scrambled over to the fire, and Thorin offered him a sausage, skewered on the point of the knife. Frodo plucked it off and tossed it between his fingers until it cooled enough to eat. But he wasn't very hungry. He was too excited to be on the road. This was only their second day of travel, but they were supposed to cross the Brandywine Bridge today. It would be the first time he had ever left the Shire. Well, unless he counted Buckland, which was not officially within the borders of the Shire. So to be precise, he had spent most of his life outside the Shire. Still, this time was going to be different, he just knew it.

"I've made some arrangements," Gandalf informed them, when they had finished the sausages. Frodo observed that even Gandalf knew not to try to talk to Thorin before breakfast.

"What arrangements are those?" Bilbo asked quickly, catching sight of Thorin's glower.

"I can't accompany you further than the edge of the Shire myself, but I've asked a friend to join you as an escort. I've known him for a long time, and I can promise that he is both skilled and reliable."

Thorin got to his feet, bringing him to eye level with Gandalf, who was seated on a fallen log.

"I absolutely refuse," he said. "I can protect my own."

"Thorin…" Gandalf's voice was calm. "Please don't argue about this. It's not an unreasonable request."

"Is it a request at all? Why did you not tell me of this sooner?"

Gandalf gave him an amused look.

"Perhaps I thought you might overreact."

"I'm not overreacting!" Thorin growled. "You are questioning my ability to take the halflings safely to Erebor. How do you think I should react?"

"I'm not questioning your competence, Thorin. I do realize that you haven't lived this long on fool's luck, no matter what it may seem like at times. I would never question your decision to travel unaccompanied by guards. But now, you have two non-warriors in your party, one of whom is barely more than a child. I think it will be safer if you have someone else with you who is skilled in arms and the ways of the Wild."

"Gandalf has a point," Bilbo broke in. "For Frodo's sake, we should take the extra protection."

"Very well," Thorin snarled. "For the boy's sake, I won't protest. But no matter how skilled this fellow is, Gandalf, I won't have him within a league of Erebor. That at least is still my decision to make." He stalked off, his jaw clenched tight.

Frodo helped Bilbo pack up the breakfast things, as Gandalf saw to the horse and the cart.

"Why is Thorin so angry?" he asked.

Bilbo sighed.

"It has to do with what has happened between him and Gandalf, I think."

"Thorin doesn't like Gandalf very much, does he?"

"No, he does not."

"But you like him, don't you?" Frodo was confused.

Bilbo gave a wry little smile.

"Yes, Gandalf has been a dear friend for most of my life, as he was to my mother and grandfather before me. But he is very wise, and the Wise are not always patient. He and Thorin have never gotten along very well. He thinks Thorin is proud and stubborn, and he's absolutely right. But as far as I know, even a wizard can't fix someone else's faults, and Thorin is a lot less difficult than he used to be."

This was the first time Frodo had ever really talked about Thorin with Bilbo.

"What did he used to be like?" he asked, fascinated.

"Even more quick-tempered, I suppose, and harder to talk to. Didn't trust anyone. He was a lot angrier, too. He has lost so much in his life, and he was forced to fight for everything he still had for so long that all he knew how to do was hang on to things desperately. You and I have never really needed to work for anything in our lives, so it's hard for us to imagine what it's like to be desperate for something for even a day, never mind for over a century."

Frodo thought back to how he had felt when he first thought Bilbo was leaving him to go to Erebor, and he had almost drowned in the river. He remembered what it felt like to be desperate and angry, and he never wanted to feel that way again.

"Dwarves are a possessive lot," Bilbo said. "It's just in their nature, like the way we hobbits love our meals and mushrooms. The people and things they care about, they tend to guard too fiercely." He stuck a hand in his waistcoat pocket, and seemed to be fidgeting with something within. "If you hadn't been here, Thorin never would have agreed to an additional guard. It seems that he has decided he cares about you. He was even ready to stay the winter in the Shire for your sake. I think perhaps you should know that."

Frodo turned away. He had agreed to leave Brandy Hall for Bag End, he realized, because he had hoped to find a family, something truer than the overwhelming mass of relatives he had grown up with. But the family he had found was turning out to be different than anything he could ever have imagined, and he didn't yet understand what it was or how he felt about it.

They crossed the Brandywine Bridge and were about an hour out of the Shire when Gandalf stopped and they all climbed down off the cart. The road was empty, and there was no visible reason why they had stopped, but Gandalf ushered them off into the forest a ways and signaled that they should wait.

A few minutes later, a green-cloaked figure emerged from the woods, moving almost soundlessly. He was one of the Big Folk, but taller than any Bilbo had seen before, lean and powerfully built. His age was impossible to guess. He was clearly past his first youth, but no grey had touched his dark hair, and his face was weathered the sun but unlined by age.

The man greeted Gandalf by name, and Bilbo realized with a start that he looked like one of the Rangers. He had never met a Ranger before. They rarely passed through the Shire, and kept their distance from hobbits when they did. They were known to be a suspicious, untrustworthy lot. But then again, Bilbo had always believed that dwarves were a suspicious, untrustworthy lot before he actually got to know some of them. It had turned out that on the whole, they weren't so bad beneath their rough exteriors. This fellow wasn't nearly as suspicious looking as, say, Dwalin or Nori. Besides, if Gandalf trusted him, he was probably reliable. Thorin was still looking irritable, and Frodo was hanging back behind him, so Bilbo forced what he hoped was a friendly and welcoming smile onto his face.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, and then placed a hand on his chest. "Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, at your service."

The Ranger, who had looked rather severe at first glance, smiled slightly at the dwarvish greeting.

"Gil, at yours and your family's."

Gandalf raised a bushy grey eyebrow. "Gil? That's new." The Ranger shrugged.

"Anyway," said Bilbo, hurrying on with the introductions, "That over there is my cousin Frodo. The hobbit, I mean, not the dwarf."

The Ranger's lip quirked.

"I could have guessed as much."

Everyone looked at Thorin. Bilbo could see him warring with the desire to give an obviously fake name, as the Ranger had done.

"Thorin son of Thrain," he said at last, very begrudgingly. If this meant anything to Gil, he gave no sign of it. Bilbo assumed that either Gandalf had told him who they all were already, or had decided that he didn't need to know.

"Follow me," said Gil, turning on one heel and heading further into the forest. "My camp is just this way. I've some food and supplies waiting."

"I like him already," Bilbo commented to Thorin.

"It's easy to win your affections," Thorin said. "You'd go along with an orc, if it offered you a three-course meal."

"That's a bit unfair," Bilbo protested. "I think I'd at least hold out for dessert."

He noticed that the Ranger could move almost silently in the woods, just as quietly as a hobbit. Not a twig snapped nor leaf stirred beneath his boots. And he could clearly sense Thorin's eyes on him, because every now and then he turned around and made eye contact, coolly, before resuming his steady, silent stride.

Soon they came to a clearing in the woods, where Gil had left a pot over the remains of a small campfire. A sturdy black pony was tethered to a tree nearby. Gil dished the stew out into bowls, and passed it around. Bilbo took a tentative bite. It was simple, and the meat was on the tough side, but it was well seasoned. Someone who knew how to cook on the road would be a useful companion, in his opinion. He could manage a bit himself, but he felt much more at home in his kitchen than over an open fire.

They ate in silence for a while. Gil did not seem to be the type to make conversation. Bilbo wondered if he would become any more talkative as time went on. He didn't mind a bit of contemplative silence on occasion, but if the Ranger was always this quiet, it was going to be a long few months to Erebor.

"Have you seen your father or brothers?" Gandalf asked Gil, scraping the last bit of stew out of his bowl.

"I saw my brothers a few months ago. They rarely come this far west when they could be in the east hunting orcs. My father, however…not recently."

"This is all very touching," Thorin cut in, "But I'd like to get moving again before the end of the day. Has Gandalf told you where we're going?"

"Erebor," said Gil.

"Any questions?" asked Thorin. He passed his half-eaten bowl of stew to Bilbo, who snuck a few bites out of it before regretfully emptying the rest onto the remains of the fire. It was such a shame to waste food on the road, and who knew when they'd get another substantial hot meal. Possibly not until they reached Bree.

Gil shook his head.

"I'll do my best to see that you get there. I have most of what we need to attempt crossing the mountains in winter."

"I had planned to cross them before winter," Thorin said.

Gil tilted his head to one side. "But I don't imagine you intend to sit and twiddle your thumbs until spring if winter comes early or we are delayed."

Thorin favored that comment with a grunt of agreement.

"This way, we won't have to buy much in Bree, just gear for the hobbits. I assumed you'd rather not advertise your expedition to half the merchants in the town?"

Thorin gave a curt nod of approval. Perhaps the Ranger's efficiency was winning him over.

Within a few minutes Gil had his few cooking utensils wrapped up and loaded back onto the little black pony, which he then untied and led off towards the road. They said their farewells, and Gandalf took his leave.

"Be careful," he whispered to Bilbo. "Your burglar's instincts may still serve you in good stead. And I warn you—the next time we meet, I intend to have the full story of your ring. I hope by then, you will share it willingly."

Bilbo bit his lip, and watched as Gandalf shook hands with his heir.

"Good-bye, young Master Frodo. I do hope your adventure proves to be everything you wanted."

"It doesn't have to be too exciting," said Frodo.

"Then let us hope for just the right amount of excitement."

Which was none, in Bilbo's opinion. But he wasn't twenty-one.

"That's a big sword for a dwarf," Gil observed coolly, watching as Thorin strapped Orcrist's sheath onto his back. "It's not heavy for you?"

Without hesitation, Thorin drew the sword, holding it in one hand and extending his arm fully, showing that the blade was absolutely steady. He passed it to Gil, hilt first.

The sword did look more proportional in the hands of the Ranger, who must have been over six feet tall. He took a few practice swings, lunging forward and to the side, and then spinning back around to face them. To Bilbo's inexperienced eye, he looked like he knew what he was doing. He handed Orcrist back to Thorin.

"A dwarf lord wielding an Elvish blade?"

Bilbo braced for the inevitable explosion from Thorin. To his shock, none came. Thorin merely raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, it is unusual," he agreed. "Almost as unusual as a Ranger who carries Man-made steel, but who knows how to fight in an Elvish style."

Gil mouth tightened.

"We should get moving," he said. He lifted Frodo onto the back of his pony, and set off down the road. The lad did not protest. He must be getting tired from all this travel. Bilbo hoped he would get used to the pace. They had a long way left to go.

"I don't trust this fellow," Thorin muttered to Bilbo a little while later. The Ranger was far enough ahead that he probably wouldn't be able to overhear them, unless he had unnaturally good ears.

"Why not?" Bilbo whispered back. "The obviously fake name? It didn't seem to bother Gandalf. I know he's a Ranger, but he doesn't seem like a bad person."

"No, it's not the name," said Thorin, sounding slightly exasperated. "But I do not think he is what he claims to be. He does not move like a woodsman."

"What do you mean? He couldn't move any more quietly if he were a hobbit."

"I know. But look at his legs, his stride. He walks like someone who has spent a lot of time on horseback in the past. I would guess he has some cavalry experience. And watch this."

Thorin brought one of his enormous boots down deliberately onto a large twig in the road. It let out a startling "crack".

From twenty paces away, Gil spun around, his hand going to the hilt of a sword Bilbo hadn't realized he was wearing under his forest-green cloak.

"Sorry," Thorin called, deceptively mild. An apology from Thorin was about as scarce as mithril, Bilbo thought, and this one definitely had teeth in it.

"What was that about?" Bilbo asked a minute later, when everyone seemed calm again.

"Did you see the way he reacted?"

"He was startled. I would have been too. It's loud when you go stomping on things."

"Yes, but it's a question of how he was startled. He definitely has the reactions of someone who has been in battle."

"All right," Bilbo said. "I think I understand what you're getting at. You think he's not really a Ranger, or at least is more than just a Ranger. But why is that so suspicious? It's like saying that you are more than just a blacksmith. People have complicated lives sometimes."

"I suppose that is true," Thorin agreed. "But the strange thing was how he handled Orcrist."

"You said he knew how to fight in an Elvish style."

"Not just that," said Thorin. "Orcrist is an unusual sword. I was trained using weapons made by my people, and it took me quite some time to fully adjust to its weight and balance. But he was completely comfortable with it. He's used similar weapons before. Elvish weapons. And there is something else odd about him. I've seen a few elven warriors in my life, and this Gil moves like the old ones."

"How can you even know that?" Bilbo asked.

"I can't be sure," Thorin admitted. "But many races and nations came to the forges of Erebor in my youth, and we had a chance to handle most of their weapons. We didn't make arms for the elves, of course, but we still saw them fight. Balin's father, Fundin, was fascinated by different fighting styles, and spent much of his time studying the sword-styles of other cultures, when he wasn't in the forges trying to design new weapons of his own. He was shameless about cornering visiting delegations to have a look at their weapons, and he'd spend hours discussing the finer points of this style or that sword to anyone who expressed the remotest interest, and Dwalin and I were frequently among his captive audience. So I'd have to watch for longer to have a better idea, but I would bet my sharpest axe that whoever taught Gil the sword was not born in this Age."

"All right," said Bilbo. "So you think he's suspicious and associated with Elves. We'll keep an eye on him. But he hasn't done anything wrong yet. I don't think Gandalf would have asked someone untrustworthy to travel with us."

"A wizard's purposes are his own," Thorin said darkly.

Bilbo gave up. Besides, Thorin's speculations had caught his imagination. He wouldn't mind knowing more about the Ranger's background himself. He had the feeling it would prove interesting. He wasn't above doing some prying of his own, if he could find the right moment.

"I'll take first watch," Thorin said that night, after they made camp and ate a disappointingly light supper.

Bilbo wished they could have carried more food with them, but they were going to have to do some hunting and gathering in between here and Bree if they wanted to make their diet more interesting. At least, Thorin and Gil would have to do some hunting. Bilbo didn't think he was going to be much use at finding food, beyond his ability to recognize five different kinds of edible mushrooms and about fifteen kinds of poisonous ones.

"I can take it," said Gil. He was smoking a pipe after supper. Longbottom leaf, if Bilbo was not mistaken, which showed that he at least had a discriminating palate for some things. "I do not mind."

Thorin glowered.

"I said I'd do it." He stalked away from the fire and seated himself cross-legged on a rock overlooking their campsite.

Frodo yawned.

"He's not in a very good mood, is he?" he said.

Bilbo patted his shoulder, and then turned to the Ranger. "Thorin won't sleep for a while anyway, he never does. If he wants the first watch, let him have it."

"Suits me." Gil lay back on his bedroll, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "You're very loyal, aren't you?"

Bilbo laughed at the idea. "I doubt he'd say so."

"He seems to trust you, and he doesn't seem like the type who trusts easily."

"Don't you have any comrades you've been through dark places with? People you'd trust your back to through any trial?"

Gil tilted his head to one side, considering. "I don't know. Not anymore, I don't think. I've been traveling alone for a while."

"Well, listen to me, lad, it's better to have friends than to be alone."

The Ranger smiled, a quiet, slow smile.

"Gandalf said you were surprising. I think I'm starting to see what he meant."

Frodo was already fast asleep, snoring gently, but Bilbo didn't feel at all tired. He joined Thorin up on his rock. He was feeling a bit tense, now that Gandalf was gone and they were out of the Shire. In the absence of tea, he thought that a small argument might settle his nerves.

"I hope you intend to sleep sometime in between here and Erebor," he commented.

"Don't scold. I'll sleep when I'm tired."

"Did you ever sleep? As a child, I mean? Or have you always stayed up half the night pacing in circles and wearing out perfectly good boots?"

"I'm not sure," said Thorin, for once refusing to rise to Bilbo's bait. "At least, I think I slept in Erebor. But during our time of wandering, Frerin used to be furious with me whenever I got up in the night. All of us were light sleepers in those days, and he would wake up every time I so much as rolled over. He said that the next time I blundered past him in the night, he was going to bash my head in with an axe."

Bilbo had to suppress his absolute astonishment. Frerin was Thorin's brother, who had died in battle many, many years ago. Bilbo knew about him from Balin, who was much more willing to talk about the past, but Thorin had never so much as uttered his name in Bilbo's hearing before.

"So you stopped getting up at night?" he asked, keeping his

Thorin snorted. "Hardly. I believe I told him I'd like to see him try and stop me, only in somewhat more provocative terms. Dwalin had to separate us." He grinned. "I think I won the fight, though." He lapsed back into silence, staring at the dying light of the fire. "That was a long time ago. A very long time ago."

"You don't talk about your brother," Bilbo said. "Why is that?"

Thorin did not speak at first. Bilbo thought he might not answer at all.

"He was just a boy," he said at last. "His life cut off before it could begin, almost two centuries ago now. We burned him at Azanulbizar, along with thousands of grandfathers and fathers and brothers and sons. I can hardly remember his face. What is there to talk about?"

Sam was exhausted. It felt like he had been walking all day without a single moment of rest, probably because he had. Frerin Fundinson kept up a grueling pace. Sam was tempted to call it a forced march. But he had to admit, they were moving much more quickly than he had been on his own, even if he sometimes had to jog to keep up with the dwarf.

Frerin wasn't talkative, and Sam was mostly too out of breath to try to make conversation. He was just glad that Frerin didn't seem to be trying to pry more information out of him about Thorin. Frodo had made him promise to tell no one about who Thorin really was, and Sam had promised, and he intended to keep his promise. He had decided to trust Frerin, or at least to accept his help, because he didn't have a whole lot of choice. But he was worried about what the strange dwarf's intentions were. What if he was an enemy? Thorin seemed like the type of person who had enemies.

Finally, when it was getting dark, Frerin stopped so abruptly that Sam, who had been trotting along behind him, nearly ran right into his back.

"Time to stop for the night," he said. "It's too dark for a fire. You can take the first watch."

Sam stared at him blankly.

Frerin rolled his eyes.

"You don't even know that much? It's not safe on the road, so we're going to take turns sleeping. I'm going to sleep first. You watch and wake me up if there's any sign of trouble, since I don't expect you'll be much use, even with your fancy axe."

"All right," said Sam. "I get it." He bit his lip. He knew he wasn't much of a traveler, but he didn't want to annoy the only person he had who might help him.

He ate one of his apples, which were starting to look a bit worse for wear, and Frerin ate something dried and tough-looking out of his own pack. Sam wondered if he was going to share when he ran out of food. He had planned on catching up with Bilbo's group sooner, and had only taken enough for a few days. Frerin did not seem to be carrying a lot of supplies. Sam wondered how far he had traveled.

"Frerin?" he asked, after hesitating for a minute. "Are you traveling somewhere? Other than Bree with me, I mean?"

"We're all going somewhere," the dwarf said.

"That's not much of an answer," Sam protested.

"You've got a mouth on you, don't you? It's as much of an answer as you're getting tonight."

Sam shut up, and sat staring out into the darkness. He hoped that Frerin wouldn't make him keep watch for too long, because his entire body ached and his head felt heavy. He just wanted to go to sleep. He struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground a little ways away, covered by his blanket. Frerin was leaning against a tree, humming to himself. Sam closed his eyes again. As he drifted back to sleep, he heard singing, soft and low.

Sof lilan na dhazad rûk

Mahal olak sezt chanlukh?

Vezedrûn o vezedrûn,

Na dern lilan hanfun?

But it sounded so distant to his ears, muffled by the fog of sleep, that he thought he might be imagining it. He pulled the blanket around himself more tightly, too tired to so much as wonder how it had got there in the first place.

Chapter Text

Frodo woke after only a few hours, and despite a great deal of tossing and turning, he could not manage to fall back asleep. Bilbo had set his bedroll down nearby, but was nowhere to be seen. Gil, the Ranger, was lying a few feet away with his back to Frodo. He seemed to be asleep, but Frodo walked as quietly as he could, just in case.

He found Thorin still keeping watch, sitting cross-legged on a rock overlooking their camp. Bilbo lay curled next to him.

"Bad dream?" Thorin asked.

Frodo shook his head. Thorin gave Bilbo a none-too-gentle prod. Bilbo let out a snore.

"Your cousin climbed up here to keep me company, and then fell asleep. I'm not about to drag him back down to his bedroll, though. It will be his own fault if he's too stiff to walk tomorrow."

"I can't sleep," Frodo admitted, feeling childish. "I just wanted to talk to someone. Can you tell me a story?"

"A story?" Thorin sounded amused. "What sort of story?"

"I don't know," Frodo said. "A scary one, I guess."

"A scary story to help you sleep?"

Frodo smiled sheepishly, and felt a sudden pang of homesickness for Buckland and the familiar faces at Brandy Hall

"When Merry and I were little, whenever we couldn't sleep, we'd go and bother our uncle Seredic. He hated being woken up, especially since Doderic was just a baby and he wasn't getting that much sleep anyway. But he didn't want to ignore us, so he started telling us scary stories instead. I think he hoped we'd get so frightened we would start bothering someone else, but it didn't work. We loved it, and came and woke him up almost every night for a while, until he ran out of stories and started repeating himself."

"I am not sure the kinds of stories I know are the sort of story you are looking for."

"I like your stories," Frodo prompted. "They're different than the ones people tell in the Shire." In truth, scary stories in the Shire were really not that frightening, compared to some of the things Thorin and Bilbo had seen with their own eyes.

"Very well. This story begins over thousand years ago, in the days of my seven-times grandfather, Thrain son of Nain son of Durin the Sixth. His father and grandfather were the last kings of Moria, and within two years Thrain saw them both slain by Durin's Bane and witnessed the fall of their kingdom. And so he and the remnants of his people were forced into exile, to seek their fortune far from the home of their forefathers."

"What was Durin's Bane?" asked Frodo.

"A terrible monster of fire and shadow, which lay hidden beneath the earth until Durin's miners disturbed its rest. Some say that it still slumbers in Moria to this very day, although I have not seen it with my own eyes. In any case, Durin woke it, and it smote him and his son Nain, and the Dwarves of Moria were forced to flee."

"Eventually, Thrain would settle Erebor, and lead Durin's Folk to new wealth and glory. But before that, they had to wander for many years. Thrain was only forty-seven years old when he inherited his crown, not even of age. His people were tired and terrified."

"'Your father and grandfather are dead,' they told him, 'And what good were they to us? Because of their greed we have seen the last days of Khazad-dûm, where we have dwelt since the days of Durin the Deathless. Is this what has become of Durin's line, that they lead us to folly and death? We will choose a new leader, and let him bring us to better a fortune."

"At first Thrain despaired. He was proud, and had no intention of watching another dwarf be crowned in his stead, especially an older, more experienced warrior. And so, he slipped away one night, leaving behind everything he possessed, except the clothes on his back, his battle-axe, and the ring he had inherited from his father, which was said to bring good luck to Durin's heirs."

"He traveled north. He had many adventures, some of which are still recounted among our folk to this day. Eventually he came to Angmar. Perhaps you have heard of the reign of the Witch-king of Angmar? His kingdom was destroyed several years before Thrain went there, and the Witch-king had been driven out or killed, but many strange things were said to dwell among the ruins of Carn Dûm."

"No one knows what Thrain found there. He spent almost year in Carn Dûm, or so he guessed, for it was autumn when he stepped into the city, and midsummer when he left. But he had no memory of what had happened within its walls. He only knew that something must have occurred, for he was filled with a terrible dread when he thought of setting foot in that place again."

"At last, he rejoined his people in their wanderings. 'I have come to take up my grandfather's crown again,' he said, and they mocked him, saying that his beard was yet too sparse and he was still too young to be their king. They had appointed a council of twenty warriors, all over a hundred and fifty years of age and among the most renowned fighters of their generation. These dwarves, they said, were far better suited to lead Durin's Folk than Durin's own heir was."

"Thrain became filled with rage. He swore he would fight each and every one of those warriors, rather than relinquish his birthright a second time."

"'Each of us will face you in single combat,' the council told him. 'If you can defeat all twenty, we will again consider you our king.'"

"A strange thing happened then. As he took up his axe, and faced the first warrior, so great was Thrain's anger that he became as one possessed. He fought as no one had seen a dwarf fight before, feeling neither pain nor fear. However, he also lost his reason, and his mind became shrouded in a red haze of wrath. When he again came to his senses, he found that he was bleeding from many wounds, which he had not felt until that moment. All twenty members of the council lay dead before him, although he had never intended that they should die. His injuries were serious, but he lived, and nobody argued with his right to be king after that."

"Besides Durin the Deathless himself, Thrain ruled for longer than any other of my forefathers, and he ruled wisely and well. He led his people to Erebor, and became the first King Under the Mountain. His was a time of peace and prosperity. But something odd had happened to the blood of Durin in Angmar. His eldest son and heir, Thorin, seemed normal enough, but he had a second son who at a young age fell prey to the same battle-madness that Thrain had. And from then on, there was an instability among Durin's heirs, which was both prized and feared. None of the kings of Durin's Folk ever suffered from it, but for several generations, many dwarves born of royal blood were heavily afflicted by that battle-madness. It made them invincible in battle, but also unable to think rationally or tell friend from foe. Sometimes, they would go from battle-mad to entirely insane by the time they were of age. But by my grandfather's time, there were few of them left. I myself have never fought with or alongside a berserker, although I have known a few warriors with a lesser sort of battle-madness. That is terrible enough to behold if you are not used to it. I am grateful that the Curse of Angmar, as it was once known, is fading from our blood. But I am not fool enough to believe it gone entirely. It cannot have been natural in origin. But I think I am glad that we will never know what Thrain found in Carn Dûm."

The story seemed to be over. Frodo let out a long, shuddering breath, and hugged his knees tightly against his chest.

"Was that scary enough?" Thorin asked.

"Oh, yes," Frodo breathed. "I don't think I'm going to sleep at all now. Just thinking about Angmar is giving me the shivers. Thrain really lost his memory of an entire year?"

Thorin laughed, and ruffled his hair.

"I don't think you have to worry about Angmar, Frodo."

Sam woke to a rough shake and Frerin's bearded face glowering down at him.

"You've slept enough. Wake up, and get me some kindling for the fire."

"We can have a fire now?"

"Now that it's light out."

Frerin made some sort of lumpy porridge for breakfast, and passed the bowl to Sam after he had eaten his fill. Sam swallowed it dutifully, thinking about how much better it would taste with a sprinkling of nuts or some honey. But he was grateful that Frerin was sharing food with him, without him even needing to ask for it. So after the porridge had gone into it, he kept his mouth shut.

Then Frerin opened up a tin of some fine black powder that gave off a pungent aroma. He scooped a couple of spoonfuls into a cup, and poured hot water over it. After letting it cool for a few minutes, he took a few gulps, and then offered the cup to Sam.

Sam took a tentative sip, and nearly spat the stuff out. It was bitter and foul-tasting. He passed it back to Frerin, who laughed openly at the look on his face.

"What is that?" Sam demanded.

The dwarf was still chuckling.

"Coffee. Which you've never seen before, apparently."

"I have so," said Sam. "Mr. Bilbo has some in the pantry. It's not like that stuff at all, it's little beans." He wondered if Frerin was pulling his leg.

Frerin took another long drink of the horrible liquid, and dumped out a disgusting black sludge from the bottom of the cup.

"Come on, boy, we should get moving if you want to find your friends in this lifetime."

"I'm not a child," Sam muttered, getting to his feet. His muscles creaked in protest, and he did not feel at all ready for another day of trekking.

"Aren't you, then?"

"I'm nineteen," he insisted. "Almost a tween. And I'm big for my age too, everyone says so."

"Well, where I come from, you aren't a man until you have forged your first weapon and made a kill with it."

"I've killed things," Sam said. "Well, mostly chickens, I guess. And a pig, one time."

To his surprise, Frerin grinned at him, a flash of surprisingly white, even teeth above the black beard.

"I think it only counts if the pig was trying to kill you back."

In that moment, Sam thought that Frerin didn't seem like such a bad person. Even the grueling pace didn't seem as painful today, although his legs still hurt from jogging after the dwarf.

Then, a short while later, Frerin suddenly veered off the road into the woods.

"Come on, Sam. We're going to take a short cut."

Sam groaned. There was no trail, only a mass of treacherous roots to stumble over and low-hanging branches to smack into.

After that, there was a lot of scrambling and panting and hacking at branches with Frerin's sword and Sam's little axe. But Frerin did let them stop for a midday break, and even offered Sam a strip of some dried meat. It didn't smell very good, but Sam gnawed at it dutifully, trying not to breath through his nose.

Then, Frerin pointed out a stream where they could refill their waterskins. Sam pulled out the little flask he had taken from Bilbo's pantry, which was long since empty. Frerin gave him a disbelieving look.

"Is that all you have?"

Sam flushed.

"I didn't know how long this was going to take," he said.

Frerin tossed him one of his own waterskins.

"Never count on finding water," he growled. "You need to carry at least enough for a couple days, in this part of the world. More, if you were somewhere hotter and drier."

Sam nodded, and squatted down by the stream to fill it. When he was done, they walked in silence again. But Frerin had slowed his pace somewhat, taking long, loping strides instead of brisk ones.

"You seem eager to get yourself killed," he said to Sam eventually. "Do you have a family, back in the Shire? Parents? Brothers and sisters."

"I have parents," Sam said. "And two brothers and three sisters. I'm the youngest but one, and we're the only ones left at home now."

"What if you get yourself into some trouble and never see them again?"

Sam stopped walking. He hadn't thought the world outside the Shire was as dangerous as all that. Was Frerin exaggerating?

"I didn't think about it," he admitted. "I just felt like I needed to go."

"Now that I'm telling you, do you want to go home?"

Sam shook his head.

"I've come this far. I'm not going back now."

"Erebor is a lot farther. You'd better know your own mind."

At least he'd be with Frodo and Mr. Bilbo, and not with some mysterious stranger, Sam thought, but knew better than to say so out loud.

"Do you have a family somewhere?" he asked instead.

"Maybe I grew out of stone," Frerin suggested. "Haven't you ever heard that story?"

Sam laughed. "That's ridiculous. Even dwarves must have parents."

"How do you know?"

Sam thought about it. He'd never seen a dwarf-woman, nor heard one mentioned. He had just assumed they must exist.

"Because Thorin has a family," he said triumphantly. "He has a nephew, I've heard him say so. And so dwarves can't grow from stone."

Without any warning, Frerin lunged towards Sam. His eyes were blazing. A moment before seizing him by the shoulders, he stopped dead and let his arms drop to his sides. But Sam could see that his hands were still trembling violently.

"His nephew," he hissed. "What did he tell you? What did he say? Tell me!"

Sam took a step back. Clearly he had just made a horrible mistake. He hadn't meant to say anything about Thorin at all. And yet, at the smallest hint of information, Frerin looked about ready to throttle him.

"Nothing," he stammered. "Really, nothing at all."

Suddenly, the life seemed to go out of Frerin, and his shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. Let's get moving."

After that, they were both silent.

When Gil spotted the young deer, Bilbo suggested they ignore it. They would be in Bree in a day or so, and did not really need the food.

"You did say you wanted venison," Frodo pointed out, from his perch atop the pony.

"I don't mind my venison a little less fresh."

But Gil and Thorin already had their bows out and strung. Hunting was an urge that Bilbo had never really understood, but clearly they were both itching to kill something.

Gil eyed the distance between them and the deer, which was nibbling at a shrub about a hundred feet away.

"I don't want to waste time chasing it around the woods," he said to Thorin. "If I send it back this way, can you take it down?"

Thorin nodded, and Gil stepped silently to the far side of the road, moving slowly and deliberately.

"What's going to stop it from just running back into the woods?" Frodo piped up.

"Just watch," Thorin said. "He's going to come up behind it and try to startle it so that it runs towards us." He nocked an arrow, and waited.

Gil crept in a wide circle around the deer, ending up in the woods behind it. He bent down and scooped up a stone, which he aimed at a tree just behind the creature. Its head jerked up and it dashed down the road in Thorin's direction.

Thorin raised his bow and fired, but his left arm was shaking, and the arrow went wide of the mark. The deer changed course, darting sideways into the forest. Cursing, Thorin dropped the bow and pulled a small throwing axe from within his cloak. With his good arm, he sent it spinning towards the deer. It struck home, nearly taking the creature's head off.

Frodo gagged. Bilbo rather shared the sentiment.

"Well, that made a mess," Gil said, loping back towards them. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing," Thorin growled.

Gil seemed to have forgotten all about the deer, which was lying in a bloody heap twenty paces away. Bilbo tried not to look at it.

"Show me," Gil demanded. "How far can you lift it?"

Thorin glowered, but raised his arm to about shoulder height. Bilbo thought he was probably considering using it to punch Gil in the face.

"So you're a healer too, along with all your other talents?" Thorin was prying again, and apparently willing to put up with small indignities while he fished for more information about the Ranger.

"I have some skill," Gil said. "Now, make a fist. Flex your fingers." Bilbo could see that Thorin's hand didn't open or close all the way. He hadn't noticed that before.

"How did you do this?"

"It was a long time ago," Thorin said, dropping his arm. "It doesn't matter any more."

"If you two are quite finished," Bilbo said, "Could someone please see to that deer? Frodo and I will be waiting further along the road."

Thorin joined them a few minutes later, carrying a neat (if slightly bloody) package. He looked satisfied. Probably Gil had insisted on clearing their trail as a safety precaution, and Thorin had abandoned him to dispose of the inedible parts of the deer.

"I don't think I've ever seen you shoot before," said Bilbo.

Thorin grimaced. "You won't again any time soon. But I used to be a fairly good shot, when I was younger. Dwalin and I spent a lot of time escaping our lessons and going hunting, which was excellent practice. And I hunted often enough in the Ered Luin, although that was more for survival than entertainment. Where did you think Kíli learned?"

"I never thought about it," Bilbo admitted. "I suppose he must have learned somewhere."

He was remembered Kíli's first attempt at shooting that winter in Erebor. Kíli had replaced the bandage over his ruined left eye with a dark patch, and taken his bow and arrow down to the newly constructed archery range. But before long, the floor around the straw targets was strewn with arrows, while the targets themselves remained empty. Eventually, Kíli had hurled his bow across the room in frustration, and had not made another attempt, at least while Bilbo was in Erebor.

"Did he ever take up his bow again?" Bilbo asked. "Or was it impossible, with the eye like that?"

"He did, but only recently," Thorin said. "For a long time he avoided it. I think it was good for him, in a way, since it gave him a chance to improve his skills on other weapons. It's dangerous for a dwarf to rely on archery. Our eyesight tends to fail early, especially when we spend most of our lives underground and at the forge." He glanced down at his own left hand, and flexed the stiff fingers. "I'm the rare case—my eyes are still fine, but I don't think I'd do well at detailed work these days."

"A good thing you're the king, then, and have other people to make things for you."

Thorin acknowledged this with a nod.

"So with only one good eye to start with, I'm glad Kíli chose to focus on the sword for a while. But about five years ago, he decided to take up his bow again. He'll never be as good as he was, but with some practice, he has achieved a reasonable level of skill."

It gave Bilbo some hope, hearing that. Kíli hadn't lost absolutely everything he had once valued.

Frodo felt slightly disappointed by Bree. Bilbo had told him that it was not a very big village, but he had never seen Outsiders up close before, and had somehow expected them to look different from Shire-folk. But he found that while it was impressive to see a few hundred buildings all in the same area, something he had never before witnessed, the people did not look much different than he was used to. The hobbits looked just like the inhabitants of the Shire, and the Big Folk looked rather like…well, like hobbits, he supposed. They weren't that much taller than Thorin, and they had curly brown hair and were inclined to stoutness.

But not that much taller than Thorin was still a couple feet taller than Frodo. He wondered what it would be like living alongside Big Folk. He suspected he might start to feel rather small, and that was very strange, because he had always thought that hobbits were quite normal sized, and that Thorin and (especially) Gil were just freakishly large, and he had wondered if it was uncomfortable being so tall…

But from now on, he was the small one, and he was going to have to make sure no one stepped on him.

"This used to be a major center of trade," Thorin told him, as they walked along Bree's cobbled streets. "When the North-South Road was still being used, this place was one of the most important crossroads in Middle-earth, where East, West, North, and South all met."

"How long ago was that?" he asked.

"A thousand years or more," Gil broke in. "Not since the fall of the kingdom of Arnor."

"Arnor?" Frodo gave Bilbo a confused look.

"Yes, lad, there was a great kingdom of Men here once. It's where the Brandywine Bridge came from, although we in the Shire hardly remember it now."

"And with good reason," said Gil. "Very little remains of that kingdom. Even its ruins are rarely visited, and its people—"

"Hey there, Strider!" shouted an unpleasant voice. It turned out to belong to an unpleasant looking young man, who Frodo judged to be in his tweens, with lank, greasy hair and a sallow complexion. He was followed by five or six other boys, and they all looked like they were out for trouble. It was an expression that Frodo knew all too well.

"Who are they talking to?" he asked, tugging uncomfortably at his cloak. Bullies were something he understood, but these were rather larger than the bullies he had experienced in his short life.

"Just ignore them," Gil said. "They're harmless. Well, almost." This last was stated as a clump of mud went flying past his ear.

"Hey, Strider!" shouted their ringleader again. "Found some friends, did you? Shirelings and a dwarf? What trouble are you lot up to now?"

Several stones came whizzing at them, as the boys became more enthusiastic in their taunts. Mostly they went quite wide of the mark, but one struck Thorin on his boot, and the dwarf clenched his fists. The next hit Gil on the cheek.

The Ranger stopped in his tracks, and wheeled around to face their juvenile tormentors.

"Bill Ferny, stop this nonsense immediately or I shall box your ears and take you home to your mother, who I'm sure will be delighted to tan your hide for you as you so richly deserve." He let his cloak fall back to show the hilt of his sword. The boys cowered and ran off.

"Rangers are not very well-regarded in these parts," Gil remarked.

"I would have done more than just threaten those imbeciles," Thorin said.

"They're just children. Stupid, dirty, misguided children, but it's hard to get too angry with them after you have seen what real evil looks like."

"And you have?"

Gil's eyes went distant for a moment. "Yes, I suppose I have."

"What did they call you?" Frodo asked. "Strider?"

"That's how I'm known in these parts. Not my favorite name, but it serves well enough in Bree."

"Don't worry," Frodo assured him. "We can keep calling you Gil if you like."

Thorin and the Ranger exchanged a speculative look.

"We are a rather distinctive group, are we not?" Thorin asked. "And you are already known here, while the hobbits are strangers, and I have not been here in half a century. I don't think it likely that many now live who would recognize my face."

Gil nodded.

"Perhaps we should strive to be less memorable. I was going to suggest that we split up," he agreed. "Give me that venison, Thorin, and the pony. I will be a good-for-nothing Ranger selling his spoils in the market, and take the opportunity to buy us some more supplies. Bilbo and Frodo will be curious travelers from the Shire, and Thorin…"

"Many of my kin travel this road between the Ered Luin and the East," Thorin said. "They'll take me to be a traveling blacksmith, or tinker, or merchant of some sort, no doubt."

"Very well," said Bilbo. "It seems a good plan to me. Then we shall all arrive at the Inn separately, stay the night, and leave separately tomorrow morning? But please, let's all come down to the inn's common room tonight after supper so we can see that all is well, even if we don't speak."

This plan was agreed to by all, and Gil took the pony's halter and headed off across town to where supplies could be bought and sold.

"He's careful," said Thorin. "That, at least, I can approve of. Now, let us be on our way. Did you know that this inn in Bree was where I first met Gandalf? And where he insisted that he be permitted to choose a fourteenth member for my Company? So I suppose that without the Prancing Pony, none of us would have ever met."

"I'd still know Bilbo," Frodo pointed out.

"Thorin was expressing a sentiment, Frodo," said his cousin. "Don't interrupt."

Chapter Text

"Were you planning to fight this bout today or next week?" Gimli grumbled, shrugging into his practice armor. The padded garment wasn't going to offer very much protection, but they weren't using real weapons either.

Helm was still braiding his beard. Normally he wore it in a long, waist length plait, but that could get in the way in a fight. So instead, he had braided it into a number of smaller braids, which he was currently braiding into bigger braids, which would end up as a single looped braid fastened with a clasp. It was a braid that any dwarf would envy, and it was taking forever.

Gimli didn't hold with that kind of vanity, especially before a fight. But Helm, like many from the Iron Hills, didn't hesitate to bedeck himself. Even now, he was wearing an enormous diamond ring on one hand—probably a gift from his father. Gimli had grown up among poorer folk, and had never really accustomed himself to dressing like a prince, even if he, like Helm, was a lord among Durin's Folk. Besides, his father had always insisted that it was soft to wear gemwork you hadn't made or at least earned yourself.

Finally, Helm finished his braiding, and picked up his sword, which was steel, but dull enough that it wouldn't cut butter.

"I wish we were using real weapons," he said. "It looks idiotic, to fight a bout with practice weapons."

"Balin doesn't want blood," Gimli said. "For obvious reasons." He picked up his own sword. "Let's get this over with."

Helm rubbed at his scar, the red ridge that ran from his scalp down to the bridge of his nose. He'd acquired it, and the name "Stonehelm" due to an encounter with an orc axe at the age of fifty. Really, given the circumstances, "Stoneskull" would be more appropriate, Gimli thought.

He did not like Helm. This was partly because Dain had been trying to get him made Thorin's heir for years (and would doubtless try harder now that Kíli was to be married), partly because Gimli didn't like anyone from the Iron Hills, and partly because Helm was just plain annoying.

"All right," said Helm, nudging Gimli hard in the ribs. "Let's go. I hope you put your money on me, because there's no way you are winning this one."

Gimli made a rather childish face at him, followed by a rude gesture. They stepped out into the arena.

Their little duel was supposed to be the culmination of several weeks of intense sword training with Balin. Somehow, it had managed to turn into a major event in Erebor. Neither Gimli nor Helm was a particularly skilled swordsmen, which had only added to the excitement somehow. Good fights were nothing unusual, but to see two of Erebor's finest warriors making fools of themselves with blades was something to be anticipated. Perhaps that was why Balin had decided on the bout in the first place—his pupils suddenly had an incentive to work at not looking like idiots. In any event, Nori had been running the betting pool for days.

And that was why half of Erebor seemed to be seated around the arena, waiting for the show to start.

"Is Kíli coming?" Helm asked under his breath.

"He said he might. He wanted to look over the defenses this morning, and everyone else is here."

"Huh. He probably just felt sorry for us."

They walked to opposite sides of the arena and saluted each other, to the shouting and whistling of their audience. Balin briefly explained the rules, to the effect that no real weapons would be used, that he would be the judge of the winner, and that they were expected to actually use their swords for the entire time and not drop them and start punching each other instead, even if that was more fun.

Then, they began. There was no question that they had improved in the last few weeks, even if Gimli still longed for his axe. Unfortunately, Helm was both taller and faster than he was. When Gimli had an axe and his heavy armor, it didn't matter if he was slow. But in this kind of match, he had no real armor, and had to move quickly enough to defend himself. He felt exposed.

Helm lunged, and Gimli managed to counter him and drive him back a few steps, although he didn't get in a counterattack. Helm circled around him slowly, waiting for an opening. Gimli held his sword at the ready, wondering if he could pull off a feint that Balin had drilled with him the day before.

Well, why not? Otherwise he would end up spending the next hour waiting for Helm to make another move.

He lunged, pretending to aim for the neck. Then, when Helm tried to parry, he would change course and aim lower instead.

He was too slow, and Helm caught his blade high. Gimli tried to force both swords down rather than back away again.

His practice sword snapped.

Gimli bellowed a curse. Who had forged this confounded thing? He was going to rip their ears off and–

Oh right, he had made it himself, and in a hurry, too. His father was going to kill him. He flushed as red as his hair, in shame and fury, too distracted to wonder what had happened to the top quarter of his sword. Then, he looked up.

Helm was swaying slightly, his hand pressed to his face. Blood seeped between his fingers. Too dull to stab anyone, the tip of Gimli's sword had nevertheless proven effective as a projectile. The wound was not serious, but the glazed, dreamy look in Helm's eyes was more worrying.

"It's a scratch, Helm," he called. "Just ignore it."

But Helm didn't hear him. He stared at the blood covering his hand, mesmerized. His lips curled back in a feral grimace.

Then, his gaze fell on Gimli, and he charged.

Gimli dropped the useless remains of his practice sword, and stepped quickly to the side. Helm's sword whacked him on the shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

"Stop it," Gimli said.

Helm swung again ferociously at Gimli, hitting him on the side of the head this time. His ears rang. That had about used up his very limited patience, and he punched Helm in the face the next time he got close, ignoring the sword. It was a blow that should have sent any dwarf reeling backwards, but Helm kept moving as if he had not felt a thing. He tackled Gimli, and they went down in a kicking, struggling heap. Helm was a snarling blur on top of Gimli, and it was as much as Gimli could do to keep himself from being knocked entirely senseless.

Helm's hands were on Gimli's throat, tightening. Gimli saw stars. He kicked and flailed, but it seemed to do little good. Helm's eyes were the only thing Gimli saw, wild and furious and devoid of any recognition.

Getting choked to death by Dain's idiotic son was not the way Gimli wanted to die. He was relieved when half a dozen dwarves, including Balin, Dwalin, and Gloin seized Helm and dragged him off.

Gimli sat up, gasping for breath. Helm was still struggling furiously against his captors, flecks of foam lining his mouth. Dwalin's forehead was streaming blood.

Dwalin said something rude, and brought a fist down on the back of Helm's head, knocking him unconscious. Ignoring the muttering crowd, he hauled the younger dwarf out of the practice arena to the armory and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground.

"Stay here with him for now," he ordered Gimli, who had limped along in their wake. Gimli nodded and slumped back against a rack of shields.

A few minutes later, Helm groaned and struggled to a sitting position.

"What's going on? What happened to your face?"

Gimli prodded his split lip and swollen eye, and the bruises around his neck. There really wasn't a tactful way to explain. Well no one had ever accused Gimli of being tactful.

"You did," he said.

Understanding dawned in Helm's eyes. At first Gimli expected him to make a stupid joke. But he didn't look amused.

Helm flopped back onto the floor.

"In front of all those people? It couldn't have been any more public, could it? No way to hide it now."

"But Helm," Gimli protested, "Everyone knows you're battle-mad. You've always been like that."

Helm shook his head. His voice was tense. Gimli would have thought he sounded frightened, if he hadn't known that Helm was too stupid to feel fear.

"Not like that. Think about it. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Gimli thought about it, and he couldn't help but agree. It was one thing to go berserk in a fight, to ignore an orc axe in your head, to get savage in a battle. But to black out and start foaming at the mouth after getting a scratch in a match with practice swords? It wasn't the same thing at all."

"Aye," he said. "It's getting worse."

And for a moment, Helm looked so dejected that Gimli actually found himself pitying the fellow, who he had always gone out of his way to despise.

"It's fine," he said. "We'll just tell everyone that we planned it that way, because we didn't want to do the match. They'll believe us."

"You'd do that?" Helm asked. "Lie about it?"

"Not to Balin or Dwalin. Or my father. Or Kíli. But if you spread the story, I'll back it up if anyone asks me."

Helm sat up, grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks, Gimli! You're a true friend."

Gimli tried not to glower at him.

"I think I'll ask Dwalin to put us on joint patrols from now on!" Helm continued enthusiastically.

Gimli buried his face in his hands. In the future, he'd try to suppress his generous impulses. They never seemed to do him any good.

Balin stripped off his heavy ceremonial robe as soon as he and Dwalin got back to his rooms, and tossed it into a corner. The confounded thing was as heavy as armor, and far easier to trip over. But it was important that he look the part of wise and venerable advisor, especially during Thorin's absence.

Dwalin had collapsed into a nearby chair, and was roaring with laughter. His face was still streaked with blood.

"What's wrong with you?" Balin demanded irritably.

Dwalin struggled to control himself, without noticeable success.

"The Curse!" he choked out. "After all Dain's protests about Thror and Thorin, and Kíli's parentage, and goodness knows what else! And yet it's his blood that's sickening, his son that's mad. That's the heir he thinks should replace Kíli? Ridiculous! Let's see how proud he is after today."

Balin shook his head.

"Dain has never suggested that his son be Thorin's heir."

"Not openly," Dwalin spat. "And now he never will."

Balin sighed. Like Thorin, his brother was never going to be sensible when it came to Dain and his offspring. Several centuries' rivalry could not be knocked out of such hard heads. There was no way to prevent them from attributing to Dain the worst possible motives and vilest intentions. He wasn't Balin's favorite person either, but he was no villain. He had for the most part behaved honorably towards Erebor in the last fifty years. He was a relative and an ally. It was probably better for everyone if Balin stopped Dwalin from running to crow in his face about the possibility that Helm had inherited the Curse of Angmar.

Of course, just telling Dwalin to keep his mouth shut would have no effect. Luckily Balin had a lifetime of practice at handling him.

"I find it very likely that Dain doesn't know about this yet," Balin said. "I had noticed Helm has seemed awfully eager to stay in Erebor lately, so he's probably trying to stay out of his father's way. I hope you aren't going to be the one to go running to him, Dwalin?"

"Me?" Dwalin roared. "Me go telling tales to Dain? How can you even suggest it, brother?"

Balin hid a smile.

"Let me look at that cut," he said, pressing a cloth to Dwalin's forehead. "What's it from, anyway?"

Dwalin made a face and tried to duck away.

"It's nothing, just a scratch," he growled. "That stupid diamond Helm was wearing, got me across the face by accident."

Balin made to grab him by the ear, a move he'd been forced to employ many times on a much younger, accident-prone Dwalin who couldn't seem to hold still long enough to get his injuries seen to before darting off to find more trouble.

Dwalin glared at him and held still long enough for him to clean the cut. Balin felt a sudden rush of gratitude for his younger brother. Out of all the children he'd been assigned to watch over in his life—Thorin, Dwalin, Frerin, Dís, Fíli, Kíli, and occasionally Gimli—Dwalin had never been the one he was closest to. But Dwalin was still here, and Balin no longer had to worry over him. He had lost so many of the others. His brother, at least, seemed likely to outlive him.

Kíli's engagement ring, which he had been wearing on a chain around his neck, slipped out from under his shirt. Dwalin grabbed at it.

"Let me have a look at that. I haven't seen it in years."

Balin dutifully unfastened the chain and passed it to his brother.

The ring was an enormous star sapphire, set in a white-gold band amid a cluster of tiny diamonds. Thorin's mother had given it to Thror when she had proposed to Thrain, and it had passed to Dís when she came of age, according to tradition. It must have come to Kíli from her, although Balin was not sure when—surely, he had not carried it with him on their quest. Properly, the engagement ring was a gift from the bride to the head of her intended's family, to be worn by him until either the marriage took place or the birth of the first child, as the family's tradition might be. However, it wasn't unheard of for a mother with no daughters to give such a jewel to a son instead, in the hope of keeping it in the family. Kíli had given it to Mérin when she proposed to him, and she had then given it to Balin, who was serving as the head of family in Thorin's absence.

Thorin would be the first one to actually wear the thing since Thror had taken it off on the day of his birth. In a strange, unpredictable way, everything had come full circle.

Dwalin tilted the ring back and forth in the light.

"I could have sworn this thing had a mithril setting last time I saw it," he said. "I'm not getting senile, am I?"

"Kíli had it reset in white gold when Mérin proposed to him. He'd, um, used the mithril for something else. A gift for Bilbo, but he didn't tell me what."

Dwalin snorted.

"Well, it's the stone that's the priceless family heirloom, I suppose, even if the mithril was worth ten times as much."

He dropped it into Balin's outstretched hand.

"I don't understand why Kíli accepted this proposal when he refused so many others all those years ago, when he was of a proper age to be married," he said.

"Mérin will make a very suitable wife."

"I'm not questioning the suitability or even the attractiveness of the lady, but I'd wager my beard that Kíli is no more moved by her excellent qualities than he was by any of the others. He has some other reason for this decision, doesn't he?"

Balin sighed. He refastened the chain around his neck, and slumped back into a nearby chair. He was so tired these days.

"I don't know. But it is the right decision, Dwalin, even if he's making it for some reason of his own."

"It's going to cause a lot of problems," Dwalin growled. "Those that haven't voiced their objections to Kíli as Thorin's heir will certainly do so if it looks like he'll be having children of his own."

Balin shrugged.

"After everything we've been through, we won't let a few disgruntled people's opinions get in our way. And neither will Kíli. He's a tougher lad than that."

"Let's just hope Thorin gets back soon," Dwalin said. "The sooner we can announce the engagement and get the wedding over with, the better."

Balin could only agree wholeheartedly.

Chapter Text

Thorin insisted that Bilbo and Frodo enter the Prancing Pony first. He would wait for around an hour, he said, and take a separate room. Gil planned to show up later in the evening, after he had sold their venison and made necessary purchases in the marketplace.

So Bilbo ushered Frodo inside, where they were met by the innkeeper, a plump and cheerful young man who introduced himself as Barliman Butterbur.

"Though folks in Bree mostly still call me Barley," he explained. "It's just this past year I took over from my old father, and I've been working at the Pony since I was a wee lad. But never mind that now. What was I saying? Let me find Jem for you and he'll show you gentlemen to your rooms. We don't get many visitors out of the Shire these days, but we have some lovely hobbit-sized rooms in the north wing. Hullo, Jem! Where are you? I do say, he's been awful unreliable lately. Well, never mind him now, I'll show you to your rooms. I think you'll like them—they have round windows and everything, renovated just this last year."

And so, swept away by this flood of chatter, Bilbo and Frodo did in fact find themselves in a very comfortable hobbit-sized set of rooms. Butterbur lingered for a few minutes, making sure they had everything they wanted.

"Thank you," Bilbo said emphatically, as the innkeeper's hovering was starting to grate on his nerves. "Everything is most comfortable, just as you said."

"The only thing is…" Butterbur murmured. "Well, I don't know if I ought say anything, but I should ask…"

"Yes?" Bilbo prompted.

"Are you gentleman returning to the Shire after your stay in Bree, or are you continuing on…elsewhere?"

This struck Bilbo as an odd question.

"We hadn't planned to travel on," he said after a pause. "We're just on a bit of a walking holiday. It used to be a tradition in my mother's family to take a walking holiday to Bree, and I thought I'd introduce young Frodo here to the custom."

Frodo shot him a baffled look. Even Bilbo marveled at how smoothly the untruths rolled off his tongue. Perhaps there was still more of the sneak and burglar about him than he cared to admit.

Butterbur let out a deep sigh.

"Ah," he said. "That's a weight off my mind. You see, there's been some trouble on the Road outside Bree this last year. Not towards the Shire, mind, but East, like. But absolutely no trouble heading west, I don't mean to worry you. I shouldn't have mentioned it, only two hobbits alone—well, if there was trouble, you wouldn't be able to do much about it, would you?"

"What sort of trouble?" Bilbo asked, trying to sound as if he was merely curious.

"Not so clear," said Butterbur. "Bandits, some say. Some travelers waylaid a few miles east of here, three times in the last year. Mostly just held up for their valuables. Some say Rangers, but if anything there've been fewer Rangers around Bree these last few months. And besides, I've no reason to suspect it of them. They're a strange bunch, but they've done Bree no harm that I know of."

"I see," said Bilbo. "Well, as I said, we're only traveling back to the Shire. But thank you for your concern. I'm sorry to hear of your troubles."

Seeming relieved, and with his good cheer restored, Butterbur soon departed, exhorting Bilbo to come down to the common room later and join the company there.

Frodo still looked confused.

"I don't understand," he said. "Why did you lie to him? Why did we have to separate from Thorin and Gil?"

Bilbo didn't quite know how to answer him. A peaceful life in the Shire made it difficult to understand the mindset of those who made caution (and suspicion) as much a part of their lives as eating and drinking.

"Butterbur seems a decent sort," he said, "But sometimes it's better to keep one's business to oneself. Thorin's an important dwarf, you know, and he prefers not to attract attention. We take our lead from him. Two hobbits traveling alone out of Bree looks pretty odd. Two hobbits traveling with a dwarf and a Ranger looks even odder."

Frodo nodded, seeming to accept this explanation.

"But the bandits?" he asked. "I mean, we are actually heading that way."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Bilbo. "We'll be able to avoid any trouble, I'm sure."

"I bet Thorin could deal with bandits, anyway," Frodo said fiercely. "I bet they'd be no match for him."

"I expect you're right," Bilbo agreed. "Now, you had better go take a proper bath before we eat. There might not be another chance for a while."

A few days on the road had given Frodo an entirely new appreciation for hot water. He scurried off, and Bilbo sank down in a comfortable chair by the window to fret. He had hoped they would avoid trouble on the Road, but Butterbur's words had filled him with a sense of foreboding.

Bilbo was inclined to spend the evening in front of the cozy fire in their room, but Frodo begged that they should go join the company in the inn's common room instead. Grumbling, Bilbo assented. He could keep Frodo out of trouble for one evening, he hoped. And if he couldn't manage it in the Prancing Pony, there was really no hope for the rest of their journey.

"Just remember," he caught himself reminding Frodo for the third time that evening, "If you see Thorin or Gil, you mustn't speak with them in public."

Frodo nodded, clearly still uncomfortable with their little deception.

The common room was large, crowded, and rather dimly lit. Most of the company appeared to be Bree-folk, Men and Hobbits alike, but there were a number of other travelers present, including a small group of dwarves sitting and smoking at a table on the far side of the room.

Butterbur positively beamed when they entered, as if they were long lost relatives instead of guests he had met not two hours ago.

"Mr. Baggins!" the young innkeeper exclaimed, helping Bilbo up onto a stool that was far too tall for him so that he could sit nearby. "Jem, bring us some ale! And young Mr. Frodo too, I see. Come, sit here and tell me about your travels. We so rarely get visitors from the Shire, you know. Isn't that right, Jem?"

"Right you are, sir," said his assistant, appearing with two large mugs. Unlike the plump, jovial Butterbur, Jem was so nondescript as to be practically invisible. He was middle-aged, average height, neither thin nor fat, and had hair that was neither short nor long and was caught in between the ordinary brown of the Bree-folk and a shade that could only be described as "mouse". His only identifying feature was a pale, crescent-shaped scar above his left temple. Without it, Bilbo would have been hard pressed to identify him should they ever happen to meet again.

Butterbur clapped Jem on the back.

"Mind looking after these gentlemen for a minute? Don't want to seem inhospitable, but it's a busy night tonight, and I'd better make a trip to the cellar."

"He's very…enthusiastic," Bilbo commented, nodding at the innkeeper's receding back.

Jem gave a thin sort of half-smile.

"Ah, the energy of the young, His father, Old Butterbur, just retired this past year, and since then he's been nothing but enthusiasm." He rubbed at the scar on his forehead. "Nothing can help the fact that this town is dying, I'm afraid. We see fewer travelers every year."

"Well, times may improve," Bilbo said, surprised at the edge of bitterness in the man's voice. "You never know."

Jem half-smiled again.

"True, true. You never know what may happen. Anyway, don't listen to my grumbling. In this case, Barley's enthusiasm is certainly well-founded! We so rarely get visitors from the Shire, I'm afraid I know so little about it. Tell me—" Looking down at Bilbo, his eye seemed to catch on something. "That's a pretty little bauble. Where did you get it?"

Bilbo glanced down as well, and sighed inwardly. His little stoneflower, which he always wore beneath his shirt, had come free and was glinting in the firelight. Tiny as it was, the mithril pendant held the light and gleamed as if it had been fashioned from starlight. He tucked it away again.

"Just a gift from an old friend," he said.

Jem leaned forward.

"I've never seen a hobbit wear jewelry like that before," he commented. "Tell me, is the Baggins family very wealthy?"

Bilbo blinked at him. It seemed an awfully rude question, as well as being unexpected. Shire-folk usually only talked about that sort of thing behind each other's backs. But maybe the customs here in Bree were more direct. It seemed like Jem felt his town was suffering some hardship.

"Oh, not really, I dare say" he mumbled not sure how to answer.

"Cousin Lobelia says that it's not very respectable to have too much money," put in Frodo from beside him, a mischievous gleam in his eye the only evidence of his complete insincerity. "She says it's almost as bad as having too little."

Bilbo wondered if the boy had been spending so much time around Thorin that he was starting to catch his sense of humor, which was almost as vile as it was rare.

And speaking of Thorin, there he was. The dwarf's timely appearance cut short any further conversation with Jem, as a large portion of the room fell silent to watch his entrance. So much for their plans to remain inconspicuous.

No common traveler, he. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance—he was dressed in one of his older tunics and a blue traveling cloak, his hair pulled back in the same queue that many itinerant dwarves favored. And yet, his presence was commanding. He moved with absolute certainty that everyone in the room would get out of his way, and so they did, clearing a path around him as he moved to take a seat among the other dwarves by the fire. He exchanged a few quiet words with them, and accepted a proffered pipe. They seemed to accept him as one of their number, although to Bilbo's eye he looked as out of place as, well, a king sitting with a group of tinkers. Or a dagger somehow left in the drawer with the dinner knives. Was the difference as obvious to everyone else in the room, or was it just because Bilbo knew him so well?

A few minutes later, Thorin made a gesture towards where Butterbur stood at the bar pouring out drinks for what looked like a group of regular (and enthusiastic) customers. One of the other dwarves nodded and clapped him on the back, and Thorin got to his feet again. Clearly he had just offered to buy the next round.

Thorin slapped a silver coin down on the bar.

"Five ales," he said.

"Right you are," said Butterbur, pocketing the coin and flashing a cheery smile at him. "That's enough for fifty, that is."

"Don't think we'll need that many," Thorin said shortly, impervious to charm.

"Hey," said one of the regular customers, a dark-haired, sharp-faced man who (in Bilbo's opinion) looked like he could use a lot less ale and a lot more regular baths. "Where'd you get that kind of money, dwarf?" He tried looming over Thorin, who was about a foot shorter than him. To his evident disappointment, Thorin didn't seem to notice.

"I said," the man slurred, leaning down towards him. "Where'd you get the money?"

Thorin flinched. Bilbo guessed it was a reaction to the man's breath, but he took it as a sign of weakness and grabbed Thorin by the collar.

"We don't want none of your lot around here," he said. "Stinking dwarves. Thieves, scum, the lot of you."

"Come now, Dill," Butterbur said in alarm, but it was too late. Thorin's punch caught the man squarely in the eye. He went down with a thump.

"Does anyone else have a problem with my money?" Thorin demanded.

Silence fell.

"I apologize most sincerely for his behavior," said a cringing Butterbur. "I assure you, it was all a misunderstanding—" he trailed off upon seeing the look of fury blazing in Thorin's eyes.

"I've tolerated years of disrespect in this cursed inn," Thorin roared. "And I'll have no more of it."

"Sir," Butterbur broke in, "Once again, I'm very sorry for any insult, but I'm sure I've never seen you here before…"

"No," said a querulous voice from the corner. Bilbo, straining his ears, could just barely hear it. "You haven't. But I have. It's Thorin, isn't it?" An old man hobbled forth from where he had been sitting in the shadows, and Butterbur rushed over to support his arm. Thorin, evidently intrigued, strode forward to meet them.

"What are you talking about, Father?"

The old man fixed Thorin with a rheumy stare, before answering his son.

"He was a traveling blacksmith. Used to come here every year. Always paid more than he owed. Wouldn't take change. They said he was the son of a king in a far off land, but nobody believed it. Who ever heard of a blacksmith being a king? Or a dwarf, for that matter?" He turned back to Thorin. "You are him, aren't you? Thorin Oakenshield? You haven't changed much in fifty years, although you look cleaner, I dare say."

Thorin stared back at him, as if trying to puzzle out something in his face.

"How short the time of Men is. You're Barnabas Butterbur, are you not?"

The old man chuckled.

"Just a lad I was then, and look at me now. You disappeared, though. Always wondered where you went. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Aye."

"So you really are a king?"

Thorin actually let out a wry laugh at that.

"Not that it seems to make much difference in your fine establishment."

He turned around to return to his new companions, only to be met by the sight of several other Bree-men helping their fallen friend back to his feet and giving Thorin belligerent stares. Thorin let his hand stray to the hilt of the sword he wasn't wearing, before clenching his fists again, clearly not averse to a little more brawling. Dwarves did this all the time, Bilbo reminded himself. Thorin had probably missed hitting people these last few months. But he didn't particularly want to stick around and watch. Or let Frodo start picking up too many dwarvish ideas about conflict resolution.

"That's odd," Bilbo said, looking around. "What happened to that Jem fellow?

"Oh, he slipped out a minute ago," said Frodo. "A little after Old Butterbur started talking. I say, this is awfully exciting. Can we watch Thorin beat up some more Men?"

The situation was indeed showing signs of deteriorating. More and more irate Bree-men were gathering around their fallen comrade, while Butterbur frantically tried to soothe tempers with gentle words and free drinks. Meanwhile, the other four dwarves had come up behind Thorin and were whispering in his ear in harsh, growling undertones. They did not look pleased.

Thorin had it all under control, Bilbo decided.

"No," he said firmly, corralling his young cousin and marching him out of the room. "We are going to bed. Now."

Frerin woke Sam before sunrise, and said that as they were getting close to Bree, they had better get a move on. He didn't take the time to make a fire for breakfast and coffee. Sam couldn't regret the latter, as just the smell of the stuff reminded him of how bad it tasted, but food would have been nice.

Sam stuck close to Frerin as they entered Bree. It was still early in the morning, but he had been unprepared for the size of the place—there must be nearly a hundred houses, and all stone and above ground. Some of them even had more than one floor. The streets were mostly deserted, but a few Big Folk looked at them curiously—a dwarf trailed by a hobbit was probably an unusual sight. He tried not to stare back. He'd seen a few of the Big Folk before, but mostly from a distance. He'd never talked to one before, excepting Gandalf. And that didn't seem like quite the same thing, somehow.

One of the Big Folk in particular seemed to be looking straight at Frerin. He was a thin, pointy-nosed fellow who was sporting a spectacular black eye and a swollen nose. But his good eye was fixed intently on Frerin, gleaming with an interest that looked like more than curiosity to Sam.

"Do you know him?" he asked Frerin quietly.

Frerin turned to follow his gaze, and caught the fellow's eye. They stared at each other for a long moment. Sam's stomach was starting to twist in discomfort when Black Eye finally turned away.

Frerin lunged forward so quickly that before Sam even realized he was moving, he had the man by the throat. Despite being over a foot shorter, he had the fellow pinned to the side of a nearby house in seconds. With one arm Frerin pushed Black Eye against the wall, reaching up to grasp his shirt collar tightly with his free hand.

Sam was one step away from taking the chance to run. Frerin was distracted, and Sam was definitely starting to think he'd rather take his chances alone than stick around with the dwarf any longer. He was dangerous, and possibly crazy too.

"Get over here, Sam," Frerin growled, before he could move. "Don't wander off."

Sam did as he was told.

"What were you watching me for?" Frerin demanded, shaking the man roughly by his collar.

Oh no, Sam thought, Frerin really was crazy. He'd attacked one of the Big Folk just for looking at him. But the Black Eye was still giving him that strange stare, angry and puzzled at the same time.

"You're not him," he said. "But–"

"Not who?"

"Let me go, you stinking dwarf," Black Eye hissed. "What does it matter? You lot are all the same."

Frerin slammed his head back into the wall.

"Seen someone who looks like me, have you?"

"Hah!" The man spat in his face. "Thought you were him. Guess not. You look like riffraff of the same sort though."

"Angry, are you? I'm thinking maybe he's the one who gave you that shiner. So tell me when and where, and maybe I won't do the other eye for you."

"Last night. The Prancing Pony. Now will you let me go? What's the matter with you?"

Frerin released him, and the man slumped backwards.

"That's all I need to know. Let's go, Sam." He set off down the street at his usual rapid pace, leaving Sam to scurry after him. Black Eye's angry bellows followed in their wake, but none of the few Bree-folk on the streets took much notice.

"Drunk again, I'll wager," Sam heard one housewife cluck.

Frerin led Sam quickly through the streets of Bree, until they were only a few hundred paces from the edge of town. He lifted Sam up onto a crumbling bit wall, all that remained of a long abandoned house, and then clambered up after him. Sam inched away from the dwarf as far as was physically possible.

"Now," Frerin said, "We wait. Thorin was at the inn last night, and presumably still is now. I assume your other friends are with him. So when we see them leaving, you can run and catch up with them."

"I don't understand," said Sam. "If they're at the inn, why don't we just go there and find them."

Frerin gave him an annoyed look.

"If anything I've done has given you the impression that I want to meet Thorin, you're even stupider than I thought."

Sam glowered for a moment, and then thought of a brilliant idea.

"You don't need to come," he suggested. "Just tell me where the inn is, and I'll go by myself and find them. Now that we're in Bree, it can't be that dangerous."

It was the perfect plan, because it would give him a chance to get away from Frerin, something he had been itching to do for days. He could find Thorin and Bilbo and Frodo and tell them everything, and if Frerin was a danger, they'd be able to handle it.

"Hah," said Frerin. "Well, maybe you aren't quite as stupid as you look. But no, I'm not letting you out of my sight just yet. It's time to discuss my payment."

Sam gulped. Frerin had been oddly silent on that subject for the last few days. He had been starting to wonder

"All right," he said grudgingly. "What do you want? You said it would be information, and it wouldn't be hard."

Frerin gave a feral grin.

"Did I say that? No I didn't, I said it wouldn't be anything you couldn't do. I didn't say it wouldn't be dangerous."

Sam's stomach lurched.

"So here's what is going to happen," Frerin said. "When you see your friends, you're going to catch up with them, spin some story about how you made it to Bree on your own, whatever, anything as long as they don't know about me. Then, when you get a chance, I want you to ask Thorin about his nephew I'll be following you. If I can't overhear it myself, I'll find a way to meet with you and you can tell me what you've learned."

Sam remembered the wild look in Frerin's eye when he had mentioned Thorin's nephew before. But what reason could he have to be so interested in someone else's family? For no good reason, Sam was becoming increasingly certain. He had made a terrible mistake.

"What do you want me to ask?" he ventured. "I mean, what kind of information do you need."

"Anything," Frerin said. "What he's like. What he looks like. What sort of fighter he is. Who his friends are. Anything, everything, however trivial it seems to you."

"Why would you want to know all that?" Sam demanded. "I'm not going to spy on a friend. I never would have agreed to this if I'd known that's what you'd wanted."

Frerin's eyes blazed, his hand straying to the hilt of his short sword.

"I have my reasons," he hissed. "It's better if you don't question them. You never would have made it here alive without me, so you had better do what I say."

"I'll never spy on Thorin," Sam insisted. "Never. I don't care what you threaten me with. I might not be tough like you, and I might not be smart neither, but I'd never hurt a friend to save my own skin."

Frerin's voice turned pleading.

"What if I swear I mean him no harm. I swear, Sam. I swear I won't do anything to hurt Thorin or Kíli. I just need to know. You have to help me! You owe me!"

"I'd rather die," Sam spat, flinging himself off the wall. His heart racing, he ran towards the edge of town as quickly as he could. There was no way he could outrun Frerin, he knew. Already, he heard booted footsteps charging after him. But he had a head start, and the past few days of travel had started to toughen him up. Maybe he could find a way to escape.

As soon as he was outside, he turned off the road and ran down a hill into the woods. He stopped to rest, hoping his gasping breaths weren't going to give away where he had gone. He should probably try to hide, or climb a tree, or something. He didn't hear footsteps any longer. Maybe he could rest for just a little while.

Frerin burst through the trees, his sword drawn. For a moment, Sam was gripped by such sheer terror that the world went blank. Then, he realized that the dwarf didn't look angry, but alarmed.

"Get out your axe, Sam," he ordered.

Sam gaped at him.

"Do it now," he snapped. "We've been followed."

Sam fumbled in his pack and pulled out the hobbit-sized axe, but before he could free it from its wrappings, a dozen men had appeared from the within the woods. They were surrounded.

One of the men stepped forward.

"Thorin Oakenshield?" he demanded, looking at Frerin.

Frerin let the point of his sword trail lazily near the ground.

"Who's asking?"

"It's no use denying it," shouted another one of the men. "We know who you are. And we know that you're filthy rich, too."

"Am I?" Frerin raised the sword again. "I wouldn't bet on it."

"He does look exactly like Boss said," complained another man, "But nobody said anything about a hobbit. Are you sure this is the right one?"

"Has to be. Look, he's no good to us injured. Grab him, and the kid too."

"Look, dwarf," said the first man. "Your majesty. Whatever. Boss wants you alive and unharmed. We definitely have you outnumbered. Are you really going to try to fight your way out of here."

Frerin looked them up and down, taking in their shabby clothing, scruffy appearance, and tarnished weapons. Then, he looked over at Sam, who was clutching his axe and trying not to scream. Frerin might be capable of a handling a few Men in a fight—he sure seemed like he knew what he was doing—but surely not a dozen Men who were twice his size. And Sam hadn't a chance.

"I don't suppose it's any use telling you I'm not Thorin?" Frerin asked.

"Blue cloak, sword, black hair, short beard, no blacksmith's tools or merchant's wares. Yeah, you're him all right. Either you can admit it and let us take you prisoner, or we can have a little argument about it. And those can get messy, you know. All we want is any valuables you might be carrying. And maybe a ransom, later on."

Frerin dropped his sword. One of the men immediately grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back, holding a wicked-looking knife to his throat.

"Search me then," Frerin said. "I haven't anything of value."

"He's right," spat another of their captors a few minutes later. He had emptied Frerin's pack, finding only dried meat, a few waterskins, a change of clothing, an axe, and the tin of coffee. "Nothing."

"This one has a few coins," said the man who was going through Sam's pack. "Nothing much, though. Check the dwarf's clothing. He's got a lot of layers, could have sewn some jewels into a lining or something."

Just then, another man raced up to them, gasping for breath. He was clearly younger than the others, hardly more than a boy.

"What's wrong, Bill?" asked the man holding Frerin's arms.

"You idiots," snarled Bill. "Couldn't you wait for the boss's signal? You've got the wrong dwarf!"

"The wrong one? Impossible." The men stared around at each other, each looking for someone to blame.

"Now, Sam!" Frerin yelled.

Sam swung out at the nearest bandit with his still-wrapped axe, missed, and dropped it on his target's foot instead. The bandit howled and kicked him in the stomach with the other foot. He slammed into the ground, dazed.

Meanwhile, Frerin was twisting free of his captor. Sam saw him break the man's grip, saw the man's blade slice down across his chest. Frerin howled. His back was to Sam, so he couldn't see how serious the injury was, but both Frerin and the bandit had momentarily frozen in shock.

"But you're a—" the bandit began.

Frerin lunged and jumped, a knife appearing in his hand as he did so. In one swift, practiced motion, he slit his opponent's throat wide open. The man collapsed, whatever he had been about to say lost in a fountain of crimson.

Frerin wrapped his cloak tightly about him, and turned to look at Sam for a moment, regret flashing across his blood-spattered face. Then, he spun around and fled into the woods.

No one pursued him. The bandits just stood there gaping, in shock at how quickly the thing had unfolded.

"Well this is a fine mess," spat Bill, clearly never at a loss for words. "Can't you fellows do anything right? Now what do we do with the hobbit?"

"Maybe we should let him go," suggested one man. "He's no use to us. Just some unlucky kid."

"Don't be an idiot," spat the man Sam had attacked with the axe. "We can't let him go now. Tie him up, and we'll figure out what to do with him later."

Chapter Text

Sam was too shocked to struggle as the bandits bound his legs and tied his hands behind his back. It wouldn't have made much difference if he had. He was just one hobbit, and there were at least a dozen of them. One of the bigger ones hoisted Sam up and slung him over his shoulder, as if he were a child, or a drunk, or a sack of beans.

He stared desperately at where Frerin had vanished between the trees. The dwarf was gone, there was no doubt of that. And the bandits were busy clearing away all of the signs that he had been there at all. They collected the strewn contents of his pack and his sword, and bundled them together. Then, they hauled the body of the bandit that Frerin had killed to the side of the clearing, and piled leaves and dirt over it. Even to Sam's eye, it did not look well hidden.

"That dwarf just killed old Denn. Just killed him," one fellow was babbling. His neighbor gave him a cuff on the shoulder and told him to shut his trap. Several of the other Big Folk were staring about themselves numbly, as if uncertain what to do. Sam felt sick to his stomach when he thought about the body lying underneath those leaves. He'd seen animals butchered before, plenty of times, but never people.

"He deserves a proper burial," growled the man who was holding Sam. "He's not trash."

"Later, Cob," growled the one called Bill. He was the youngest of the bandits, but Sam noticed that he acted like he was in charge. "We ain't got time right now. You lot botched the job, and now we've got to get ourselves organized again so we can do this proper."

"How were we supposed to know?" whined another bandit. "What're the odds there would be two look-alike dwarves coming out of Bree on one morning?"

"You was supposed to wait for Boss's signal," said Bill. "And next time, you better wait for the signal, even if the dwarf walks right past you singing "I'm Thorin Oakenshield" at the top of his lungs. I'm headed back to town. Tom, come with me. The rest of you lot, get back to camp and stay there until you're called for."

"What about the hobbit?" asked Cob. He lifted Sam off his shoulder and held him out at arms' length for a moment, to get a better look at him.

"What about him? I told you to get him out of the way."

"He's got nothing to do with this," said Cob. "He's just some kid who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And the wrong company."

"Come on, Bill, he's harmless. He's got nothing to do with this. He hasn't even heard of Thorin, has he?" He gave Sam a shake for emphasis. Sam blinked back at him stupidly. "See?"

"Enough, Cob," another bandit broke in. "No one is saying we're going to knock off some hobbit kid in cold blood. Let's get back to camp and we'll figure out what to do with him later. You have to see we can't just let him go."

Cob grunted, and tossed Sam back over his shoulder as the whole group of bandits moved off through the forest. Sam went limp, and closed his eyes. Every now and then, a low-hanging branch would smack him in the face. It was much less than he deserved.

He really needed to find a way out of this fix. How had he gotten here in the first place? What had he been thinking, when he said that he wanted an adventure? He had wanted to see elves, and treasure, and dwarf cities under mountains. He had not pictured things ending up like this. What would his Gaffer say, if he could see him now? He had been trying so hard not to think about home these past few days, but now the thought of it was almost more than he could bear. A few tears tried to squeeze out from under his tightly shut lids, but he forced them back. There was no point in thinking about the Shire now, or about the Gaffer, or his Ma, or Marigold. If he wanted to live to see them again, he'd have to keep his wits about him. Frerin had taught him that much.

He hoped that when they reached the bandits' camp, wherever that was, he might be able to make a break for it, escape somehow. But the camp turned out to be an abandoned one-room cottage deep in the woods, with crumbling walls and a half-collapsed thatched roof. Heaps of banged-up weapons and supplies were piled around the room and against the walls. It was such a mess, Sam thought he almost might tidy it up himself, if the bandits would just untie his hands.

Cob set him down against one wall. If he wasn't gentle, he wasn't too rough either. Another three bandits were sitting around an open fire, smoking and talking amongst themselves. Sam realized that even if he could get away from fifteen of the Big Folk, he had no idea where he was. For a minute, he let himself imagine that Frerin might appear again and rescue him, but he had to admit that seemed even less likely to happen. Whoever Frerin had been, and whatever he had been up to, Sam was sure he'd seen the last of him now. Injured and outnumbered, Frerin had no reason to show his face around Bree and the bandits again, unless he wanted his sword and tin of coffee back that badly.

If there was one good thing in all this mess, it was that at least now Sam could not be used to hurt Thorin. Sam didn't know why Frerin had wanted information about Thorin's nephew, but it surely wasn't for any good reason.

He slumped back against the wall and waited and watched. The bandits were apparently also waiting for something. One of them pulled out a pair of dice, and a few started up some sort of game. Before long, a quarrel broke out, and they disbanded to sulk in different parts of the room.

Sam's arms and legs were starting to go numb. He wiggled his wrists, trying to see if he could slip out of his bonds. But all he succeeded in doing was attracting a stern "None of that, now!" from a nearby bandit. Maybe when it was nighttime, he could crawl over to one of the discarded weapons and cut himself free. But it was still early in the morning. There was a lot of daylight left to stay alive through.

He and the whole grubby crowd were startled by the door to the cottage banging open so quickly it fell right off its unsteady hinges. Bill dashed inside, and bent over to rest his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"It's time," he panted. "Boss gave the signal. Come on." His beady eyes swept around the room and took in the sight of Sam propped up against the wall. "Cob, you can stay here to guard him, if you're so soft on the kid."

Bill straightened up again, and general chaos broke out as the smoking, gambling, and dozing bandits scrambled for their weapons. Finally, after a lot of arguing and grumbling, they filed out after him.

Cob lit a pipe and seated himself on the floor across from Sam.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry it ended up like this," he said, not unkindly. "You look like a nice kid. You're not from around here, are you?"

Sam shook his head.

"The Shire," he admitted. "Never been more than a few miles from home before this week."

Cob bit at the stem of his pipe.

"I've heard that the Shire's a good place. Quiet. Prosperous."

"Seems better than these parts," Sam said bitterly. "In the Shire, nobody goes around attacking folk in the woods and tying them up and the like."

Cob gave a wry half-smile. "I expect they don't. But times are tough in Bree, and we have to fend for ourselves and our families as best we can, even if it's at the expense of outsiders."

"So you're Bree-men?" Sam blurted, before he could think to bite his tongue. He had assumed that they were some sort of vagabonds or wandering brigands. But from what Cob had just said, it sounded more like they were actual townsfolk. Probably they were farmers, bakers, blacksmiths, and perhaps even gardeners who had just taken up a spot of banditry to make ends meet.

Cob's eyes narrowed.

"Too sharp for your own good," he muttered. "Should have held my tongue." He got up and moved to the cottage door, staring off into the distance and chewing gloomily on his pipe, waiting for the others to return.

Sam suddenly realized why they needed to keep him tied up, when he was of no use to them. He had seen their faces, and now he knew where they were from. If he ever made it back to Bree, he could tell everyone what they were doing out in the woods, and surely there were plenty of folk there who wouldn't take kindly to their friends and relatives waylaying travelers on the road.

They might only be part-time bandits, but they were desperate, sure enough. They didn't seem like they really wanted to kill him, but they were never going to let him out of here alive.

It might have been several minutes or several hours later when a few of the bandits returned, carrying a limp form between them. They tossed their burden down next to Sam.

At first all Sam saw was a tangle of grey-streaked hair, which was matted with blood. Then the figure stirred, and shifted its head so that the hair fell away from its face.

Sam wished his hands were free to clap over his mouth, because he knew screaming would be a bad idea.

It was Thorin.

Thorin was late. Bilbo paced irritably, while Frodo dozed on the back of Gil's long-suffering black pony. The Ranger himself was examining the clearing where they waited in meticulous detail. He moved quietly from place to place, crouching to look at tracks or some other such nonsense. Bilbo had no idea what he was doing, really, but it looked Ranger-like and mysterious, and Gil appeared to be absorbed in it.

"Shouldn't he be here?" Bilbo demanded, not for the first time. "I thought you said he left the inn ahead of us?"

Gil lifted his head from his examination of an enormous pile of leaves.

"He did. I saw him go."

"So shouldn't he be here?"

The Ranger gave him a look that normally would have been reserved for particularly impatient small children.

"Yes," he said simply, and returned to his study of their surroundings in silence.

Bilbo felt his stomach tighten. If Thorin should be here, and Thorin was missing, the most likely cause was that some ill chance had befallen him in between when he had left Bree and when Gil and the hobbits had followed.

Gil stepped backwards, still scanning the ground.

"Something strange has happened here. Do you see all the footprints? It's rare to see this many together in the woods."

Bilbo followed the Ranger's gaze. There did appear to be some footprints, all so light that he never would have noticed them.

"There was some sort of conflict," he said. "One person—a dwarf, I think—ran this way, pursued by quite a few others. They stopped, and there was a confrontation." He brushed the dirt lightly with his fingertips. "He was disarmed. But then…there's blood here. Wait."

He stepped back to the pile of leaves, and brushed at it carefully. The leaves parted to reveal a man's staring, dead face.

Frodo let out a terrified yelp, and Bilbo fought back his own wave of nausea. Gil quickly covered up the corpse with leaves again.

"Whatever happened here," Bilbo said, "It ended badly for someone. We need to find out what happened to Thorin. Was he taken captive? Maybe he got away and just couldn't stay here."

"He wouldn't have run," Frodo whispered.

He was right. Thorin would not have run. If he had tried to escape instead of face down however many men by himself, he would have surely circled back towards Bree to find them rather than trying to go deeper into the woods and hide.

"We should head back to the Prancing Pony," Gil said. "Then we can discuss what you want to do next."

"What are you talking about?" Bilbo demanded. "Isn't it obvious? We need to find Thorin as soon as possible."

Gil crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, and took Bilbo firmly by the shoulder.

"We don't know what is out here. It's my responsibility to make sure that you stay safe."

"To make sure that I stay safe? What about Thorin? What about Frodo?" He stared up at the Ranger angrily.

Gil's calm grey eyes met his.

"I wish no harm to them, but I gave my word to Gandalf that I would protect you," he said, his voice low and clipped. "Not Thorin. Not Frodo. He said that it was important, that there was nothing more important. That is why I am here. I'm not a mercenary or a bodyguard or a babysitter. And so, you are going to go back to Bree right now without arguing any further."

Bilbo's fingers brushed against the ring in his pocket. Maybe he should disappear, go look for Thorin himself. He glanced over at Frodo clinging to the back of the pony, pale and frightened. No, the Ranger had just said that he considered Bilbo his only true responsibility. Surely he would not abandon Frodo, though? Bilbo had thought he seemed to be a good man.

But that was a risk he couldn't take at the moment. As much as he wanted to find Thorin, Frodo was his responsibility now, just as he was Gil's. He had to put his responsibility first, and not be reckless.

"Gil," he said quietly. "If I agree to go back with Frodo, will you go find Thorin?"

The Ranger gave a nod, the relief on his face obvious.

"I'll try to find out what happened to him, and help him if it can be reasonably done."

If he still lives hung unspoken in the air between them.

Thorin's head felt like it was about to split in half, and there was a deafening ringing in his ears. At first, when he opened his eyes, all he could see was a collection of blurs. His eyes were sticky with blood that had run down over his face from his scalp. He retched a couple of times, and then winced as the motion set the world spinning. He wiggled his fingers and toes. He was tied up, but he didn't think he was injured. Well, other than having been hit on the head too hard, but that didn't really count. Durin's folk were supposed to be immune to concussions. Was he getting old?

"Well, you made a right mess of things," said a voice. "Twice in one day, too. Did you miss the part where we weren't supposed to damage him? We were supposed to capture him, not bash his brains half out of his head."

"Not my fault," grumbled another voice. "The first hit should have done him. 'Snot my fault his head was so hard I had to pick up that stone to finish the job."

Wonderful. He was being held captive by incompetents. He took a few deep breaths and tried to struggle into an upright position.

Too soon. Bright lights pinwheeled around the edges of his vision. Then, he passed out.

"Thorin," someone hissed. He felt a nudge. "Thorin, are you all right?"

He blinked. This time, he could see more than just blurs, but he had also started to hallucinate, because Samwise Gamgee, the son of Bilbo's gardener, was sitting next to him. He waited.

"Thorin," Sam said more urgently, but still hushed.

Thorin's tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. Talking was going to be an effort.

"You're actually here?" he asked. His headache had subsided a little, as had the ringing in his ears. Unfortunately that meant that his situation was starting to seem both more real and more urgent. Slowly, Thorin's broken memories from the morning started to piece themselves together. Leaving the inn. Someone had approached him on the road, he couldn't remember who. He hadn't been suspicious, at first. Then, a blow to the back of the head.

"I suppose I am," said Sam. "We've been captured by bandits. I think they want to ransom you."

"That's a terrible idea," said Thorin. "Do they even realize how far away Erebor is?"

"For what it's worth, I don't get the sense they're very experienced bandits."

Thorin groaned, and closed his eyes. A moment later, something else occurred to him.

"Sam, how did you get here?"

Sam flushed. "Followed you and Mr. Bilbo and Frodo out of the Shire. I guess I wanted an adventure of my own. I just didn't want to sit at home through the winter while everything went back to normal like you'd never come at all."

"And you made it all this way on your own?"

Sam looked away. "Well, no, not exactly. Not on my own."

"Tell me," Thorin demanded.

Sam hesitated, and then spoke.

"Just out of the Shire, I met someone. A dwarf. I thought he was you at first, begging your pardon. I was so startled when I saw him, and he realized I knew you. He said that he'd help me find you, if I did him a favor. But when we got to Bree, it turned out he wanted me to spy on you. I said I wouldn't do it! I'd never do it, I promise. But he got angry and I ran away and he chased after me. And then the bandits chased after him, and it ended up like this." The boy gestured with his chin at their current state.

"Sam," said Thorin. "Did he give you his name? This dwarf who wanted you to spy on me?"

Sam nodded, his face still suffused with shame and fear.

"He told me his name was Frerin Fundinson."

Thorin drew in a quick breath.

"That's a false name. He gave you no other?"

Sam shook his head. "So you don't know who he is? I thought…" his voice wavered. "He didn't seem so bad, at first. I thought maybe he was a relative of yours, even a brother, maybe. He looked so alike."

"I had a brother named Frerin, once," Thorin said. "He died a long time ago. Fundin was a friend of ours, almost like a father. I don't know who would dare use either name, but it was certainly an imposter of some kind."

"Are you sure it wasn't him?" Sam asked. "What if he's alive, somehow?"

"Impossible," Thorin said flatly. "I burned his body myself."

The Ranger had started out as the predator in this hunt, but he suspected that he had become the prey. Whoever was stalking him, they knew what they were doing. There had been no obvious signs, no telltale crackling of twigs underfoot or hushed breathing or mysterious noises. But he was no ordinary woodsman, and he knew when he was not alone.

He had begun by following the trail of blood away from where he had found the body. Bilbo had not spotted the trail, and the Ranger had not been about to point it out to him. It was a dwarf's blood, and a dwarf's footsteps he had been tracking. But what dwarf knew how to move silently in the woods? What dwarf knew how to track a Ranger?

Not Thorin, that much was certain. Of course, he had known that it was not Thorin he was following just from the footprints. It was a dwarf, but he was shorter and lighter than Thorin.

It was not just the tracks and the woodcraft that told him that he was not pursuing Thorin. He had known for sure the moment he had seen the Bree-man's body under the pile of leaves. The Ranger knew Thorin's type, and he was not a throat-cutter. He was a war-leader, a fighter, tough and honorable. If he was being held pinned, he'd punch and kick his way free and then try to reclaim his sword or axe. And if he did get one of his hidden knives instead, he would probably have gone for a stab. He would never have slit a man's throat in a single stroke, and then run.

Whoever this dwarf was, he was clever. The blood trail had suddenly stopped, and then started again, and then stopped. Then, the footprints had disappeared. It took the Ranger some minutes before he found the trail, and then he had lost it again, found it again, and realized it was false. Soon after, he had realized he was being followed. So he stopped hunting, and waited.

Nothing. The prickling sensation on the back of the Ranger's neck disappeared. So he began to move again, silently and in a wide circle. It did not take him long to find his prey.

The dwarf looked up as he approached. He was leaning back against a tree, his face ashen. Perhaps he had lost more blood than the Ranger had guessed. Or perhaps it was only a display of weakness. He was clutching his cloak tightly to his chest. A bit of blood had soaked through.

The Ranger saw at once what might have happened, the scene replaying itself in his mind's eye. A case of mistaken identity. This dwarf looked strikingly similar to Thorin, not so much because their features were identical, but because they had the exact same defiance blazing in their blue eyes.

"You found me quickly," the dwarf commented. His voice was low and soft, but not weak.

"It's rare that anyone can track me," the Ranger said. "You did well."

"There's only winning and losing. I lost, and here you are."

"I don't know," said the Ranger. He was getting the sense that the dwarf had wanted to be found. He took a step closer. "Are you badly hurt? I can see to it if you wish."

"No!" The dwarf's face became suddenly animated. He drew back against the tree. One hand clutched the cloak to himself, and in the other, a knife appeared. "Don't touch me. Stay back!"

The Ranger held up both his hands in a gesture of placation.

"I mean you no harm."

"Then why are you following me?"

"I was looking for someone else, and I caught your trail."

The dwarf's lips tightened. "Thorin. Are you tracking Thorin?"

"Are you?"

"I suppose so. But I was too late." The dwarf closed his eyes. "I saw them take him. Wounded and weaponless, what could I do?" As the Ranger watched, the rest of the strength seemed to drain out of him. "They have another prisoner. A hobbit boy. I was traveling with him. He's a complete innocent. Helpless."

"And you want me to help them? Is that what this game is about?"

The dwarf's face was grim, but he remained silent. His expression was not pleading, nor was it demanding. I know you will do it, his eyes seemed to say.

Was he right? It was not the Ranger's way to abandon the helpless. But he was old enough to know that he could not save every child and right every wrong.

"A game," the dwarf said. "I'll give you a game, if that's what you want. Ask me anything you want to know. One true answer, in exchange for Thorin's life."

Thorin's, not the child's. Interesting.

But the Ranger shook his head.

"I'll give you one true answer in exchange for one true answer. I don't sell favors. And when I've heard your answer, I'll know what to do."

The dwarf grinned, sharp and feral.

"All right. Then I'll go first. What is your name?"

"I have many."

"Not fair!" hissed the dwarf.

The Ranger raised an eyebrow. "Still true."

The anger drained right out of the dwarf, and for a moment the Ranger sensed that they were both actually on the verge of laughter.

"All right," he said. "I'll tell you true. I've been called many things, but the name I was born to was Aragorn, Arathorn's son."

The dwarf's eyes lit. "You think me a fool who won't know the value of that answer? I've seen my fair share of the world. I know who the Dunedain are, and now I know who you are, Isildur's heir. And I know that you won't refuse my request. Now, ask your question."

The Ranger shrugged. "I don't wear my name in the open, but it's not a secret either. I think you asked me the question you thought I would ask you, so that we would be even. But tell me…" he let the words hang in the air between them. "If I walk away now and refuse to lend you my aid, will you go alone to help Thorin and the hobbit?"

"Curse you," the dwarf spat. "That's your question? You want to know if I'm a monster or just a coward, is that it?"

"I don't think you are either of those things. I think you are a wanderer far from home, one who has been lost for a long time. I think you care too much, and wish you didn't."

A tear streaked down the dwarf's face and ran into his beard.

"Yes. If you turned your back on them, I would go try to help, even if I was wounded near to death. Is that the answer you wanted?"

"Then as one exile to another, I'll help you. Show me where to find them."

Bilbo and Frodo waited for the rest of the day at the Prancing Pony. Butterbur had been surprised to see them return, but had given them their rooms back without a word of complaint. He was distracted, it seemed, because his assistant Jem had gone missing again.

"He's been awful unreliable lately," Butterbur grumbled. "For all he's been working at the Pony since I was a little lad myself, I think I'll be having words with him over this."

There was no more talk about going to the inn's common room. The hobbits sat in their own room and waited. At first Bilbo tried to distract Frodo from the waiting by telling stories, but his own patience with that ran out quickly. He had done the right thing in leaving Gil to go after Thorin, hadn't he? Maybe he should have insisted on going himself after all. Maybe there was a way he could uphold his responsibilities to both Thorin and Frodo. Just in case, he dug Sting out of his pack and buckled it on.

Thorin would not want him to risk himself. But Thorin could be a real idiot sometimes.

It was growing dark by the time the Ranger returned. Bilbo's back was to the door, which was locked, and Gil slipped inside so quietly that he didn't even hear him enter.

"Gil!" Frodo cried out. Then, his face fell. "Where's Thorin?"

The Ranger's face was masked in shadow. For a moment, Bilbo feared that the worst had happened.

"I found him. He's alive. But he's being held prisoner by fifteen or twenty men. It was too risky to make an attempt to free him during the day. I watched them for a good portion of the day, and I think I have a plan. I'll go back in a few hours, when more of them are asleep."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bilbo said. "You can't go back there alone."

"I thought you wanted me to help him, " Gil said, startled.

"Yes, of course," Bilbo said. "But I'm coming too." He held up a hand as the Ranger started to protest. "I don't care what you say, or what Gandalf told you. Thorin is my friend, and I don't intend to abandon him."

Wordlessly, Gil glanced at Frodo.

Frodo crossed his arms over his chest.

"I want to help too," he said stoutly, although his face was white in the firelight. "Thorin saved my life before. I owe him."

Bilbo thought quickly. "Frodo can climb trees as well as any hobbit in the Shire. We'll send him to hide if there's danger."

"Very well," said Gil. "But I hope you know what you are doing."

Bilbo touched his magic ring for luck.

"Don't worry. I'm very good at sneaking into places without being seen."

Thorin barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as the leader of the bandits expounded (yet again) on his grandiose and impractical schemes to ransom him for a large fortune. The nondescript little man looked vaguely familiar—had he seen him in Bree somewhere? He had lost all respect for the fellow when in sorting through Thorin's little pouch of hair ornaments, he had picked out only the gold and diamond ones to keep, and had tossed aside the rest, including two beads made from mithril. Those two little beads were easily worth more than the rest of Thorin's current possessions, except perhaps Orcrist.

But even with a splitting headache, Thorin was not quite stupid enough to argue (much) with a man waving a poisoned dagger in his face while his hands were tied behind his back. He would have to wait for a moment when he had better odds.

"With all the treasure under that mountain of yours, us here will be rich men," the leader said, still waving the dagger in his face. Its blade had a sinister green tinge that Thorin didn't much like the looks of.

"You do realize that Erebor is quite some distance from here?" Thorin asked, unable to restrain himself. "Are you planning on dragging me all that way, or keeping me tied up in the woods outside Bree for half a year? And how are you planning on getting all your treasure over the Misty Mountains in the middle of winter, exactly?" Of course, if they did manage to get to Erebor, Thorin's kin would just slaughter them on sight. He decided against mentioning it.

"Shut up," hissed the little man. "We'll figure it out."

"Fine," said Thorin. He gave the room of snoring bandits a disdainful look. "You have my full confidence."

Balin had always told him that sarcasm was a weapon for the weak. Since he was tied up at the moment, he decided it was fair to use whatever weapons he could.

The leader gave him an annoyed look, and stalked out of the cottage. Good. At least he had stopped talking and waving the knife around. Thorin closed his eyes, and pretended to doze. These incompetent bandits barely knew how to set a proper watch. He might find an opportunity to get away. But he needed to figure out what to do about Sam as well. He was all the way on the other side of the room, where they had moved him when they saw him talking to Thorin.

Soon, all of the bandits inside the cottage appeared to be asleep. They were down to about half of their original number. He guessed that some of them had families in Bree that they needed to get back to, or other reasons why they might be missed.

He thought he saw the door open slightly, and then shut again. Nobody entered. Just to be careful, he feigned sleep.

"Thorin," Bilbo hissed in his ear. "Wake up."

"I am awake." He looked around him. "Are you invisible?" Well, this was one way to revisit old memories. He was not about to object to a well-timed rescue, even if his dignity was a bit stung at having been trussed up and carted around by Bree's worst bandits.

"Yes," Bilbo whispered. "Hold still, I'm going to cut your hands and legs free." There was a rasp of rope against metal, and Thorin flexed his hands and feet gratefully.

"Come on, let's go," Bilbo said. "Can you walk? Where's your sword? Gil said he'd do a distraction in a minute, but it's better if we can get out of here on our own."

"Wait," Thorin whispered back. "Get Sam first. I think he's sleeping." With his head, he gestured towards where the boy was tied. In his gesticulating, his skull collided with Bilbo's chin. "There you are."

"Ow," Bilbo said. And then, "What?" he might be invisible, but Thorin could still picture the expression on his face—the indignantly raised eyebrows, the mouth gaping in astonishment. He'd probably have his hands on his hips, if he wasn't still holding that silly little sword of his. "Of all things—how did Samwise Gamgee end up in here?"

"That's not important right now," Thorin said. "Go cut him free. I'll get Orcrist from over there, and then we'll leave."

"I don't think that's a good idea. I'll get Sam, have him signal to you, and then you two go. Then I'll get Orcrist."

Thorin didn't like that plan. However, since Bilbo was the one who was invisible, and he barely had feeling in his legs, he gave a grunt of assent.

Trying to keep his breathing quiet, he waited. It was an odd thing to watch, Sam being roused from sleep and speaking in hushed whispers to someone who was not there. He wondered what Bilbo was telling the boy about why he could not be seen.

Finally, Sam looked straight across the room, met Thorin's eyes, and nodded. They both began picking their way through the room full of slumbering bandits. Thankfully, only about seven of them were still there. When the place had been full, it would have been hard to make it to the door without stepping on one of them.

Feeling Sam behind him, Thorin pressed lightly on the door. It swung open away from him. They were free.

Except that the bandit leader was standing right there, his hand poised over where the door handle had been just a moment ago. They stared at each other in mutual confusion.

Thorin's muscles were still stiff from being tied up all day. It took him a moment to wind up his arm and deliver a punch to the leader's jaw. When the blow connected, the fellow's head snapped back and he flew backwards to the ground. Something dropped from his hand, and Thorin felt a stinging sensation on his upper arm. He touched it with his other hand, and felt that it was wet with blood. Damn. He hoped it hadn't been that poisoned knife.

Four half-asleep bandits burst through the door, weapons at the ready.

"Run, Sam," Thorin hissed. He turned to face his opponents, fists clenched. His arm was still stinging. It felt like a light cut, but the skin around it was starting to burn. Or was that his imagination. Where was Bilbo with his sword? The world was starting to spin around him. Surely the poison couldn't be working that quickly, whatever it was. Usually poison worked slowly on his kind. He rubbed at his eyes.

"Get out of here," Gil hissed. Where had he come from? Everything was blurry again. Thorin realized that he had dropped to his knees for some reason. The Ranger had his sword drawn, and there were four limp forms on the ground in front of him.

"Get going," the Ranger repeated. "You aren't any use like this. There's more of them coming. Split up. I'll deal with it."

Thorin wasn't about to run away from a fight. The problem was, he couldn't tell where the fight was, exactly. Sam had gone off into the woods. Thorin should find him, make sure he hadn't encountered any more bandits. And where was Frodo? Was Frodo all right?

He staggered off in what he thought was the right direction. His arm burned. His head was pounding. The woods closed in around him as he ran. The trees reached for him, like skeletal arms of the dead. So many dead. But it was cold and silent and there was no fire to be seen.

His legs stopped working. Every part of him, all the old scars, were on fire. But it was dark, and cold, and he was alone and dreaming and far from home, and he closed his eyes and dreamed of nothingness.

Chapter Text

Frodo clung to the branch of the tree where Gil had left him with a stern warning to stay quiet and stay put. No matter what happens, Gil said. Stay in the tree and don't come down. Wait until I come back for you. And so, when he heard shouting and the clash of metal in the distance, he stayed huddled in the tree, his heart racing. He knew he would be more than useless in a fight, and he did not want to get any closer. But it felt wrong to let Bilbo, who was almost a hundred years old (even if he didn't look it) go into danger while he, Frodo, hid in a tree. He wasn't a baby, he was practically a tween. He should be doing something to help.

He heard quiet footsteps pass underneath his tree, and then stop. He held his breath. Had they found him? How would anyone know he was up here?

There was a long silence. Maybe he had imagined it. He shifted slightly, trying to get a look at what was down below. But it was impossible to see from his current position. He stretched out on his stomach, wrapped his arms and legs around the branch, and began to inch forward.

The branch gave a loud crack, as he reached a part that was too slender to bear his weight. There was a startled yelp below.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice asked nervously.

Frodo lost his grip for a moment and slid around until he was dangling from the branch by his feet. For a dizzying moment the world flipped, and then Sam's upside-down face swam into view.

He let go of the branch and tumbled to the ground. It was a good eight feet down, and he might have been hurt if he hadn't fallen on top of Sam.

With a grunt, Sam lifted Frodo off of him, set him upright, and dusted him off.

"Are you all right, Mr. Frodo? Why were you up in a tree?"

"Gil told me to stay hidden," Frodo said. "But Sam, what are you doing here?"

"Who's Gil?"

"He's a Ranger. But Sam—"

"It's kind of a long story, Mr. Frodo, and I'm in a bit of a hurry. Best leave explanations for later." Sam made as if to head in the direction of the bandit camp.

Frodo caught his wrist.

"Sam, you can't go that way, it's dangerous."

"I know. But my axe is back there, and I can't just leave it."

"Your axe?"

Even in the moonlight, Frodo could see his friend's blush.

"Well, I s'pose it's rightly Mr. Bilbo's axe, not mine. You know, the one that Thorin brought, that was over the fireplace. I kind of brought it along with me when I followed you. The bandits took it away, and I forgot to get it back when Thorin and I escaped. So I'm going back for it."

Frodo tried to make sense of that, as Sam tugged free of his grasp.

"I promise I'll be careful. Maybe you should go wait back in that tree."

That was the final straw. Did even Sam think he was useless?

"You can't go back there by yourself, Sam. I'm coming too!"

They crept through the night as silently as they could, until they reached the door of the abandoned cottage the bandits had been using as a camp. The fire was still lit, but although they could hear muffled noises in the distance, the cottage looked empty from where they stood.

"Do you think they're all gone?" Sam whispered.

"There could still be someone inside. Is there a way to check?" Frodo inched around the side of the cottage. There was a window, but it was far above his head. This hadn't been a dwelling built for hobbits. He tried to get a grip on the crumbling wall and pull himself up to get a look, but his fingers could find no purchase and he slid back down.

"We'll just have to risk it and go in the front door," he said, trying to sound confident. "Gil probably drew them all away. That was the plan."

Frodo almost tripped over a large, dark shape lying in the grass. Sam pulled him back with a whispered caution.

"Is that a body?" Frodo demanded, horrified. He'd seen the body of the bandit in the woods earlier, when Gil had uncovered it. He didn't want to see any more bodies. But from where he stood, it looked like there were more limp forms scattered around the grassy hill in front of the cottage.

"Don't look at that," Sam said, pulling him away. "You stay here at the door, keep watch. I'll go get the axe." He darted inside, leaving the door ajar.

Frodo drew back against the cottage wall, trying to get further from the bodies. He had only been waiting for a minute when he heard booted footsteps approaching, and someone breathing heavily.

"Hurry, Sam," he hissed through the door. "I think someone's coming."

It was one of the Big Folk, coming over the hill. It definitely wasn't Gil, so it must be one of the bandits. He hadn't spotted Frodo yet. Maybe he could still get away. But not without Sam.

He nudged the door open a little wider and slipped inside. It creaked behind him, and he winced. Sam was standing in front of the fire, clutching the axe to him like a long-lost friend.

"Come on," Frodo whispered. "If we can get outside before the bandit gets here, we can hide in the woods. He's big and clumsy, and he'll never catch us."

"Too late," said Sam, looking up. His eyes were fixed on the doorway.

"First two dwarves, and now two hobbits?" said the bandit, stepping inside. He held a jagged-looking knife in each hand. "This day keeps getting stranger. You had me convinced you were an innocent, but I'm not so thick I can't tell what's a coincidence and what's some kind of trick. You led the Ranger here to kill us all, was that the plan?"

"Leave us alone, Cob, " said Sam, waving the axe in front of him. "We don't want to hurt you, we just want to go."

The bandit laughed. "Hurt me? Go ahead and try. Maybe you can drop that thing on someone's foot again." He pointed a knife at each of them. He probably had intended to aim at their throats, but due to the height difference, the blades ended up hovering somewhere over their heads instead.

Sam clenched his jaw. A moment ago the blade of his axe had been wavering as he struggled to hold it up, but now it was completely steady.

Cob let the point of one knife drop towards the center of Frodo's chest.

"Who's your little friend?" he asked Sam. "Where were you and the dwarf hiding him? He doesn't look like he'd be very useful." He started to press down. Frodo yelped as the blade pricked through his shirt.

With a roar of anger, Sam rushed forward. The axe was too heavy for him to swing very well, but he managed to leave a long, shallow gash across Cob's stomach before he dropped it. Cob dropped a knife, and pressed that hand to the wound. Sam stared at the blood welling from between Cob's fingers, his eyes wide with shock.

Cob sent him skidding across the room with a kick, and then advanced on Frodo. Frodo backed away as far as he could, but was soon up against the wall.

The door swung open, and Gil launched himself across the room. He disarmed Cob with a flick of his sword, and drove a knee into his stomach, hard. The bandit howled and collapsed.

"Bring me some rope," Gil ordered, and the hobbits scrambled to obey. Sam trotted over with some long cords that looked like they had been severed with a knife.

"He used these to tie me up earlier," he said. "Fair's fair."

Cob trembled as Gil bound his hands and feet.

"I should kill you," the Ranger said. His eyes were cold.

Cob shrank visibly into himself. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. We were just trying to make some extra money. We didn't aim to hurt nobody."

"You went from simple robbery to attempted kidnapping, and just now I saw you ready to kill children."

Cob shivered.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he repeated. "It was all Jem Coltsfoot's plan. He was the boss. We were just doing what he said."

"Jem?" Gil sounded surprised. "Jem from the Pony? He's in on this? Where is he?"

"Outside."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "I see."

"Please," Cob pleaded. "I have a family. Please don't kill me."

"If I let you live, will you swear on your own miserable head to tell the truth about what happened here? To let all the people of Bree know how you've shamed them?"

Tears were running down Cob's face. "Please. I swear."

Gil raised his sword, letting the point hover near Cob's throat for a long moment before cutting his legs free.

Stumbling, weeping, Cob rushed off into the night, his hands still tied behind his back. Gil sheathed his sword, and Sam picked up his axe from where it had fallen.

Frodo looked back and forth between them, and wondered if he should make a proper introduction. It didn't seem like a good time, but Bilbo liked him to remember his manners. He would wait, he decided, as Gil started to shepherd both hobbits out of the cottage. The Ranger seemed to recognize that Sam was a friend, anyway.

When they were outside, Gil paused by the body closest to the door, and rolled it over with one foot. Frodo gasped. He recognized the nondescript little man with the scar on his forehead. But he was limp and still, his head lolling to one side as Gil turned him over.

"That's Jem from the Prancing Pony," Frodo said. "Butterbur's assistant. We met him last night. Did that bandit mean he was the one in charge of them? What's wrong with him?"

Gil knelt down by him and gave him a cursory inspection.

"Dead. Thorin broke his neck, although not on purpose, I think. A pity. Now we'll never know if there was something larger at work here than the greed of a few pathetic criminals. I doubt that there was. And yet, he worked at the Pony for more than twenty years. Why suddenly turn outlaw?"

Frodo tugged at Gil's sleeve. It was strange, he should have been frightened of the grim Ranger, whose countenance was streaked with blood and grime, but instead he found his presence strangely reassuring.

"Would you really have killed that bandit?"

"Probably not," Gil admitted. "Not in cold blood, not tonight. There has been enough death here already. These were cruel, greedy, thoughtless men, but they were not evil. Do you think I should have done it?"

Frodo shook his head in confusion. "I don't know."

"I wanted to," Sam whispered, still clutching his bloodstained axe. "I might have done it, if my aim had been better. I was really angry."

"Wanting to isn't the same as doing," Gil reassured him. "You were just trying to look out for Frodo, weren't you?"

Sam nodded, his face pale.

"I know you were frightened, but we can't stop for any longer right now," the Ranger said, grasping a hobbit's shoulder in each hand. "We need to go find Bilbo and Thorin."

Thorin was dying. He lay writhing in the darkness, poisoned and alone, and the dead visited him. Thror, lost in Moria, and Fundin, dead at Azanulbizar. Thrain, whose face was veiled in shadow. Fili, dead from a spear that had not been meant for him.

Every ghost filed past and stared down at Thorin. There were so many of them, and he knew then that he had lived too long, through days he had not been meant to see.

You think you have escaped us? they ask him. You think you have escaped the taint in your blood?

He thought he had grown immune to such doubts and horrors long ago, but the poison had conjured them out of the dark recesses of his mind.

Frerin reached a trembling hand towards him. He had been little more than a child at Azanulbizar. Thorin realized how young they had been, then, more than a lifetime ago. They had already lived through the loss of their home, and through years of wandering. They had felt old and world-weary already, but they had been children still.

Frerin's flesh charred and melted away, leaving nothing but the bleached white of bone. Fire blazed in his empty eye sockets.

"How could you burn me, Thorin?" his brother asked. His voice was gentle, even in death. With one skeletal hand, he reached out to grasp Thorin's arm. Thorin's skin burned and froze at his touch. "How could you burn me? Now I'll never find my way back to Mahal, or to the souls of our ancestors. You cursed me to be forever apart from you. "

"There were thousands of dead, and no time to build tombs of stone. So we cut down every tree in Azanulbizar, right down to the shores of Mirrormere, and built a thousand funeral pyres. Instead of burying you in state, I stripped your body bare, and laid you on the pyre, and lit it with my own two hands. What else could I have done?"

"It was sacrilege, Thorin. I was your brother. You should have buried me in stone."

There was nothing he could say to that. Even in his dreams, he could not answer: "I destroyed you, Frerin, and then refused to speak your name for two hundred years, because I knew what I'd done. I swore I'd die in fire too. But I'm still alive, and as long as I live, you'll haunt me, won't you?"

"You're going to be all right, Thorin," said Dís.

Thorin opened his eyes. Of all his ghosts, he feared this one the most. This death was his fault, and his alone. No enemy could be blamed for striking the fatal blow. He had taken her children, the treasure she had given Durin's Folk—and him—amid decades of suffering and hopelessness, and he had nearly lost them both. For that, he could never be forgiven.

Unlike the other visions, his sister was older than the last time he had seen her alive. Her beard was longer, and her hair was shot with gray. The lines around her eyes had deepened. She had died far away in the Ered Luin, and he had never seen her body. Perhaps his poisoned mind was creating her as she would have been, if she had lived.

But it was a strange vision, because Dís was dressed as a man. Not to fool an outsider, they would never know the difference. But a dozen small signs about how she wore her hair and clothing proclaimed her to be male to any dwarf that looked at her. Despite all these things, her shirt had somehow been sliced open, revealing both a jagged wound across her chest and a truth that even the blindest Man would have to recognize.

He closed his eyes, waiting for her words of accusation.

"Lie still," she said, putting a cool hand on his forehead. "Your friends will be here soon. This is all a dream. You should forget it."

But she had not seen what dwelled in his poison-dreams. This was not a dream. The night air on his face was harsh and cold, and the hard ground beneath his back was definitely real. He took a few deep breaths, and the flames that had licked at his skin seemed to recede. He could move again. He was not dead, and not dreaming. And Dís was still there. Her fingers intertwined with his. Solid. Alive.

Suddenly, he remembered Sam's words earlier that day.

"Frerin Fundinson," he whispered. "You. All along?"

She looked angry, and then resigned.

"So Sam told you, did he? What a little brat."

There was so much he wanted to say, and he had so little strength left.

"Why?"

He didn't know himself what question he was asking. Why was she here? Why had she let them believe that she was dead?

At first he thought that she would not answer. Her face was an open book to him, not because it mirrored his own, but because he had watched it so closely for so long, ever since Thror had placed her in his arms as a baby.

Love and hatred warred across her features, mingled with both longing and despair.

"I thought you were all dead, you and my sons. That was what the first messengers from Erebor said, right after the battle. I thought you had all been dead for months, by the time I heard the news. And I couldn't go on anymore. I could not pick myself up one more time, mourn my family, and carry on being strong. I thought I wanted to die myself. But what I really wanted was to be free from all of Durin's Folk, and from you, and from caring. Dís gave everything to her family and her people and her king, for almost two hundred years. She needed to die, so that I could be someone else instead, someone with no duties and no love to lose. Someone who could not be hurt again."

"As it turned out, the messenger was wrong. You were alive, and so was Kíli. I had abandoned my child. If I had stayed in the Ered Luin, I would have known by the time our caravans left for Erebor that spring. Instead, it was years before I heard the news."

Her fingers dug into Thorin's shoulders like talons.

"I almost went to him then. I couldn't bear the thought of what he had been forced to endure. But Dís was years in the grave already. She had nothing left to give. Her heart could not bear it. It would have been a ghost returning to Erebor, not her. I never meant to speak with you, or even come near you, until I met that boy on the Road by chance. But I need to know, I must know—is Kíli all right?"

"He is," Thorin managed. "All right. Grown up. A prince. A survivor, despite what we both thought." And getting married, against their wildest expectations. There might yet be grandchildren. The Line of Durin had not yet come to an end. If only he could find a way to tell her, to make her see. Her place was with him, as it had always been.

Dís was not dead, no matter what she might claim. If she wanted to be free of their past so badly, why had she chosen to wear their brother's name?

"Come home," he urged her. His lungs were starting to burn. It was getting harder to breathe. "Forgive me."

Her eyes hardened.

"Never. Never again."

If there was one thing Thorin knew, it was that when Dís had made up her mind, no amount of arguing would change it. Further speech was beyond his strength, anyway. He stared into her eyes, hoping she would understand. They had both lost so much, but they had always been together. Why now did she want to be alone?

There were voices and footsteps in the distance. Dís gathered her cloak about her tightly, concealing the tear in her shirt. She was going to disappear. Thorin tried to keep his eyes open, to memorize this last sight of her.

For a brief moment he felt her fingers brush across his cheek, in the lightest of caresses. Then she was gone, like all of his other visions.

Bilbo had a moment of panic when he found Thorin slumped against the base of a tree. But when he knelt down and touched his shoulder, Thorin turned to look at him. Alive and conscious, thank goodness.

"Thorin, are you all right?" he asked urgently.

Thorin's eyes slowly focused on him. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

He heard Gil calling for him in the distance, and shouted for him to hurry. "I found Thorin! I think he's injured, though I'm not sure how badly."

The Ranger knelt down beside him, and looked him over quickly.

"I think it should be all right to move him," he said. "Not that we have much choice, we can't leave him out in the woods."

He tried to lift Thorin into a standing position. Thorin's legs crumpled underneath him, and he would have fallen if Gil hadn't caught him up and lifted him in his arms with a grunt.

"He's not going to appreciate that," Bilbo observed, as Gil staggered back towards the cottage. He was impressed, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. Dwarves were heavy, and Gil probably weighed less than Thorin did, despite the extra foot or so of height.

"I don't have time…to get the pony," Gil managed through gritted teeth. "Let's hope the wound to his dignity is more serious than whatever else is wrong with him."

In the end, it took all four of them to get Thorin into the cottage and laid out by the fire. Gil cut off the tattered and bloody remains of his shirt and started checking him over for injuries, grumbling about the poor quality of light. He made a face when he saw the multitude of scars covering Thorin's torso, but did not otherwise comment on them.

"He took a nasty blow to the head earlier, and these cuts on his scalp bled all over him. But I don't think that's the problem, since he was moving just fine when I saw him before. Doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere else, other than this little cut on his arm. But what's this?" His hand was under Thorin's back, and he rolled him over to reveal a concave mess of scarring the size of his palm, near the base of his spine.

"Orc mace," Bilbo said. It was grotesque, but it had looked a lot nastier when it was fresh. "About fifty years ago."

"How is he still able to walk, after that kind of injury? It shouldn't even be possible."

Bilbo shrugged. "Obstinacy, I think. Or that's what the healers in Erebor decided to call it."

Sam appeared next to them, holding out a knife to Gil.

"The cut on his arm was from this," he said quietly. "Jem had it."

He seemed shaken to Bilbo, but he supposed it was only natural that the boy would be a bit subdued after the day's experiences.

Gil held the knife up to the fire, and then sniffed it.

"That's nasty stuff," he said. "But Thorin's not showing the symptoms of…"

He checked Thorin's pulse, and his breathing.

"If he was poisoned, it doesn't seem to be affecting him the way I would expect. But I suppose it's possible. My father—I've heard that dwarves respond differently, even erratically, to many substances."

He set to work at once, boiling water and grinding some dried leaves he kept in a pouch. He added the water to the leaves in a little bowl, let it steep for a minute, and then poured the water off again, leaving a mushy sort of paste. This he spread in a thick layer over the cut on Thorin's arm, which was so shallow that it had already stopped bleeding. He tore a strip from the cleanest looking part of Thorin's destroyed shirt, and bound it over the wound.

"That should draw out the rest of the poison, " he said. "Otherwise, we'll wait until morning. I don't think he's in danger at the moment. I'd rather not spend the night here, but we don't have much choice at this point. I'll take the first watch. Hopefully tomorrow we can be on our way again, and leave this mess behind us." Wearily, he got to his feet and headed out into the night.

Bilbo made makeshift beds in the corner for Sam and Frodo, and settled down next to Thorin to keep his own watch. He couldn't help worrying, no matter what Gil said. Gil was a Ranger, not a healer, although Bilbo remembered him mentioning that he had some experience with herblore.

A few minutes later, Thorin's eyes fluttered open.

"Bilbo?" he asked. "You're not dead, are you?"
At least he was talking again, even if he wasn't making any sense.

"Not last time I checked," Bilbo said. "Should I be?"

"In Erebor, all those years ago, there was a rumor that you bound me to life when I was dying. That there was some strange hobbit magic at work."

"That's crazy," Bilbo said, completely astonished. "Someone really thought that? You're just too stubborn to die. I had nothing to do with it. How could I?"

"I thought it was madness as well, superstitious nonsense started by those that believed you were Gandalf's creature and thus must have magical powers. But there's that magic ring of yours. I know you still have it."

"It's a ring that turns me invisible," Bilbo said. "Invisible. It does not grant me mysterious powers over life and death. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Then why aren't you aging?"

"Thorin," said Bilbo. "I know Gil said you were going to be fine, and given the amount you are talking right now, I am inclined to agree with him. But the poison is clearly still affecting your wits. Shut up, and go to sleep."

For the first time in two and a half centuries, Thorin Oakenshield did as he was told.