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Chapter Text

“Yes, and your brothers have promised to skin me alive if I let anything happen to you,” said Legolas drily.

“Oh, well, you know them,” said Frodo, a little embarrassed at still being treated like a little kid by his whole family. “That’s just their way...”

The Nine Walkers were half a day’s walk away from Rivendell, walking at a pace comfortable enough to accommodate the Shire-folk (the Shire-folk, not the Hobbit-folk, and that is an important distinction to make, for although Frodo was a Hobbit, he had spent over twenty-five years keeping up with Dwarves and he did not tire easily).

“Indeed,” continued Legolas. “At least I managed to get away before they moved on to the more creative threats...”

“Well I didn’t,” broke in Gimli, grumbling. “And I got them from your uncles too. When the whole Royal Family is screaming in your face, you can’t exactly tell them to shove off.”

Frodo’s embarrassment, and the redness of his cheeks, just strengthened.

“Oh yes,” said Aragorn. His lowered his voice an octave to mimic Thorin: “‘Young man, if a single finger of his is broken...’’”

“‘If a single braid is undone..!’” Merry chimed in.

“‘If a single eyelash has fallen..!’”

Frodo was pretty sure Uncle Thorin had never said the word ‘eyelash’ in his life, but Pippin’s imitation still sounded convincing.

“Thorin,” said Gimli dismissively. “Thorin is nothing. It’s Bilbo who’s the scary one. Yesterday, I finally understood why Dwalin is so in awe of him. ‘Gimli,’ he tells me. ‘Make sure Frodo brushes his teeth.’ And then he gives me this look..!”

Gimli shuddered, and Aragorn patted his old friend on the back sympathetically. They had gotten such looks often as children. The fact that they were still getting them, and they continued to be as effective, might have just meant that Bilbo’s Amazing Powers Of Intimidation hadn’t faded a single speck. However, it was still not the most comforting way to start a Quest for the Fates of all the Peoples of Middle-Earth: if one was still scared of Bilbo, how was one supposed to face Orcs and Goblins and other foul creatures?

But nobody laughed at Gimli’s fear. Even Legolas, who was so much older than them all, could be made to feel like a guilty little kid when Bilbo caught him, Fili, and Kili pulling a prank.

“‘When you go swimming, make sure someone stays with him on the shore, you know how he tends to wander off...’” said Aragorn mournfully.

“‘Will you make sure that he eats his vegetables, Sam?’” Sam finally joined in.

That, Frodo couldn’t handle anymore. If even sweet, kind Sam was mocking him, then his family really had gone far too over the top. Face flaming up to the very tips of his ears, he ran ahead to join a very surprised (and oblivious) Boromir at the front of the group. Laughter followed him, but he stuck his nose up in the air, and loudly asked their Gondorean companion to tell him more about the White City.

But the laughter behind him gradually subsided. The other exchanged glances, as they remembered what words had followed after the threats.

“‘Worry not about the others’ births and standing, Master Halfling,’” Sam whispered the words Thorin had passed onto him. “‘A Prince can become a Blacksmith, so it stands to reason that a Gardener can become a Hero.’”

Gimli toyed with the whetstone Fili had shoved into his bag while reminding the younger Dwarf to sharpen his axe (Gimli always got carried away in the heat of battle and forgot such things, as Fili well knew).

Next to him, Legolas pulled at the gloves that the brothers had presented him with; they were made under Ori’s guidance and although the Elf didn’t fear the cold, they comforted him all the same.

“‘If any of those older folk try to tease you for being the shortest,’” Pippin recalled Kili’s advice, mirroring the Dwarf’s savage grin. “‘Kick them in the kneecaps!’”

“‘Do not take the burden completely on yourself, Estel; a leader must be able to rely on his company just as much as they must be able to rely on him,’” murmured Aragorn, echoing Thorin’s parting words.

Merry chortled to himself as he patted one of his bag compartments, which had an inordinate amount of handkerchiefs stuffed into it courtesy of Kili. Here, have a couple more, Uncle Bilbo really missed them on his journey and Frodo likes them too, so I suppose it’s a Hobbit habit..? Kili had rambled.

Gandalf, who had kept silent for the argument, continued keeping still. But he smiled into his beard as he remembered the concerned words the Dwarves had pressed upon him.

And all of them, as they exchanged grins, remembered the words Bilbo had told every single one: Be good to each other and yourselves! Remember that you have have a home here with us in Erebor, just waiting for you to come back. And most importantly... I know the Wild is a dangerous place, but do try to wash yourselves at least once a week!

Chapter Text

Technically, late in the evening was always Bilbo’s second-favorite time (after breakfast, which the whole family ate together whenever possible). Yes, this hour, when it was just him and Thorin sharing and talking about whatever it was that had come up during the day, always calmed Bilbo. No matter how long and difficult the day had been, there was always the hour before bedtime to look forward to. (And sometimes the promise of it was the only thing that kept him going, especially during particularly long council meetings.)

But, of course, as with all good things, there also comes a lining of lead (as the Dwarves say about clouds). And this dark underside was the reason Bilbo was currently on his way to a very quiet, very painful headache.

“I still don’t understand why we are supposed to go to Rivendell,” grumbled Thorin. (Sometimes, Bilbo honestly forgot Thorin was a wise ruler who made difficult decisions for his people every day. This was one of those times.)

“I told you already,” replied his husband wearily. “Lord Elrond has foreseen something very important, and he asks us to make haste.”

“But it’s about your ring,” argued Thorin. “If it’s about your ring, they should come to our mountain.”

“Well, first of all, it’s Frodo’s ring now,” began the Hobbit.

“--his mountain too!--”

“Stop it, Thorin, you’re beginning to behave more and more like Kili,” continued Bilbo firmly. “Lord Elrond’s foreseen it, so we’re going; the rest is just explanation.”

Thorin crossed his arms, the very picture of his youngest Dwarven nephew in a regular sulk. “I am just pointing out that Elrond’s foresight seems to work best when he is keen to not go on a long, uncomfortable journey...”

Bilbo sighed in exasperation. “Thorin, we don’t know what they’re planning to do with the thing; Rivendell is closer to the sea and the forests. There’s a reason our mountain is called Lonely, as you well know! So yes, we’re going no matter what Elrond has or hasn’t foreseen. That’s final.”

Thorin rolled his eyes at Bilbo, who rolled his eyes right back. But there was no real ire behind Thorin’s words; being married for around half a century to somebody who was quite fond of your Worst Enemy and used every opportunity to get you two to become friends, arrange playdates for your children, etc. tended to make your Worst Enemy less of An Enemy and more of That Annoying Guy. Thorin’s grumbling was just that: grumbling.

Still, Thorin would not be the king he was if he didn’t always try to have the final word.

“The children won’t stand for it, you’ll see!”

--*--*--

The kids took the news of going to Rivendell quite well, much to Thorin’s huffy scowling.

“We haven’t gone on a family vacation for quite some time, have we?” said Fili happily.

“We’ve never gone on a family vacation before!” corrected Frodo, looking displeased. “Or was this before I was born?”

“He means the Quest to reclaim Erebor,” said Thorin, a bit wearily. “Which was definitely not a vacation, Fili. We were fighting for our lives every other day!”

Fili just shrugged. “Wasn’t that the fun part?”

--*--*--

What happened on the road to Rivendell was Frodo’s own fault, really. He would be the first to admit it.

It was just that...

Although he and the others definitely counted Dwalin, Gloin, and Gimli as part of their family, the other guards accompanying them were... not. And it was very rare for all five of them to be gathered together at the same time... And Frodo in general left the mountain pretty rarely... And it was such a quiet stretch of road... So wouldn’t it be alright if they just left the others behind for a couple nights and carried on ahead by themselves..? Pretty please..?

Neither Thorin nor Bilbo saw any reason to refuse those huge, blue eyes. They shrugged and told Dwalin and the others to meet them in Rivendell. Then they disentangled their bags from those of the others, and rode on ahead.

--*--*--

And the first two days were indeed quiet and uneventful, if one called a travelling party of two Hobbits and three Dwarves uneventful.

On the first day, Kili attempted to catch fish in the Bruinen, but failed miserably. Bilbo still made them all the most amazing of suppers, then told Thorin very clearly that he had washed enough dishes on their last “vacation”, and it was the other “vacationers’” turn now. So Frodo got to enjoy the astounding sight of Dwarven royalty washing dishes as though they were professionals. Which, in fact...

“Ahh, this reminds me of the good old times,” said Kili, flipping a plate handily.

“What good old times?” scowled Uncle Thorin, but he was balancing a ladle on his forefinger.

“Why, the good old times of singing and dancing for our supper!” answered Fili, and proceeded to do just that.

He launched into a jaunty little tune that was immediately picked up by Kili and, after a little nudging, Thorin. That was the singing; the dancing followed soon after. Leaping and somersaulting, the two brothers began to throw the dishes, pots, and pans between them all in intricate patterns. At first, Thorin remained steady and still, and was more likely to wipe crumbs off of a plate than throw it, but soon he too was caught up in the giddy excitement of his nephews.

And then the show really started. Weaving around each other as though they did this every day instead of remembering a trick from over half a century ago, the Dwarves picked up the pace. The song quickened, the harmonies became more complex, and the beats more pronounced, until the two watching Hobbits couldn’t help but tap their feet as well. And the washing, oh! the washing. The plates soared higher, the brushes scrubbed completely in sync, pots flew from Dwarf to spinning, ducking, gliding Dwarf. If anybody almost dropped a plate of forgot a line, well, Frodo certainly didn’t notice, so smoothly and easily did they cover for each other. Somehow, underneath it all, the plates, cutlery, and cooking equipment actually got clean.

And then it was time for the grand finale. With a clatter! a bang! and a crash! Fili and Kili swept everything back into the bags. The soapy water buckets were emptied of water in a high arc to either side of the audience; a soft rainbow shimmered in the water droplets. And Thorin-- Thorin swept Bilbo off the seat he was on, then leant him back, back, back into the kind of kiss Frodo had only seen in plays.

This was followed by whoops and good-natured groans from the kids.

But the next day, and the day after, Frodo and Bilbo joined in the cleaning festivities.

--*--*--

The day after that though... that was when misfortune struck.

The day had started off pretty well, Frodo later decided. Kili had finally caught a fish, a fact he would not stop boasting about, but aside from that the day was calm and sweet. The five Bagginses (Dwarves don’t bother with last names, and upon marriage, a highly intrigued Thorin had insisted on him, Fili, and Kili taking Bilbo’s, ‘just in case’) told jokes and stories. It was the least stressed Frodo had seen his uncles in a long time; even his generally easy-going brothers seemed more relaxed than usual. Frodo himself felt vaguely smug about a job well done-- everyone was enjoying themselves immensely, just as he had wished they would, and thus he was utterly happy as well.

And in the evening, the voices of his uncles blended together in harmony as they all sat around the campfire they had built upon a green old hill. Frodo and Fili were honestly more than half dozing-off, and after the song finished, the others lowered their voices to murmurs to accommodate them.

--So the unearthly shriek coming from the woods seemed even more abrupt.

Frodo and Fili bolted upright; Thorin and Kili grabbed their weapons and crouched into defensible positions, Bilbo just a hair behind them.

“What was that?!” said Frodo. His eyes darted around wildly, trying to determine where the noise had come from. “Orcs?”

“Never,” said Fili, grabbing his knives. “No Orc could make such a sound...”

As if in response to Fili’s statement, a similar scream split the air again. It sounded closer. Frodo grabbed his own axe, and joined the others. Now their circle of defense was complete; five pairs of eyes scanned their surroundings.

They did not have to wait long.

Hooded shapes glided up the hill; Frodo counted five of them. They were taller than Men, taller than any being he had ever seen before. Beside him Bilbo murmured something shakily, a word Frodo had never heard before. Nazgûl.

And then the shapes drew nearer and then everything went cold.

Not the normal cold of a deep underground mine, no, this was a cold that chilled his very bones. It was as though his heart itself was being covered in frost. Frodo shivered and his teeth began to chatter. Around him, his family roared their battle cries and charged, but Frodo found he could not join them. His axe fell from numb fingers. His eyes were practically rolling back. The world around him felt smudged and unreal. He could not hear his family anymore, but all around him there were whispers. Whether they came from the enemy or from inside him, Frodo could not tell.

Wouldn’t it be so easy...

...yes, so simple...

...to put on the ring...

...sneak up behind these creatures...

...take them out with his littlest ax...

...all their problems would be over...

...everyone would be safe...

...it would be so easy...

...it would be so simple...

...all he had to do...

...was put on the ring!

And then there was screaming and confusion, and the whole world went dark and blurred. He heard his uncle and brothers shouting in frustration as their blades deflected those of the enemies, but did not strike flesh. But soon even their familiar voices were drowned out in a hazy roar--

a tall pale king bearing down on him--

a hissing voice: come with us come with us why would you bother to resist it will be sweet it will be painless it will be easy and simple so simple--

never!

a try to deflect--

and then pain, pain, pain, unimaginable pain.

Frodo wrenched the ring off his finger with a gasp. The world’s colors returned to normal, but his consciousness did not. Dimly, he noticed his other uncle throwing a whirling torch of fire into one of the wraiths, followed by shrieks that could never have come from a mortal being.

Then there was more pain, and a haze, and somewhere in the background, Thorin growling If you don’t get him to Elrond in time I will rip each and every one of you pointed ear bastards apart limb from limb. The growling was followed by hushing and whispers and then a plea, murmured in voices crazed with worry, belonging to the the rest of his family: please, please, help him, please. And then a final phrase in Thorin’s voice-- but that surely couldn’t be Thorin because even in this waking nightmare Frodo couldn’t imagine him sounding so broken: I beg of you.

And Frodo remembered nothing after.

--*--*--

Frodo woke refreshed and glad, as if after the sweetest sleep-- though the only dreams he remembered were full of dread and fright. Still, there was a smile on his face as he opened his eyes and sat up.

He was in a bed in what was surely Rivendell, but it wasn’t the usual quarters his family usually stayed in. Frodo looked around in interest. Already, it seemed as if the terrifying beings were from some old stories of his uncles-- though the dull, throbbing ache in his shoulder said otherwise.

Still, Hobbits have an amazing capacity to heal, as Gandalf would say, so Frodo looked around his room with an interest that was unfeigned. The first thing he saw were his brothers, their gold and black hair and beards mixing together on his lap. They had fallen asleep in their chairs, leaning over him to guard him even in their sleep, as they had often done when he was still young and prone to knocking himself out with his own axe. A fond smile lingered on Frodo’s face as he brushed their hair from their faces. They did not wake, but instead, feeling a familiar touch, slid further into sleep.

Then Frodo’s eyes continued their path across the room-- and he saw Thorin.

The Dwarf was sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, just two paces away from the door. His sword was in his hand and he looked ready to attack any creature --Elf, Orc, or Dwarf-- who had the misfortune to wander into the room. Bilbo was leaning on his shoulder, in a light drowse as he trusted his husband to watch over their nephew meanwhile. Frodo knew, however, that if there was a threat, Thorin would be able to jostle his husband awake so that Bilbo could roll out of immediate danger with ease. It was a maneuver that had saved both their lives more than once.

Frodo’s gaze met that of Thorin, and the young Hobbit flinched. Thorin did not look as though he had slept since Frodo had fallen; the dark circles below his eyes were matched by the wary madness within them. Frodo hadn’t seen his uncle look so upset since Bilbo and Kili had somehow gotten themselves stuck in a slowly collapsing mine shaft. Even then, his concern had been tempered with a fond annoyance at his silly family. There was nothing but fear for his nephew’s well-being in his eyes now.

Tentatively, Frodo offered his uncle a smile, making sure it was wide enough for Thorin to see he was alright.

In response, Thorin softly jostled Bilbo awake; Frodo’s other uncle met his eyes with sleepy delight. Then, a look of utter relief on his features, Thorin slumped forward in a dead faint.

--*--*--

When Frodo was finally pronounced fit to stand up and go outside by his fussing uncle, he was greeted with familiar faces.

One of those was completely expected: Dwalin. The Dwarven warrior was standing right outside the door to Frodo’s chamber. He was a steady presence and practically a mirror image of his king, down to the huge axe he held at guard in his hands-- and down to the wild, worried look in his eyes that he could not quite hide. Seeing Frodo, the look slid away.

“Sorry ‘bout that...” said Frodo quietly, as he always had since he was a young boy running off through the depths of Erebor on adventures and thus scaring poor Dwalin half to death.

And Dwalin, as he always had since Frodo had first come to the Lonely Mountain, carefully put his gigantic axe aside and enveloped the Hobbit in his strong arms. The hug was gentle, gentle, gentle, as all of Dwalin’s hugs had been. Neither Dwarf nor Hobbit were exactly reading off a script and the feelings were genuine, but there was a tradition between them, and it made Frodo feel better. He hugged Dwalin back gratefully; it was a comforting reminder that he was really not that old yet and it was alright if he had not done particularly well in his first serious encounter with Enemies. (Rooting out marauding Orc bands didn’t exactly count when the rest of your family had fought in a huge war.)

That encounter was normal, and wonderful in its normality, in its regularness.

The other meetings were wonderful too, but normal they were not.

--*--*--

“Merry?!”

Indeed it was him, Frodo’s old friend from the Shire. Here in Rivendell! (They had not exactly grown up together, but Merry and quite a few other young Hobbits had spent many long autumns in Erebor; the times between autumns were filled with letters and plans about what to get up to next time they saw each other. The Hobbitlings could always find some interesting place to explore, and everyone knew the Dwarves doted on them enough that they would never get in trouble for it. Erebor, in short, was practically made for young adventurous Hobbits, and they took full advantage of it.)

Merry grinned at Frodo’s surprise. “If that’s your reaction to seeing me, you better sit down.”

And indeed, Frodo felt a little light-headed, and not from his wounds, when he saw the people who were hurrying down the hallway towards them.

“Pippin-- and Sam too?”

Indeed it was them, grinning in delight at seeing him on his feet and clapping him on the back. Frodo just blinked at them, as equally shocked as he was glad. Pippin at least he could understand: the young Hobbit would be the sort to go gallivanting off at the slightest hint of adventure, and if Merry was here then there was no way Pippin would stay behind. But Sam... Frodo often felt that he and Sam were of a kindred spirit, the only two truly calm ones amongst his boisterous family and friends. If Sam were here, there had to be something more behind the others’ presence as well; it was not just a random flight of fancy.

As if hearing Frodo’s thoughts, the others sobered up.

“Come on,” said Merry. “Now that you’re up and about, we have Important Things to tell you and Bilbo.”

Pippin nodded. “There’s to be a Great Council of some sort tomorrow, I’ve heard.” Sam coughed pointedly at this not particularly accurate turn of phrase; I’ve eavesdropped was far more correct. Pippin sniffed in reply. “The point is, we’d rather you and Bilbo hear this stuff privately. Although the rest of your family can come along too.”

And just like that, they dragged off Frodo into a little room where they would not be disturbed.

--*--*--

And so began The Little Council of Elrond, or, more accurately, The Council of Hobbit Matters That Took Place In A Little Room In Rivendell That Was Soon Very Crowded Indeed. Council of Crowdedness for short.

In any case, as Pippin would put it, that wasn’t the point.

The point was that all five of the Hobbits were there, and the royal family as well, along with Dwalin, who was not quite ready to let Frodo out of his sight. They gathered in a circle, sitting cross-legged in what was little more than a broom cupboard. And, towering above them all, there also sat Gandalf, who Frodo had not seen for several years. But there was not much time for friendly greetings; the Shirelings’ news were grave.

Merry began, as always blunt and indirect at the same time. “I don’t pretend to begin to know what it is you’re hiding, Mister Bilbo. But whatever it is, I sincerely hope the reason you came to Rivendell is to deal with it, and fast, because They are looking for you.”

“‘They’?” frowned Bilbo.

In response, Merry shrugged. “The Enemy.”

Bilbo continued to frown, uncertain as to where Merry’s hints were leading. Or perhaps, Frodo reconsidered, hoping against hope that he was incorrect in his guesses...

But Bilbo had no more time to hope or to guess, for Gandalf cut in.

“I hope you still remember the creature Gollum, Bilbo,” he said gravely. “And I hope you still remember how you told him of Baggins and of Shire. I have long searched for Gollum, and found him at last. Many things he told me-- things I have no time to explain now. But unfortunately for us all, the Enemy found him first. And what you told him, he has passed on.”

And now the Shire folk’s presence in Rivendell was clear. Frodo glanced around him; the Dwarves’ faces were grim, but it was Bilbo’s that chilled him most. It wasn’t often that his soft-spoken uncle turned serious, but the result was as unexpected and frightening to Frodo as Thorin’s earlier fear had been.

“Mordor spies in the Shire!” Bilbo jumped up, his face white with rage. “They dare go there? When they know it’s under the protection of Erebor and all of Durin’s folk?! Dwalin, I want troops four and five to be sent to Hobbiton immediately or faster.”

“Understood,” said Dwalin with a curt nod. He stood up and strode out of the room. A desire to convince himself Frodo was safe was one thing, Bilbo in that mood was another.

“Don’t worry, Mister Bilbo,” said Merry, smiling and trying to break the icy tension. “The first Hobbit those spies were unfortunate enough to encounter was a certain Lobelia Sackville-Baggins...”

At that, Bilbo and all the Dwarves around him calmed slightly; the Hobbit sank back down to the floor. Fili and Kili began to smirk. They all remembered tough little Lobelia, and she had only grown fiercer with age.

“Yes,” chimed in Pippin with an answering snigger. “Lobelia told me they all looked really quite surprised to be chased out of town with an umbrella...”

With that, Bilbo calmed almost completely, and for that Frodo was glad. He was also glad that Pippin did not seem to be exaggerating the story: Lobelia was ferocious, but she was also a middle-aged lady, not a trained warrior. If she was able to hold off whoever it was that had been sent (even if it was only due to the element of surprise and some old maneuvers Nori had taught her), then the danger was not yet that great.

As if confirming his thoughts, Merry nodded at Frodo with a quick grin, before continuing his tale. “Well, of course if they come back umbrellas are unlikely to enough, and even with the swiftest bird to Erebor, it would still take a while for reinforcements to come. So Pippin and I volunteered to go to Rivendell, to inquire either about a few Elvish warriors who were keen on wiping out evil, or for a way to contact the Dunedain. While getting ready to set off for Bree, we met Sam, who insisted he knew a shortcut and came along with us, and so here we are.”

Sam, who had drawn no attention to himself during this Council, looking a little awestruck at the amount of powerful people in the little room, now stared at his feet sheepishly.

“It worked, I’d say,” said he quietly. “Something Aragorn showed me a long time ago...”

“Ah, speaking of Aragorn!” said Pippin with a delighted smile. “You’ll never guess who we met on the way...”

The non-Shirelings exchanged glances of surprise and happiness. In the last years, they had seldom heard from their old friend; it had been quite some time since he, Gimli, and Kili had last disappeared into the Wild together, hunting evil creatures alongside the Dunedain. Though he had dropped by for Bilbo and Frodo’s last birthday, he had vanished again the day after.

“Estel?!” Fili and Kili matched Pippin’s enthusiasm. “What--! He never said--! Why is he--”

“That,” interrupted Gandalf. “Can wait until tomorrow.”

--*--*--

And then it was tomorrow.

Frodo stood outside the door to the council room by himself. He had come a little early, and honestly he was a little nervous. In Erebor, he often took part in Dwarvish politics, as he had been raised to do. But... there was a reason the Shire-folk had wanted to conduct their business the day before this Council, and it was not only the fact that Hobbit business was nobody else’s business. No, it was also the fact that this Council would be a lot more important than the general meeting of Dwarvish politicians that Frodo was allowed into.

He hoped he wouldn’t embarrass his family. Thorin was already a bit on edge, as was usual for him when surrounded by so many Elves, even though he was trying his best not to snap at anyone, for Bilbo’s sake. As for Bilbo, he was still tense from the idea that the Enemy was sniffing round the Shire-- what if it was the Nazgûl who went there next? No amount of umbrellas would help there, and he hoped Lobelia wouldn’t even try. Even Frodo’s brothers were frustrated: they had not found Estel anywhere and were growing frustrated and sulky at this one-sided game of hide-and-seek. Hm, maybe it was less accidentally embarrassing his family he should worry about, and more accidentally setting them off on a rampage of yelling at poor innocent people...

There was a soft tap on his shoulder. Frodo spun around, automatically looking up as a Hobbit brought up outside of the Shire were used to doing. Then he looked up some more-- Dwarves were taller than Hobbits, but they were nowhere near as tall as the people standing before him right now.

“Legolas! Aragorn!” said Frodo with a delighted grin. The two beamed back at him.

His earlier worries were forgotten, at least for the moment. Technically, the two were his older brothers’ friends. (Even more technically, the two were mainly known in Erebor as That Crazy Gimli’s Closest Buddies Who Would Ever Have Thought Look At The Youth Today.) But they had never made Frodo feel too young, or too inexperienced, or too stupid to hang out with them. Even when he had been in his tweens, they were still willing to spar with him, even if he knew they want extremely easy on him, and to talk to him, about maps and poems and faraway places.

So Frodo gave them both a hug, and they went into the Council chamber together.

Frodo’s back was straight and he held his head high.

--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

BONUS: After The Council Has Spoken, The Parent Must Continue Speaking

“No, Kili, I already told you, you may not accompany your brother on this quest,” said Bilbo Baggins sternly.

“Buuut Uncle Bilbooo!” whined said Dwarf, for all the world as though he was the baby of the family instead of Frodo. “I wanted to go to Mordor tooooo.”

“But if you went, Fili will also wish to go,” pointed out Bilbo quite logically. “And I am not sending off all three of my nephews --not to mention all the heirs!-- out on this dangerous journey. If you ask me, it’s bad enough that Frodo is going!”

“If you ask me,” said Fili slyly. “You’re just upset that you didn’t get to go yourself.”

Kili turned a scandalized look on Bilbo. Was that really why he was forbidding his nephew to go? Because he didn’t get to go either? How unfair, Uncle Bilbo, how unfair! One person suffering didn’t mean everybody else had to suffer!

“Well no one asked you, did they,” Bilbo sniffed and turned his nose up. How dare they accuse him in such a way! “Did you not hear Gandalf? The Enemy’s forces are everywhere; we must protect our home and keep the Eye off of Frodo for as long as possible!”

Both nephews looked unimpressed. They’d spent many years listening to Bilbo lie about this or that, to this or that person. They were pretty sure they’d learned all his habits by now. Although, to be fair, their uncle could still trick them nine times out of ten...

“Oh hush, you two,” said Bilbo. “Let your brother have the fun for once.”

And that, when nothing else had, convinced Fili and Kili to drop it. (And Bilbo thanked his lucky stars that the two of them had a strong sense of justice in that respect at least. He really wasn’t that keen on listening to their teasing all night... no matter how --a little blush reddened Bilbo’s cheeks-- correct they actually were.)

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

There are of course many ways that one can describe how Frodo grows up. He is constantly balancing his Hobbit heritage and his adopted Dwarven culture. In some ways it makes him strong, adaptive, less prone to be stubbornly stuck on one idea; but in other ways, it also leaves him vulnerable.

Thus, here are three little glimpses into how Frodo grows up.

1. FAMILY

Frodo grows up loving his brothers and his brothers watch him grow up, loving him back.

And Bilbo watches him grow, and he watches Fili and Kili dote on their littlest brother (and Kili’s just so smug that he isn’t the baby of the family anymore) and quietly, all by himself, Bilbo is terrified that that their love will fade.

Because Thorin loves Frodo too, and, softened by his marriage and his homeland, he shows it far more often and far more thoroughly than he did when Fili and Kili were young. There is no distance between him and Frodo as there had been between him and his other nephews; no obstacle of dragon and homelessness and heritage keeping the two apart.

When Thorin teaches Frodo how to hold an axe properly, he does it gently, softly correcting the grip. When Frodo makes a mistake, it’s not a bark to Do it better this time! that follows, but a Did you see where you went wrong? instead. When Frodo blocks and parries successfully, it’s a beaming smile that he gets, not a brisk nod.

And Bilbo is just so, so scared that Fili and Kili’s love will change when they see this. When they see their uncle spoil Frodo with hugs and tickles as he never spoiled them; when they see the childhood they never had.

But it doesn’t.

Thorin tickles Frodo until he yelps and tears of laughter stream down his cheeks, and Kili joins right in, giggling like a little child himself. Thorin corrects Frodo’s high swing, and Fili screams and pretends to die a Very Dramatic Death under the wooden weapon.

The years come and go, but jealousy never follows.

Bilbo breathes a quiet, private sigh of relief as they settle in together, his wonderful family. He’s almost forgotten about his earlier fears until an evening when he and Fili are gathering mushrooms on the Lonely Mountain’s slopes (because Bilbo likes gathering mushrooms and Fili likes having Bilbo all to himself sometimes) and Fili says suddenly:

“We never blamed him, you know.”

Bilbo’s blank surprise must have shown on his face, because Fili elaborates.

“Uncle Thorin I mean. That was just the kind of time we grew up in. He needed to be strict, otherwise we would never have survived. So with Frodo...” he gives a kind of awkward shrug. “We don’t care if he gets hugged more than we did or whatever.” And his awkwardness turns into a fierce joy. “We’re just so, so happy that he’s growing up in a different time.”

The mushrooms lie forgotten on the slope; the sun sets on the curious sight of a Dwarf stooping low for a tight, tight hug from a Hobbit, and they stay like this as the sun rolls down behind the mountains.

Frodo grows up calling Bilbo and Thorin Uncle and Fili and Kili brother because although one shouldn’t forget blood, some things run far deeper. As they should.

2. BULLIES

Frodo grows up being ‘different’.

When Frodo’s young, other kids point and laugh at him (because he’s too short or his feet are too hairy or his chin is too not). Not often, because he is the king’s nephew after all, and such a thing comes with perks, but it happens. And if Fili and Kili find out (or rather, when, because they always do), they take revenge for their little brother, as Dwarvish siblings are wont to do.

When Frodo’s young, sometimes Thorin’s advisors mutter about him (because who ever heard of a Hobbit being considered an heir, Erebor will be the laughing stock of all Middle Earth if they keep going at this rate). Not often, because Thorin surrounds himself mainly with people who love the royal family as much as they love the city, but it happens. And if Thorin finds out (or rather, when, because Nori has fingers in many pies), he sends them off to inspect very important, very distant mines, as Dwarvish parents-who-happen-to-be-kings are wont to do.

When Frodo’s young, he doesn’t understand why people say such mean things to him, when he can’t help any of it. So he runs to Bilbo and cries. And if Bilbo finds out why he’s crying (or rather, when, because Bilbo is very good at these things), he wraps Frodo into his arms, tight tight tight, and rocks him back and forth, as Hobbit parents are wont to do.

When Frodo is old enough to realize why his bullies apologize to him a few hours later, why adults who murmur about him are never heard of again, he asks his Dwarvish relatives to Please Stop It. He appreciates, but doesn’t need constant protection: it is up to him to fight his own battles and forge his own path. His Dwarvish relatives sulk, but consent, and Frodo stands just a little taller on his own two feet.

(But he doesn’t stop going for a relaxing cup of tea and a hug with Bilbo, which proves, perhaps, that Hobbits understand these things better.)

3. WATER

Frodo grows up hating water.

Uncle Bilbo tries and tries, taking him to the shores of Laketown and taking him to the underground lakes of Erebor. Human children enjoy splashing around in the shallows at Laketown; Dwarven children enjoy diving deep into the cool, still waters of Erebor.

Frodo doesn’t enjoy either.

He won’t approach anything deeper than a fountain, and even fountains he approaches holding Bilbo’s hand. When he gets used to one, he’ll go alone, maybe even dip his toes in. But otherwise, no.

They’re at Lake Dunsapie (deep underground, the whole cavern illuminated only by beautiful, strange gems embedded in --or is it growing from?-- the walls), the whole family together for once, when Fili, still dripping water from diving for ancient stalagmites, leans down to finally ask Bilbo the question that’s been bothering him so long: “Are all Hobbits like this?”

Bilbo winces, and looks around quickly to make sure Frodo isn’t anywhere nearby. But Frodo is off having fun with Kili, collecting pretty rocks, and singing wildly and un-self-consciously off-tune, as only children can.

So Bilbo shakes his head, keeping his voice down: “I think it has to do with his parents’ accident...”

Fili blanches at that, and sits down heavily.

(Fili is filled with both a loathing and a sort of fierce love for that accident; it took Primula away and he still remembers juggling for Dwalin’s Little Princess, but it also brought their youngest brother to them and he can’t help but be happy for that. Remembering the reason Frodo is in Erebor always makes him feel ugly; Bilbo, who knows or guesses about these things far better than he should, claps him on the shoulder.)

And, half-drowsing next to his husband, completely at peace, Thorin says quietly, firmly: “Leave him be, and tell Kili too. If he doesn’t like going into water, there’s no sense in forcing him.”

(Thorin has no particular fondness of water himself: it drowned with the barrels as they escaped from Thranduil’s cells. Bilbo leans over and presses a soft kiss into his husband’s hair. The kiss steadies Thorin, buoys him and grounds him, it is like a driftwood that he clings to every time his memories threaten to drag him under into despair.)

Fili nods at his uncles’ words.

If the Royal Consort explains and the King commands and the Heir agrees (and the Kids play, oblivious), then it is decided: No More Water Around Frodo.

--*--*--

Unfortunately, not everyone gets the memo.

Thorin curses to himself, wishing angrily that Family Rules could be made into Kingdom Laws-- but then again, the people he and Frodo are running from don’t exactly follow laws. Who the outlaws are doesn’t particularly matter: they could be a group who think Thorin too weak for his peace with Elves, or too foolish because of his non-Dwarf husband, or just plain too Not Whoever They Feel Like Putting On The Throne Today. No, the reasons for the chase don’t matter, what matters is the chase.

What matters is that he’s outnumbered thirty to one, and he has absolutely no weapons (because who takes weapons along when going on a stroll with one’s nephew in one’s own city?!), and the only way out of this is to jump from the balcony he is thundering towards, into the cool, deep waters of Lake Nor.

“Frodo,” he says, between pants, to the boy he clutches tight, tight, tight in his arms. “We’re going to have to jump. Into the water. Do you understand? Frodo!”

Frodo buries tighter into Thorin’s arms and shakes and shudders and convulses and Thorin is going to kill them all he’s going to take them apart piece by piece yeah just as soon as he can put down Frodo somewhere where he won’t be splattered with blood he’s going to kill them all and he finally nods a tiny yes into Thorin’s coat.

“Alright, Frodo, alright,” says Thorin, and he tries for a reassuring murmur, but it comes out in angry gasps as he notices another group of ten rushing out of a nearby hallway. Frodo seems to understand anyway. “Just be brave for me, just hold on to me, as tight as you can, alright? I’ll keep you safe I promise I’ll keep you dry I’ll--”

And then there is no more ground below his feet and he and Frodo are falling down down down into cold and wet and dark.

and then the water closes in above his head and Frodo is a dead weight around his neck and he can’t breathe and wouldn’t it be easier to just let him go let go let go

let go!

i will not.

but he needs air he needs light he’s never been scared of darkness (and the tunnels on the path to Moria would have cured him of that fear long ago) but this isn’t darkness this is darker than that this is

air

Thorin breaks free of the water with a loud gasp. He hacks, coughs, spits. His hair is plastered to his face and his beard is-- Frodo! But no, Frodo is still clinging to his neck, and he’s wheezing and coughing too, a miniature copy of his uncle.

The Dwarf looks up to the balcony, where the traitors are looking down, obviously too afraid to make the jump. Hah! A child agreed to it, but these revolutionaries, whoever they are, are afraid. Thorin is proud of Frodo, so, so proud of his little nephew.

But they have no time to relax, no time to calm each other’s fears. It is cold; Frodo was shivering from terror before, but now his teeth are chattering and it isn’t just the water. So Thorin kicks off his heavy boots and Thorin gets going, pushing the two of them along with long, powerful strokes, murmuring to Frodo the whole time good boy how brave how wonderful don’t worry don’t worry we’ll get to Uncle Bilbo soon I promise soon.

Thorin swims and swims because he knows if he can cross the lake he can get to safety. Behind him, he can hear swords clashing-- Dwalin and his men have finally arrived. But there is no sense in going back up that way, not with little Frodo clinging to him. No sense in taking a child to a battle, when all he has to do is get them across the lake, to where the royal apartments are. So Thorin swims and swims.

He swims and swims, but this is not one of the stiller lakes and soon he’s bobbing up and down in the little waves and he hears cries of his Company somewhere behind him and he swears he smells apples and...

A huff of breath and a sudden warmth on his cheek. Frodo, his lips blue, leans as far away from him as possible while still holding on with a dead grip, and looks into his eyes carefully.

“Did it work?” he asks. “Uncle Bilbo always gives you a kiss and you feel better. Do you feel better?”

Thorin stops swimming. Treading water, he looks down at the little Hobbit around his neck. A little Hobbit who has far more reason to fear water than him, a little Hobbit who should be out of his mind with terror right now. A little Hobbit who is almost visibly pushing that terror back and replacing it with concern.

“Yes,” says Thorin. He presses a kiss into Frodo’s curls, adjusts the boy to hold on to him even tighter. “Thank you.”

It is a long trip to shore, but the air has stopped smelling of apples, and every once in a while Frodo presses a kiss to his cheek and he returns a kiss to the boy’s hair. And then, finally, they’re there.

Bilbo is standing there on the shore with a sort of crazed look in his eye and a towel in his hands-- but not for long and he splashes out to meet them (and what is the point of the towel if he’s going to get it all wet anyway, Thorin wonders with the dry amusement of the dead-tired). And then they finally reach each other, in a final mad scramble on both sides, and they embrace tight tight tight, Frodo almost squished between them. But Frodo doesn’t mind, and he’s hugging them both back, as wide as his little arms can reach, and Bilbo tries to dry him off with the wet, wet towel.

Then Bilbo notices Frodo’s blue lips, and he pales himself, and hustles them out of the water. On the shore, Kili is waiting for them with a pinched expression that melts into a relieved, relieved grin when he sees Frodo trying to fight off the towel Bilbo is trying to wrap him in.

Kili claps his Uncle on the shoulder and peers into his eyes intently (and Thorin remembers that his boy isn’t that much of a boy any longer); whatever he finds there seems to satisfy him. Then he crouches down next to Frodo, who had scrambled down to walk on his own as soon as they were on solid ground.

“Well, youngster,” says Kili, shaking his head sadly. “The adults all tried to prevent it, but I’m afraid it’s time to face the facts: I guess you’re gonna have to learn how to swim.”

EPILOGUE

And that is how Frodo grows up.

He grows up speaking Khuzdul and eating Second Breakfasts. He grows up braiding his hair and shaving clean the little threads of whiskers that do sprout. He grows up reading books and learning to throw an axe.

In short, Frodo grows up completely Dwobbit.

And that’s not a bad way to grow up at all.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Boromir was jealous. No, he had decided on the first evening, while his companions exchanged stories of people he had never met and told jokes the punchlines of which he could not decipher, that he wasn’t jealous.

Even now, while walking along at the back of the group and watching the Elf and one of the Halflings exchange some sort of insults that meant nothing to him, but the others clearly found hilarious, Boromir was definitely not jealous.

Why would he be? He was on a Quest to destroy a great evil; he had a clear goal and a clear path. When they succeeded (and he ignored the dark whispers of his heart that screamed at him if if if you succeed you fool all you fools don’t forget it’s an if not a when) he would be able to face his family with pride and honor. Finally, the riddles in his dream, and Faramir’s dreams as well, would be solved. And, most importantly, Gondor would no longer have to stand alone against the ever-darkening shadow of the East.

But.

He couldn’t deny that when he saw the others laugh in a way he had not laughed since he had only seen around ten winters, he didn’t feel the slightest inkling of jealousy. Faramir, at least, should have grown up laughing like these companions of his, instead of having to creep around a cold, ever-displeased father. Then, perhaps, his little brother’s fondest pastimes wouldn’t involve sitting alone in old, dusty rooms, locking himself up away from everyone else.

Lost in these brooding thoughts, Boromir didn’t notice that somebody had drifted towards the back of their group as well-- until he felt a small nudge somewhere near his hip. He looked down, and the little Halfling --Frodo, he reminded himself-- smiled back up at him.

“They’re a lively bunch, but they can get a bit overwhelming,” said the Halfling, gesturing vaguely at their companions (the Dwarf was currently attempting to sneak up on Aragorn and surprise him, but it wasn’t going very well; there was no way Boromir was ever going to accept this man as king).

Boromir gave a noncommittal grunt in response. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the whole group yet, but he wasn’t about to start complaining of being lonely of all things. Not to someone who looked no older than the youngest page, but was carrying the heaviest burden of them all. He was here to fulfill a Purpose, not for Friendship. There was no need to let everyone see his weakness.

But Frodo didn’t seem to take the hint.

“Won’t you tell me whereto your thoughts wander?” said he. “I wish my own to follow where yours tread, if you care to shine light upon the path.”

At that, Boromir’s eyebrows shot up and glanced down at his companion. Frodo was definitely more soft-spoken than the majority of their companions, but still this phrase did not sound like him. In response to his silent query, the Halfling just shrugged. A small, aimless grin was tugging at his lips.

“Just something my uncle used to say to me when I was young...”

Perhaps it was the sweetness of the image (Boromir could barely imagine how tiny a Halfling child might be, if his Halfling companions were supposed to be men in the prime of their youths!) or perhaps it was just that Boromir was tired of being a complete outsider, but his tongue loosened.

“My brother,” he said suddenly. “I’m thinking of my younger brother.”

Frodo gave a small noise of surprise. “I didn’t know you had siblings!”

“Just the one. He is alone with my father now, and I hope that the two are getting along in my absence. It is a hard task that Faramir is left with...” He trailed off; a soft breeze carried away his words. The two walked in silence a little while, pondering these words.

Presently, a small nudge around the level of his hips followed once more. Boromir realized that it was caused by the same movement as what his friends and fellow warriors back home did: a shallow, companiable shove with the shoulders; it was just that the results were felt at a different spot from a Hobbit. Boromir found himself again looking down at Frodo’s face, and this time the Halfling’s grin was very pointed.

“I wouldn’t underestimate your brother if I were you,” said Frodo loftily. “Us younger ones have our own pride!”

Boromir started. It was honestly the first time somebody in their Company had really talked to him like this-- not about something particularly serious, but also not using references that flew over his head. It was just a joke. A normal, run-of-the-mill, silly little comment, something that could be shared by two people coming from completely different cultures. And it was also a non-demanding invitation to nudge open the door of tentative, future friendship just a little further.

“You have an older sibling?” asked Boromir, and it was with a genuine interest that he uttered these words.

“Two brothers, in fact. Fili, the oldest, and Kili, the middle child, though I dare say he acts younger than me most of the time!”

And just like that, the ball was rolling.

“Those do not sound like Hobbit names...”

“Oh, no, Fili and Kili are Dwarves.”

“Dwarves?! But-- how?”

“Oh, you know, when a Dwarf mother and a Hobbit father love each other very much, there’s a pretty even chance that...”

“What?!”

A peal of laughter. “No, no, they’re technically my-- cousins, I suppose? But I was raised with them. You see, their uncle and my uncle are married, so--”

“This is allowed by Dwarven laws?”

“Is such a relationship so foreign to the Men of Gondor?”

“Well, no, it is not unheard of, but a legal union is very unlikely, especially in the upper classes, because of the lack of heir...”

“That’s what they have Fili for! You see...”

So they continued. It was the first real conversation Boromir had with one of his companions and it was good and innocent and fun. And after everything fell apart at Amon Hen, this sweet moment of solidarity and open curiosity was what he regretted tainting the most.

Chapter Text

“Ah, Fili, Kili, you should have seen her!”

The two brothers exchanged amused glances over the head of their young friend, who had collapsed on the grass of the Meadows and was staring at the cavern ceiling with a silly smile on his face. Humans always grew up so quickly, and it was only with a small pout of annoyance that they accepted the fact that their young friend (only twenty!) already towered over them. Estel had grown long and lean and tough, and he went by another name now: ‘Aragorn’.

But the look on his face reminded them of the little boy they used to tease and tickle. ‘Aragorn’ was perhaps too old to physically pin to the ground and poke, but he was definitely not too old to prod at in a more metaphorical sense.

“Ah, young love,” said Kili, batting his eyelashes at Aragorn.

“No!” said Aragorn, sitting up and frowning at him. “It is much deeper than that. It is...”

“Puppy love?” Kili finished the Human’s sentence helpfully. Aragorn didn’t seem to appreciate it though; he growled at the Dwarf.

“Tell us her name at least,” said Fili, in a kinder tone.

Aragorn flopped down onto the soft grass. The sappy, wistful smile was back as he said softly: “Ah Luthien Tinuviel...”

This led to Fili and Kili exchanging looks again, but this time they were full of confusion.

“I know that name!” said Fili.

“Yeah, me too, me too, definitely...” said Kili.

“I’m sure Uncle Bilbo mentioned her before...”

“Somewhere...”

“Sometime...”

They both trailed off, racking their brains for Bilbo’s stories about Elves (they weren’t too often told, but when they came even Thorin had to admit their beauty). Suddenly, as one, their faces lit up in recognition and they blinked at Aragorn.

“Oh yeah, I remember, her. Isn’t she supposed to be dead?” Kili didn’t bother beating around the bush.

“No!” Aragorn looked earnestly at the Dwarves sitting next to him, trying to get them to understand. “I mean, yes. Tinuviel has passed from this world long ago. But the maiden I saw... It was as though she had come back to walk amongst us once more, and I had caught a glimpse of something beautiful and rare.”

Fili and Kili nodded in understanding.

“I see,” said Fili. “So you call her this because of her eyes...”

“Clear as starlight,” murmured Aragorn.

“Her hair...” continued Kili.

“Black as darkest midnight, but full of no gloom.”

“And her beard...” finished Fili.

“Thick and curly as-- hey!” Aragorn sat up, glaring at the two.

Fili and Kili crowed with delight at tricking their young friend-- who proved that he was still young enough to be worth tricking by throwing himself upon them with a battle cry of mock rage. (Because some things never change.)

--*--*--

Twenty years had passed, and Aragorn was even taller. Harsh lines of many battles, both physical and emotional, ran across his face. His back was straight, but he stood outside the door to Bilbo’s chambers with a hesitation inherited from the much younger Estel.

Bilbo flung open the door before Aragorn could knock and he looked the younger man up and down, beaming. Although the Ranger was pretty sure Hobbits had no gift of foresight, Bilbo always seemed to know what was going on his kingdom just as thoroughly as Elrond knew what was going on his. Perhaps it was a skill common to all parents? Whatever the case, no matter how stealthily Aragorn tried to hide his arrival, Bilbo always knew and was ready for it:

“Come in, come in, I’ve just made tea!”

So they went in, and had their tea. Little crumpets and cakes lay out before them, things familiar to Aragorn from his childhood. A Ranger had no need for such things in the Wild, but they comforted him all the same. Erebor always had a way of making him feel more childlike and vulnerable than he’d felt in years...

“I’m guessing by your earlier hesitation that this is about your Elf-maiden?” Bilbo said, daintily biting into his crumpet.

Aragorn choked on his tea.

“How-- what-- those confounded Dwarves told--!”

“Oh please,” said Bilbo with a fond sigh. “Fili and Kili didn’t have to tell me anything. But they did come to me, twenty-odd year ago, asking how Thorin and I managed it. Whether it was difficult, with two people of different Kinds. They’ve never asked before, trusting us to know what’s best for ourselves, so there was clearly something else behind it. And now here you stand-- I haven’t seen you this nervous since you stole one of Fili’s knives and then accidentally dropped it down the drains!” He chuckled a bit at the memory. “It’s not very difficult to figure out what this visit is about.”

During the speech, Aragorn’s eyes had widened in surprise, but now he closed it again, composing himself and clearing his throat.

“Er, yes, Bilbo,” he said (and what a difficulty it was, not calling him Mr. Baggins as he had used to! It was never that strange when seeing him in Rivendell, but there was something about Erebor...). “You are, of course, correct...”

“Of course,” said the Hobbit with a quirk of his lips. “What is it you’d like to ask?”

“Ah, well... Yours and Thorin’s ages...”

Bilbo nodded in understanding. “You’d like to know whether it’s difficult, being with someone who’s already lived longer than any of your kind’s lifetimes?”

At Aragorn’s sound of agreement, Bilbo said immediately: “Well of course!” He considered Aragorn’s slightly stunned expression, and elaborated. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. His ‘twenty years’ and my ‘twenty years’ are something completely different; he plans differently and lives differently than I do. But we talk, we adapt, we figure it out. It’s difficult, of course it’s difficult. But anything worthwhile is difficult.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice quiet. “And there’s a certain relief, a kind of comfort, in the fact that he has lived this long already. Thorin and I... we sat down and calculated it out once, a long time ago. With his age, our People’s life spans... Well. To put it simply, neither of us is likely to outlive the other by more than two decades at most. And there is a certain Grace in that.”

At his words, Aragorn looked away. Growing up with the Elves, living in the Wild... He was used to quick, violent deaths; the slow decay of time was a concept he could barely imagine. And especially in regard to Bilbo: he did not seem to have aged much more than a couple years since they had first met (back when Aragorn son of Arathorn had still been simply Estel); Dwarves did not change in appearance after they reached adulthood until the time of their deaths and it was almost as though his husband’s traits had rubbed off on Bilbo himself.

But Bilbo just smiled, and said: “Well, you at least won’t have to worry! That is, I suppose, a very positive aspect of loving one of the fair folk.”

“She swore to bind her life to mine,” returned Aragorn quietly.

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to choke.

“Ah, then it is much more than an infatuation!” the Hobbit said, his voice soft with wonder. “And what is the name of this most brave of hearts?”

“Arwen Undomiel.”

“Lord Elrond’s daughter?!”

Aragorn nodded; Bilbo gaped, his tea forgotten in his cup. The two stared at each other, the younger man waiting a bit nervously as his older friend processed these news.

“Ah!” sighed Bilbo suddenly. “It is a dangerous game you Humans play: taking away first Lord Elrond’s brother, and now also his daughter...”

Aragorn flushed. He opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. He blinked down at the Hobbit, then tried a glare, then looked away. To Bilbo, it seemed he didn’t know whether to be hurt, offended, or sheepish. It reminded the Hobbit very much of a young, uncertain Estel after he had broken one of Gimli’s toys playing war with Legolas: would the consequences of his actions be a scolding or a declaration of war between three Peoples at once?

So sweet was the memory that Bilbo smiled. He stood up, and, standing on tiptoes even though Aragorn was seated, kissed the young man firmly on the brow. “Oh Estel. Forgive me, please, the teasings of a foolish old Hobbit. Now tell me more of this most wonderful maiden...”

--*--*--

Time passed again, and many things changed. They were all older now, and Aragorn could no longer truthfully say that the touch of time had completely spared Bilbo, nor could he deny the similar markings upon his own face. Still, Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding was a most grand affair, and grander still for all the guests that came to wish joy upon their union.

And so it happened that Fili and Kili finally met the girl who had stolen their young friend’s hearts. The two beamed at her, delight at the couple’s happiness and love shining on their face. They gave Arwen a low, flourishing bow.

“At your service, my Lady!” said they.

She curtsied back, her lips quirking. “At yours, my Lords!”

But when Arwen moved away, to exchange formal greetings with Thorin and knowing smiles with Bilbo, Fili and Kili slid over to Aragorn.

“She is as beautiful as you told us,” said Fili solemnly.

“Yes, but where is the beard you mentioned?” asked Kili, just as solemnly.

“Thick and curly you said it was--”

“Did she shave it off for the festivities perhaps--”

Aragorn elbowed the two fools in the ribs, hard.

(Because some things may change, but some never do.)

Chapter Text

One finds Two

Throughout Frodo’s life, every second (sometimes third, sometimes every, but mainly second) year was Shire Year. Shire Year meant that Bilbo would kiss Thorin firmly on the mouth and tell him to not start any wars without Bilbo, kiss Fili and Kili on the tops of their heads and tell them not to start any wars without Bilbo, hug Dwalin and Balin and Nori (royal guard, head advisor, and king’s spymaster respectively) and tell them not to let the other Bagginses start any wars without Bilbo, just in case they still didn’t get it. So in general: No Wars Without Bilbo. That was his rule, his one and only rule. Please keep to it.

But only rule or not (Dwalin would definitely say ‘not’), that was not the point of Shire Year. The point of Shire Year was to gather up Frodo’s things, pack his own bag, and head Home.

Of course, after all these years Erebor was far more Home for Bilbo than the Shire, and he did not bother to deny it when a slightly hurt Thorin asked about this tradition. But there was something about going back to the place you were born and raised that was very important and necessary in one’s life, and shouldn’t Thorin know all about that anyway? (At that, Thorin wisely shut up.) Besides, it was good for Frodo. This way he would not forget the other half of his heritage.

Frodo was honestly not of the same opinion as Bilbo.

Frodo would forget the other half of his heritage without a fuss if it meant no more Shire Year.

Frodo hated Shire Year.

The only thing that made Shire Year at least slightly bearable were Shire-made seed cakes.

And even then it was a close thing.

This vehement hatred arose because Frodo, from an early age, had realized that he was Not A Cool Hobbit. Oh, he was cool for a Dwobbit, that was true: when the Shire-folk came to visit, there would always be plenty of Hobbitlings eager to hang out with Prince Frodo of Erebor and his Dwarven friends. The Hobbitlings delighted in the exotic games and entertainments that Frodo and the others amused themselves with, and they all enjoyed exploring the grand halls together. But when Frodo was in the Shire? They dropped him faster than a hot potato.

You see, Hobbits are communal creatures, and thus the majority of Hobbitling games are of a communal nature too and most of them involve teams of some sort. Now to be picked for a team you have to be good. Which Frodo wasn’t. At all.

It wasn’t that Frodo was bad at sports-- in fact, it was pretty clear to all that he was more dexterous and had more stamina than the rest of the Hobbits his age, seeing as how back home he was constantly trying to keep up with kids who were a whole lot taller and sturdier built than him (and there was the whole warrior training too). No, the physical part wasn’t the problem. See, there’s one other little thing you have to be able to do in order to play a team game: Remember The Rules.

And little Frodo just could not keep up with the intricacies of Hobbitling games.

The others would explain it to him, but they would honestly not explain it well. See here Frodo, they would tell him, you’re supposed to go with the ball over there, but once you get past those trees you’re supposed to pass it back, only to a person wearing green though! and then you have to run back over past that house, got it? ok I’m gonna pass the ball to you next time, go Frodo, go!! --no stop stop what are you doing idiot don’t you understand you’re not allowed to run on this part?! The others just scored because of you!! Ugh. Whatever. Merry, catch.

Frodo tried, he honestly tried. But he just couldn’t manage it, and it made him feel stupid and awful. And to make things even worse: the Hobbitlings changed the rules whenever they felt something else would make the game funner, but he didn’t understand the original rules in the first place so it was impossible to keep up with the changes.

But worst of all was when he actually did manage to get the rules-- generally somewhere in the last two weeks before he and Bilbo went back home. Then Frodo, with his awesome Dwarf-trained battle skills, would suddenly become popular again-- for those last two weeks. The day before he left, the kids would all promise each other that they’d practice super hard, so that next time Frodo visited, they could show each other all the awesome skills they had learned in the meantime.

And Frodo really would practice. He would teach the game (in its latest variation) to all his friends back home and they would all play and help him get better at it. (Not even intentionally really, but it was a simple fact of life that getting past a Dwarf goalie is harder than getting past a Hobbit one.) And sometimes, Thorin even sat watching them play with a thoughtful look on his face, and after the game was over he would explain to Frodo which strategies would work best and why. (Those were Frodo’s favorite times.)

Then, eager to show off his skills, he actually would look forward to Shire Year, and race back to the game field as soon as he and Bilbo had arrived in Hobbiton again.

--only to find out that the game they were playing was completely different from what he had been practicing.

“That..?” said Merry, scratching his head. “Have we ever played something like that before?”

“He’s probably just making it up so that he can be good at something,” hissed a voice from the back quietly-- but not quietly enough. There were a few titters, Frodo’s face fell.

Merry shrugged helplessly, and perhaps a tiny bit guiltily. “Maybe you could try this game? It’s pretty fun. Here, let me explain how it works...”

Like clockwork, this pattern had repeated for four Shire Years. Now he and Bilbo were on their fifth one, and Frodo was not falling for it again. It was a beautiful sunny day, which meant a huge party-for-nothing-in-particular was taking place in front of the aptly named Party Tree. Already Frodo could see the other children lining up and playing rock-paper-knife to see who would get to be team captain. But Frodo was not falling for that, nope.

Frodo was not gonna line up with the other kids, Frodo was gonna climb under one of the low tables and Sulk.

--only to find that there was somebody already there.

“Sam?!”

“Frodo?!”

The two children stared at each other.

“What are you doing here?!”

“I... well what about you?!”

“...I didn’t wanna join in their stupid game.”

“...Me too.”

Frodo and Sam stared at each other, a kind of bitter understanding reflected in their eyes. Honestly, Frodo didn’t know exactly why Sam didn’t want to join in the game. He knew very little about the other boy in general: when Sam came to Erebor he tended to mainly hang out with Oin. Now Frodo loved Oin, just as much he loved everyone in Thorin’s old Company, but he wouldn’t exactly travel over 400 miles to hang out with him, and anybody who did was just a tiny bit weird in Frodo’s books.

But maybe a tiny bit weird wasn’t bad. Maybe being a tiny bit weird was a whole lot better than being a tiny bit cruel.

“You know,” said Sam slowly. “If we crawl for ten feet in that direction, we can reach up and grab a whole plate of seed cakes without anyone noticing.”

Frodo smiled back.

Yeah, the only thing that made Shire Years bearable were seed cakes.

And Sam.

Two knows Three

Honestly, Sam couldn’t say he really knew Aragorn before the journey started.

He’d met him many times, at least once a year in fact: Frodo and Bilbo celebrated their birthday together, and they always invited pretty much everyone they had ever seen in their lives. (Sam was pretty sure Orcs would be invited if there was any chance they’d drop by.) The party that ensued across all Erebor and the surrounding area probably accounted for about a fifth of Dwarvish revenue per year; by now the 22nd of September was practically a national holiday and there was no way anybody who was invited would ever dare miss it. (Bilbo would Know, and be Disappointed.)

So yes, it was safe to say that Sam had met Aragorn before, many times.

But they had never really talked. Sam knew that Aragorn was friends with Frodo’s older brothers and Gimli, and he was on good terms with Sam’s own da. At the party (that is, before, during, and after the banquet), Sam and Aragorn would share friendly smiles, jokes, and express polite but genuine interest in each other’s lives.

But they had still never really talked. After all, what would they have to say to each other? Sam was growing up like his da, and would take over his da’s job later, too. Aragorn was-- Aragorn was a great warrior, fighting for the weak in dark places. What did a gardener and a hero have to say to each other?

So it was more than a little strange to Sam that, at the beginning of their quest at least and besides Frodo, Aragorn turned out to be the one he chatted to the most.

Perhaps it was only by ‘means of elimination’ (as Mister Bilbo would put it) that this came about. Merry and Pippin tried to hide it, and didn’t even do it on purpose honestly, but they couldn’t completely cover the fact that they thought of him as ‘that gardener boy’. It wasn’t anything bad because he knew that this was how they’d all been raised: them to think he was ‘that gardener boy’, him to know that they thought that and accept it without a fuss. But it still made them all just the tiniest bit awkward around each other. As for the others? Legolas was still too unreal, for all that they had also met many times; Gimli was fun to chat with but had a very different sense of humor from Sam’s; Gandalf was honestly a bit scary. And he didn’t know the other Man, Boromir, at all.

He hadn’t really been planning to get to know Aragorn either, except that the first two weeks the two of them keep getting stuck together on the same watch.

Sam wasn’t used to doing something like this: waking up in the middle of the night and keeping watch for several hours, then dropping off again. He was a gardener; he had been planning to show Merry and Pippin the shortest way to Rivendell and then head back, not go along on a huge adventure too. It was just that his best friend in the world was going and Frodo tended to wander off and get lost by himself so Sam couldn’t exactly let him go alone... Well, regardless, now it was done, and he had best learn how to keep watch.

Aragorn told him it was easier if, the first few times at least, you quietly talked to each other.

But what could a hero have to say to a gardener? Or, more importantly, the other way around: Sam decided that if it was him that needed the conversation, it was him who had best come up with the topic. So Sam adjusted his blanket (it was a cold night) and leaned in a little closer to where Aragorn was methodically wiping his sword with an old rag. Then he cleared his throat awkwardly and said the first thing that popped into his head.

“So... do you like plants?”

It took Sam a second to realize what he had just said. He could have slapped himself; there was no way he could have sounded any dumber. Of course Aragorn didn’t like plants, Aragorn liked killing evil things, rescuing the poor, and bringing light to dark places. Plants weren’t even in the same universe as what Aragorn liked. The only reason he had asked was because plants had never failed him before.

They didn’t fail him now.

“Lord Elrond taught me the healing arts from when I was young,” said Aragorn quietly, not looking up from his sword, as though this was the most natural question in the world. “But I must confess I know too little about non-medicinal plants to really consider myself a connoisseur.”

Huh.

Huh?!

Sam blinked at Aragorn and scratched the back of the head. “Well, it’s not that difficult to go from medicinal plants to other ones...” he mumbled self-consciously, not sure how to reply even though it had been his own chosen topic.

At his words, Aragorn finally looked up from his sword and smiled at the gardener. “Will you teach me?”

Honestly, Sam couldn’t say that night was when he first got to know Aragorn. That came on a different night a lot later, when he had whispered to a person he in his head tentatively called 'friend': Does it get easier when you find out that the girl you like is waiting for you to come home? Or does it get harder? Because if it gets harder, I don’t think I can handle it. But the night with the plants was a good start nonetheless.

Three copies Four

Aragorn had always known he was too serious. When he was a child, this made life quite difficult for him, for most other children just didn’t understand. But how else could a child raised by Elven lords grow up?

Then he met Bilbo, and Hamfast and Oin, and Fili and Kili, and then, a bit later, he met Legolas and Gimli. And his way of life changed, for how else could a child going on playdates with Hobbits and Dwarves grow up?

But a thread of his solemnity still remained in him, forever and always.

And entwined with that solemnity there was in him a thread of envy for those who laughed easily and freely. For many years, he tried to deny it, but in the end arrogance faded and the desire to live truthfully won out: he, Aragorn son of Arathorn, was secretly jealous of those who could make others laugh.

(It wasn’t that he didn’t try.

“What sort of room has no windows or doors?” he asked Arwen, in one of those rare moments they had alone.

She just looked at him with a quirk of her lips that he could not interpret. It was a good sign that she didn’t look angry that he was wasting their precious time together on jokes; it was a bad sign that she didn’t even attempt to guess, instead merely shrugging her shoulders in askance. Nonetheless, Aragorn still waited out a short pause, trying to get the timing that he vaguely knew was so important right.

“A mushroom!” said the Heir of Isildur with a broad grin.

At that, Arwen did something he could interpret: she laughed so hard tears of mirth rolled down her cheeks. But when a pleased Aragorn asked her whether the joke he had heard on his travels was really that hilarious, Arwen just shook her head.

“I’m sorry-- but your proud face-- at that silliness-- sorry-- ahh--” she pressed a kiss to his lips before dissolving into further giggles, but it was not enough to completely wipe away the sting.)

And thus, when he knew all of the others were otherwise occupied, Aragorn watched Pippin. He tried to copy the Hobbit’s light posture, mouthed the Hobbit’s easy jokes to himself, trying to get right that ever-important and ever-elusive timing.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t work, and the thread of envy within him just pulled tauter and tauter, until he was scared it would break and lash out at everyone around him. Something had to be done before such an awful thing happened. So, folding away all his pride, he waited for a quiet moment to talk to Pippin. One arrived soon; a quiet morning. They had all agreed to take a one day break from walking to replenish supplies, and Pippin had decided to contribute by fishing in the river. (So at least there was no one else there to witness his humiliation.)

Aragorn padded softly up behind the fishing Hobbit, and said quietly: “Pippin, may I have a word?”

The Hobbit spun around in surprise, accidentally dropping the fish he had just caught back in the river. Aragorn watched its fall in dismay; he hadn’t intended to start this conversation off on such a sour note. But to his great surprise, the Hobbit just flung back his head and laughed. And at Aragorn’s puzzled face, Pippin just laughed harder.

“Sorry, sorry,” said he. “It’s just that... you just scared the carp out of me.”

Saying that, he dissolved into giggles again while Aragorn blinked. That was... perhaps the worst joke he’d ever heard. Even worse than his own. And yet here Pippin was, laughing so hard at his own cleverness he was practically getting cramps.

Finally, the Hobbit pulled himself together. “Sorry, what was it you wanted?”

And Aragorn had a sudden moment of enlightenment, something that made the tightly wound thread of envy in his chest snap and fade painlessly. Maybe all hope was not lost. Maybe it was just that it would take him a while to work his way up to impressing Arwen with jokes. After all, he hadn’t started swordfighting being able to beat Elladan and Elrohir. He had had to work his way up. And part of the reason he and his beloved understood each other so well was because of their similarly solemn natures. So he would have just have to work his way up to her difficulty level too.

For now, perhaps it was alright to start with the easier audience, someone who laughed more easily and lightly.

“Nevermind...” Aragorn said. Then he worked up his courage. “Actually, no. Hey, Pippin, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. What sort of room has no doors or windows?”

Four admires Five

Privately, Pippin had always kind of thought that Gimli was, like, the coolest guy ever. He never really admitted it because you know, you can’t really say that to a friend, and anyway, even amongst the other Hobbits, he knew that you were supposed to admire Legolas or Aragorn or Thorin, not Gimli.

But he did.

‘Cause Gimli was just plain amazing.

Maybe it was because Gimli had already saved his life twice. No, thrice. No, a lot more than that... Er... Hmm... Well, a bunch of times anyway. In any case, the first time was the most important and the one Pippin remembered best, because it was the first:

Pippin had just turned fifteen, and his parents had decided that he was finally old enough to visit Erebor. That was definitely true: Pippin felt himself ready for all sorts of possible adventures! And thus, next time half the Shire got ready to go to Erebor for Bilbo’s birthday, Pippin and his parents went along.

Erebor was amazing, and huge.

No, seriously, wow.

Pippin fell in love with it immediately.

And Pippin had not been lying when he had said he was ready for all possible adventures, but perhaps he had said it too quietly or perhaps his parents had just not believed him. Whatever the case, they for some reason decided it was alright to leave their boy in the Hobbit quarters for an hour, while they visited old friends. (Something about Da seeing somebody with a starfish? which sounded like a pretty cool adventure, but he wasn’t allowed to come with; Mama was off to get her hair braided by somebody, which did not sound like a cool adventure at all, why would you even travel this far for that, eww.)

Well, Hobbit quarters were pretty small and Erebor itself was pretty gigantic, so there was no way Pippin was staying put. Sneaking past the other Hobbit mothers wasn’t difficult for a Hobbitling who was used to crawling into Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms. And then he was off!

And off. And off.

Wandering around Erebor took a while, seeing as how Pippin had tiny Hobbitling legs. It didn’t help that he was trying to stay in the shadows as much as possible, too. (He still remembered the stories that Mama had told him, about his parents’ older friends sneaking away to find treasure and being caught by Mad Mister Bilbo. Pippin was determined that he wouldn’t be caught; after all, he had to restore the Took family honor-- how could Mama and Da have not joined in the Quest?!)

After what must surely have been a couple hours, though, Pippin honestly got a bit bored. In his excitement, he had forgotten to ask Merry to come along, and exploring a strange new place was not quite as much fun when you didn’t have anyone to talk to meanwhile.

He was beginning to regret the note he had left his parents so that they wouldn’t worry about his absence (‘OFFF ADVENTARIN. BAK LATER.’); perhaps if he hadn’t been such a polite child, they’d have decided he was kidnapped by now and come to search for him. Even worse, he couldn’t exactly turn back anymore, because he was out of the city proper and kind of lost. (To be a bit more precise, he was in this weird tunnel where had been following a sign that pointed to a place called ‘Mine 3’ because that sounded really cool, but he wasn’t sure if he’d taken a wrong turn or not.)

And worst of all, as he was wandering around thinking glumly of his no-doubt-very-cold supper, Pippin suddenly slipped and slid head-first off the path he was following. The Hobbitling cried out, but it was in surprise and not pain. Somehow, Pippin the Brave Adventurer had managed to neatly fall into some sort of hole.

Not even a comfortable Hobbit hole, no, this was just what it sounded like: a tiny downward sloping cave in the mountain face. And there he was stuck, the upper half of his body inside the tunnel and his feet sticking out for the world to see.

Curiously enough though, Pippin did not feel scared. What he mainly felt was a kind of dull resignation: the adventure so far had not proven anywhere near as exciting as he had hoped, and this was just the dessert of boredom piled onto the earlier main course. Hey, at least maybe if he stayed away long enough, Marvellous Mister Bilbo would use his special Hobbitling-In-Trouble powers and come get him. That would be pretty cool. And with those cheery thoughts, Pippin lay his head in his arms and dozed off.

He awoke to the sound of someone whistling cheerfully. The sound of heavy boots passed by him, then stopped, and came closer. Pippin wiggled his toes; there was a quickly stifled burst of laughter in reply.

“Need some help?” said a voice, with a grin that could be heard even unseen.

“No thank you,” said Pippin, because adventurers have their pride, and he was pretty sure this was not the Mysterious Mister Bilbo. “I’m just resting for a little while. Then I’m going to continue adventuring.”

“Ah, of course,” said the voice. “But why don’t you rest somewhere a little more comfortable at least.”

Saying that, a few rocks were shifted, and Pippin was picked up out of the hole by his right ankle. Upside down as he was, Pippin had to look down, down, down to see his rescuer. He was greeted with a warm smile and a great big bushy beard. Pippin grinned, good humor restored. His rescuer looked amazing! It was alright that it wasn’t the Magnificent Mister Bilbo who had rescued him after all; a Dwarf with a beard like that was exactly the reason he’d gone to check out Mine 3 in the first place.

The Dwarf chuckled back. “Well, Master Hobbit, let’s get you right-side up and figured out. And then we can resume your adventuring together.” Saying that, he placed Pippin on his shoulders and continued whistling.

After that it became a habit.

Over the years Gimli rescued Pippin from two avalanches, seven collapsing mines, and a few dozen falling trees. And more. Pippin was just not always clear about those other times, because sometimes it took Gimli a little while to unbury him and deficiency of air tends to mess with your head. But in the end, unbury him Gimli always did!

So maybe, a bunch of years later and on a Very Important Quest, Pippin was still a little brash and thoughtless about charging into battle, or running headlong down a mountain. Aragorn, at least, always paled at Pippin’s lack of planning ahead. But hey, if you had an amazing Guardian Dwarf like that, what would you be worried about?

(And a lot later, after the great battle, when Merry told him in a hushed voice that if Gimli hadn’t recognized his feet sticking out from under a troll, he would have been dead, Pippin just laughed. He explained to his cousin: There are no ifs in their friendship; when Pippin is buried under something, Gimli finds him and digs him out.

That was because Gimli was, like, the coolest guy ever.)

Five informs Six

Gimli had no particular love for boats. He liked soil under his feet (and even better, soil over his head as well). He also knew Merry was the complete opposite of him: even as a child, Merry had always delighted in constructing little boats from paper and metal.

So when the Lady of the Woods gave them all wonderfully elegant boats (Gimli didn’t like boats; that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate well-constructed ones) and he somehow ended up with Merry, Gimli wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or horrified.

On the one hand, there was nobody in their group he trusted more on water, not even his dear constant brothers-in-arms Legolas or Aragorn. On the other hand... what if Merry decided to experiment and test out exactly how maneuverable and well-made the boat was? Gimli wasn’t sure he could handle anything dramatic.

And unfortunately, his other hand’s assumption seemed pretty correct: Merry immediately set to work looping and twisting their little boat between all the others’.

Gimli decided it was time to act. He cleared his throat. “Merry... Merry, just so you know, I can’t swim.”

“What?!”

“So if I fall into the water... just leave me. Save yourself.”

Being a generally truthful person, this was perhaps the biggest lie Gimli had ever told. Although he had no great fondness for water, after the little Thorin-and-Frodo-water-incident, Bilbo had insisted that everybody he knew learned at least the basics of keeping afloat. Gimli could kick off his heavy boots and drop his heavy armor within thirty seconds of being in the water, and he could do it without panicking underwater as well.

Still, when Merry abruptly slowed down and became almost overly cautious with his steering (though as far as Gimli was concerned, there was no over-cautious in boats), Gimli decided little white lies weren’t always too bad a thing. Besides, it had been little Merry who had taught him to keep a straight face when lying in the first place.

The next time they took a break, though, he let Legolas switch places with him: Merry’s concern had been touching and he wanted the Hobbit to enjoy his time on the river with someone else who appreciated it. Even if it had been a bit insulting that the Hobbit had obviously forgotten how Gimli had won a swimming race across Lake Nor against him, just five Autumns past.

Six teases Seven

The first time Merry met Legolas, he had been completely awe-struck.

For one thing, he was only 13 and had only seen Big Folk twice before, and he was too small to really remember the experience. He could barely accept that there were people taller than Miss Noakes, who watched him sometimes when his mother was out. Ori, the first Dwarf Merry had met (part of Bilbo’s very successful campaign to Introduce Dwarves Non-Threateningly In Case Not All Were As Brave And Insane As Primula Had Been, Merry later learned), had seemed huge.

And now there was a gigantic creature standing next to his new friend, Frodo, smiling down at him from somewhere in the distant Up. In short, Merry had been convinced that Legolas was taller than the Party Tree, and in fact it was only a much later visit to the Shire that had completely dissipated that foolish, but heartfelt belief.

The other thing that had struck Merry was something that he had not known a word for until quite a lot later. The word little Merry had been looking for was ethereal. It was a word that he would later use to describe all Elves, but it was a word that he forever associated most strongly with Legolas. Perhaps it was merely because he had been the first Elf little Merry had met. But Merry always secretly thought it was because, compared to the other Elves, Legolas was usually so not ethereal, usually so there. The only Elf Merry had ever seen as there as Legolas was Arwen, who didn’t really count because of the nature of her relationship with Aragorn. Every other Elf-- they participated in conversations, and even smiled and laughed as though they were there, but Merry knew they never quite were. There was always something else hidden behind immortals’ eyes.

But Legolas was different. Sometimes, Merry saw that something in his eyes too, but it was rare. When Legolas laughed, he meant it; when Legolas was sad, it wasn’t the ever-present sorrow of a fading People, but his own personal problems.

So when Legolas went all ethereal for a bit too long, Merry slid over to him and told him the stupidest jokes he could think of. Ones that only Aragorn would think to laugh at. Aragorn-- and Legolas. Legolas always started out of whatever melancholy had gripped him, and looked at Merry with a twitching mouth and wickedly sparkling eyes. And the Hobbit knew then that the only thing that kept him from giggling dementedly was that bit of ethereal in all Elves that never quite went away completely. That, and having a shred of self-respect.

Legolas never thanked him directly for pulling him back into being there, but Merry kind of sensed that nowadays there was a bit of awe-struck lurking in Legolas’ eyes when he looked at Merry, too. And that-- that was pretty awesome in and of itself.

Seven counts Eight

Legolas knows that Aragorn counts by years.

Legolas also knows that Gimli counts by decades.

Legolas himself counts by centuries.

What does Mithrandir count by?

Legolas cannot guess. Perhaps Mithrandir does not count at all.

Legolas knows very little about their Istari companion, and he knows that all he knows is what Mithrandir chooses to reveal. He does not begrudge the Istar for it; Legolas grew up amongst ancient beings and he knows why they sometimes choose to hide.

So sometimes, when counting by days and hours and seconds grows too difficult to bear, he steps away from his mortal companions for a little while. Instead, he lays down his cloak next to Mithrandir, and falls into a half-sleep just as Mithrandir falls into his.

Sometimes though, sometimes Mithrandir does not pretend to sleep.

Instead, his wizened hands, wrapped still in a soft, soft grey wool, brush Legolas’ hair out of his face. And in his deep, melodious voice, he hums to Legolas songs that have not been heard on these shores for millennia.

On those nights, Legolas forgets to count to sixty or three hundred sixty five or one thousand. On those nights, he lets go. And in the mornings, he laughs freely with Gimli and Aragorn, while Mithrandir smiles in the background.

It is good.

Eight to One

Mithrandir is always glad to see how much of Bilbo there is in Frodo. Not only because it is Bilbo’s good, sweet natured character and hidden strength that the newest Ringbearer has inherited. There is also more than a little bit of the fact that Mithrandir privately calls Bilbo friend and he thinks that he’ll be able to call Frodo friend too. So he tries to give Frodo the same advice that had served Bilbo well in the past: Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hands.

Tharkun watches Frodo with both sorrow and joy, because there is so much Dwarf in Frodo it hurts. Frodo is wonderful in his loyalty and his determination, traits Tharkun knows Dwalin and Thorin molded into him. But Tharkun is unsure how much of Thorin’s old madness has been passed along as well, whether Dwalin’s loyalty and determination will turn into foolhardiness and stubbornness in this young boy. I would use this ring from a desire to do good... But through me, it would wield a power too great and terrible to imagine, he tells Frodo, and hopes that Frodo understands the warning applies to him too.

Incanus is suspicious of every little move Frodo makes, but that is not Frodo’s fault because Incanus is always suspicious. He must be, so that he can know who genuinely needs his skills and who would use them for evil, who is genuinely ready to fight darkness and who is merely pretending. So where Tharkun warns of the danger within, Incanus warns of the danger outside. Always remember, Frodo, the Ring is trying to get back to its master. It wants to be found.

Greyhame is called Stormcrow for a reason: he is the bearer of ill tidings far too often, even for his long life. But he wishes the opposite were true, and thus he takes the time to comfort those who seek it. He would do so for any who are in need of it, but he does it especially for poor, confused, oh-so-young Frodo: Bilbo was meant to find the Ring. In which case, you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.

Olorin just smiles.

Perhaps in the end, that smile is the best wisdom he can give Frodo after all.

(But perhaps even better than all of that, better than giving warnings and comfort and smiles, is hearing Frodo say Gandalf! I’m glad you’re back.)

Plus Another Makes Nine

With time, Boromir’s envy and loneliness began to fade. But he was still not quite One Of Them, and he recognized that very well. Still, what little companionship was given to him he accepted gladly and returned warmly. And he told himself that it was good like this, far better than what he had expected and certainly far better than what Faramir was receiving at home. And because this was true, he believed it and was content.

Not so the others.

They were walking along a narrow mountain path when the incident happened. It was the incident that changed everything.

See, the others were all busy being astounded by the beauty of their surroundings, but Boromir wasn't really paying attention. He had wandered along this road on his way to Rivendell and he saw no sense in being amazed at the same thing twice in as many months, so he was mainly not concentrating on where he was going. For once, he wasn’t really thinking of anything in particular; his hands fiddled with a small brooch.

Boromir was later never quite sure of what happened (had he suddenly sped up or slowed down?), but due to his inattentiveness, suddenly Frodo bumped into him. They both regained balance quickly, no harm done-- but the brooch he had been playing with slipped out of his fingers in the confusion. Down, down it fell, and Boromir helplessly watched it tumble into the canyon below.

A flash of hurt passed across his face, before he could shove it back inside him. Faramir had found that brooch amongst their mother’s old possessions a long time ago, and stolen it away before, on his father's orders, the things had all been burnt. (His father could not stand looking at anything that reminded him of their mother; Boromir had realized that once long ago when seeing his brother and father talk at dinner.) And before Boromir had set off for Rivendell, Faramir had pressed it upon him ‘for luck’. He had protested: Faramir had nothing left of their mother but the most hazy memories and this brooch was precious. But his little brother had insisted.

And now it was gone, because of a clumsy Hobbit and Boromir’s own foolishness.

He looked down the side of the cliff evaluatively-- but no, the brooch was almost thirty metres down. Boromir was not that bad a climber, but he had never dared a wall quite this steep. Besides, what he would say to the others: 'Everyone, please halt our important quest while I attempt to get a little pin'? No, he would just have to beg Faramir’s forgiveness for losing this precious thing (and subsequently get it because Faramir forgave him everything).

Still, he couldn’t prevent a sigh from leaving his lips as he reshouldered his pack and tore his eyes away from the brooch. His refocused on the road-- and his gaze met that of Frodo. The Hobbit was looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. Boromir opened his mouth to crack a joke, though his heart wasn’t in it.

And was interrupted.

“Hey, everyone, halt please!” said Frodo. “We have to take a short break!”

Boromir stared at Frodo as everyone else crowded around the pair.

“What’s wrong?” said Sam worriedly.

“Oh, nothing very much,” replied Frodo. He was already taking off his pack. “But I accidentally made Boromir drop something down there,” he nodded down the canyon wall and several of the Fellowship immediately went to have a look down. “So I’m going to go get it back.”

At that, Boromir finally found his voice again. “You are not.”

“Of course I am,” said Frodo. “It’s important to you-- I saw that. And we Dwobbits understand treasure very well.” He winked at Boromir, his tone light.

The light-heartedness just made Boromir irrationally angry. His tone was tightly controlled as he said: “The climb is dangerous, Frodo. The brooch I dropped-- it is not worth much.”

But his voice cracked on that last word. It was difficult to say that, no matter how true it was in the grand manner of things. Faramir had given it to him, and anything Faramir gave to him was precious. And that it had been their mother’s besides... But he had to make Frodo see reason; the Hobbit was already starting to limber up, ignoring Boromir’s words. The Gondorean persisted nevertheless.

“We are not going to stand here and attempt to get a little pin out of a canyon,” said Boromir hotly. “It is really not necessary and we shouldn’t waste time besides.”

“What are you talking about?” said Pippin, full of exasperated confusion. “It’s obviously important to you, and this shouldn’t take longer than an hour...”

“I’m telling you, there is no need for such action! And it is dangerous as well..!”

“But--”

“I said I’ll do it,” said Frodo, squaring his shoulders. “It was more than partially my fault, and this isn’t that difficult a climb. And like I said, that brooch obviously means something. That means we have to get it back.”

Boromir could have growled. Yes, it was important, and yes, it was precious, but it was also silly and sentimental. Warriors had no time to waste on trivial things; certainly none of his comrades back home would have made such a fuss over a little trinket. And yet here he was, surrounded by foolhardy people. But wait, so far only the youngest of their company had spoken! He whirled unto the others, hoping that at least more experienced warriors would see sense.

“Are none of the rest of you going to stop him?” he demanded.

But alas! there was no assistance to be found from their corner either.

Gimli shrugged. “I am confident that if Frodo gets close to serious danger, Bilbo will somehow miraculously appear and rescue him.”

Sam and Legolas nodded in agreement. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

“Besides,” put in Gandalf. “This will be good practice for Mordor.”

Boromir gaped at them, too shocked to be angry for a minute. Weren’t they all supposed to be Frodo’s protectors?! Why were they letting the Ringbearer --no, their friend-- risk his neck for foolishness? He truly did not understand their actions, and his indignation just fed into his simmering anger. These people were insane.

“Boromir, just let him do it,” said Aragorn, and that was the final straw. Boromir threw up his hands.

“As my King commands,” he said with a sneer. (Sometimes, Aragorn would bark out commands, just little things about how this was no place for a rest or how they had better look where they were stepping on this treacherous path. It was a command that was taken as an order by the Shire-folk, and a mere suggestion by the more experienced travelers. Boromir hated how his traitorous feet snapped to attention every time anyway.)

Aragorn flinched a bit at his words, but before he could reply, Merry rolled his eyes and stepped in.

“Great, that’s settled then.”

Frodo set out to making himself ready, and Boromir stomped off to be angry by himself.

--*--*--

But by the time Frodo was ready, a thin, easily snappable rope tied around his waist and seemingly useless bandages wrapped around his palms and the soles of his feet, Boromir had forgotten to be angry. He stared down at the smile on the Hobbit’s face and he still couldn’t understand it all.

“I am asking you one more time to leave it there,” Boromir said quietly. Perhaps there was a note of pleading in his voice, but he did not think the others in this Fellowship would recognize that tone from him; a small mercy. “It is not worth it.”

Frodo’s smile just widened and became more determined. He said confidently: “It is.”

And then he let Aragorn and Gimli loop the end of the rope around their arms and practically dove off the cliff.

Boromir did not watch his climb. Instead, he sat down, facing away from the cliff wall, and looked down at his hands. They were twitching. Unbidden, an old memory rose up within him. He had watched the doctors pull arrows out of Faramir’s chest without blinking, once a long time ago, sitting at his brother’s side and gripping his arm the whole time. His hands had twitched then too; at the time, he had not thought he would ever be forced to bear anything worse. But he had been wrong. This was worse. Faramir’s wounds, terrifying as they had been, had at least served a purpose. This gravity-defying leap into death’s embrace? The only purpose it served was to protect his feelings, and that was a very unnecessary purpose indeed.

But not, perhaps, to the people he travelled with-- his companions.

The thought hit Boromir like a spear from an Orc; his breath hitched. Boromir had grown up with tough, hardened folk in a tough city hardened by war. But perhaps... perhaps it was possible to laugh without bitterness, and to cherish the feelings attached to a brooch, even when one was more used to difficult times..? For Boromir had no illusions that Frodo was a soft creature unused to the world: there were rough calluses upon his hands and he had a reckless glint in his eye Boromir associated most oft with young but experienced fighters--

He could not finish that trail of thought, for a hand was thrust before his face. The warrior flinched back, then his eyes focused on what was in the hand: his mother’s old brooch.

Boromir’s gaze drifted up along that arm, covered in shallow, bleeding scratches, to Frodo’s face. The Hobbit was grinning down at him triumphantly, his eyes wild and glad. Around the pair, the rest of the Fellowship was smiling, winking, and pulling silly grimaces at Boromir. Slowly reaching out to grasp the brooch, Boromir’s face split into a careful, carefree smile as well.

He let Frodo pull him to him to his feet.

Chapter Text

“Thorin, please,” sighed Bilbo wearily. “Just accept it.”

“No,” said Thorin. He crossed his arms. On any other man, his expression would have been called a ‘pout’; on Thorin, it was just a different type of scowl.

“It is a great honor that they are bestowing on you,” Gandalf informed him, a little tersely.

Bilbo shot the Wizard a small glare-- this would have to be handled with tact, and respect, and no small degree of charm, and Gandalf never seemed to have any to spare for the Dwarves. For the Elves, yes, always; for the Dwarves, only when he wanted them for his own plans.

Which was part of the problem, really.

“Thorin,” Bilbo tried again. “They are not trying to be rude. It is a compliment; only six people in the whole history of Middle-Earth have ever been--”

“A compliment?!” Thorin snorted, shaking his head hard enough for his braids to fly around his face. “No, it is the greatest insult! How dare they think I should be honored to be--”

The great doors of the meeting chamber swung open with a loud crash. In strode Dwalin, the rest of the Company on his heels or peeking in from the doorway. There was tension in the air; the Dwarves did not dare breathe as Dwalin walked to their king with heavy footsteps.

“Is it true?” growled Dwalin, his great shoulders rising and falling rapidly. “Is it true what they say?”

Thorin turned away, unable to look him in the eyes. The stillness of the room could be cut with a knife. Even Bilbo held his breath. But the king admitted it, quietly: “Yes.”

And at that, the tension peaked and burst. A howl of laughter went up from the Dwarves; Dwalin’s shoulders shook with what would, in a lesser Dwarf, be called giggles. Bilbo sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand. In his left, he held a note from the Lady of the Woods, sent to them with the swiftest bird.

Hail, Royal Consort Bilbo Baggins! it started off. But it carried on much more simply: I thought it best you hear this privately, before the next negotiations with the Sindarin: Our people have taken to calling Thorin ‘Elf-friend’.

Chapter Text

When Frodo is young, he dreams of Mount Gundabad, and Orocarni, and the sister-cities Belegost and Nogrod. Who, raised on Dwarvish tales and songs, would not? But it is, always, to Khazad-dûm that his heart returns, as all Dwarves’ hearts do. (And Frodo is very much a Dwarf, in this respect at least.)

So when the mountain passes become treacherous and Saruman’s arm grows long and Gandalf asks him to decide which road they should take, the answer is clear. For a Dwarf, there can only ever be one answer to such a question.

“We will go through the mines of Khazad-dûm.”

Of course.

--*--*--

And then they’re sitting at the entrance and Gandalf is trying to remember all things related to Dwarves he’s ever learned. There isn’t that much (not when compared to what he’s learned about Elves, and that’s just too bad eh Tharkûn whisper Frodo’s thoughts in Thorin’s bitter tones).

Frodo has time to reflect.

He hopes desperately that this trip wasn’t just his own foolish desires talking. That he hasn’t chosen this fate for them all because of childish dreams and half-forgotten stories. He tells himself that he’s chosen this because it is better this way: no Dwarf has set foot in Khazad-dûm for many years, so the Enemy will not be expecting them to try now. And like it or not, the majority of the Fellowship have either grown up spending long vacations in Dwarven cities, or just plain grown up in them. It is pleasant to travel underground; Frodo is a lot calmer in the enclosed space and Pippin is relaxed enough to engage in skipping rocks across the still pond.

Yes, that’s it.

He isn’t doing this for any other reasons. He isn’t doing this because it was so difficult to persuade Mister Balin not to go after all, and perhaps this would finally bring the old Dwarf some peace. He isn’t doing this because Uncle Thorin’s eyes light up with a homesickness for something he’s never seen when he tells the ancient stories. He definitely isn’t doing this because Gimli was looking at him with hopeful, hopeful eyes. He’s not.

If he repeats it often enough to himself, he starts to believe it.

Eventually Gandalf, with Merry’s help, figures out the password, and Frodo is thankfully spared from any more time for reflection. Any more time to start doubting himself after all. But-- as tentacles grab him and attempt to pull him into the icy depths, and Sting and his axe are useless while he’s being thrashed around, he spares a moment to think that perhaps he should have reflected a few seconds more.

Of course.

--*--*--

But then they are in, and there is no more time for doubt. There is only time for sheer, plain awe. Next to him, Gimli is staring too. He knows that their amazement and sense of disbelief are equally intense. The others are looking around in interest and wonder too, but they do not truly understand what this means to Frodo and Gimli.

Gimli leans in close to him and whispers in Khuzdul-- words that no one else (except perhaps Gandalf) would be able to understand, but words that he nevertheless does not want anyone other than Frodo to hear. It is an old pledge of allegiance, one that Gimli should technically not give anyone other than a direct heir. But he whispers it into Frodo’s ears anyway, because Frodo making it so that Gimli could see this is more important than any bloodline. Fili would understand. Fili would agree.

This.

Khazad-dûm.

Khazad-dûm is and is not what he imagined, what he conjured up in his head from all the wonderful stories he was told. It’s bigger, bigger than he could have ever dreamt. Erebor could be swallowed by Khazad-dûm completely, deep hidden passages and high unreachable peaks, and not even a seventh of this ancient place would be filled.

Frodo understands why Mister Balin wanted to come.

It is also beautiful. He had never tried to resist when Bilbo attempted to fill his mind with culture and old art; he had gobbled up ancient books with a delight that had made Kili laugh and Fili look a bit jealous. These books serve him well now. He can practically track the way the designs and patterns were passed on through the ages. In his mind’s eye he can see how the carvings on his and Gimli’s axes are directly descended from these ones around him. He can equally see just how the structure of say, the buttresses of the Obsidian Tower, are based on what he sees (in fact, he can do this with every building he has ever seen in Erebor). Dwarves are an economic people: they do not bother re-inventing something that has worked magnificently in the past, and if a structure was good enough for Khazad-dûm, it’s good enough for Erebor.

So if the designs and the structures are the same, it stands to reason that the layout of the ancient home is, as well. After all, what is Khazad-dûm but an ancient, larger version of Erebor? Of course, any Dwarf who heard that question would spit at you for daring to ask, but for the purposes of this expedition (the first, but not the last, Frodo swears to himself), it is valid. He and Gimli, and the majority of the others as well honestly, should be able to figure out exactly where to go.

They get lost anyway.

Of course.

--*--*--

Wandering around for seven hours (Frodo’s more precise at telling the time below ground than above) without knowing where they were going should have put a damper on his spirit. All the others are looking a little weary at least.

But not so Frodo and Gimli. Not here, not ever.

Their heads are bent together as they whisper to each other in Khuzdul (because they love their companions like brothers, but this is something that they will not and can not share with them). They notice everything: similar things and things different, wonderful things and things so sad they cannot express them in words.

Frodo leaves footprints into the dust wherever he walks and he cannot help gloat to Gimli look, look, we are here, we are here and this is proof.

Finally, Gandalf deems it time for the Fellowship to take a break. The others collapse gratefully; he and Gimli volunteer to keep first watch. In a little corner where dust has settled thickly, Frodo spies a glimmer. It is a tiny brooch: a bird made out of mithril. He touches it with reverent fingers, for Dwarves do not have enough of that precious material to waste on beautiful, useless things anymore. The bird is delicate, so delicate it might fly away. Frodo wraps it in ten of Merry’s handkerchiefs and stows it in his pack. He will give it to Ori, he decides, Ori who was almost as hard to convince to stay as Mister Balin.

And suddenly, as though finding that gift took more out of him than the long hours of marching and staring, he feels bone-tired. He murmurs to Gimli, who is still too full of joy and excitement to consider sleeping, and they agree that Frodo will take the next watch.

If they find the right path again, it will take them three more days to get through the mines. Three more days of wonder and delight. He will take in everything and he will note down everything (how many teams for excavating Bofur should round up and how many teams for reconstruction). But that will come later; for now he will sleep.

His last thoughts while drifting off to sleep is just how wonderful it is that he will have something good to look back on, even when their road turns to Mordor and dark places.

Of course.

--*--*--

Why are there Orcs here?

Three days have passed and they are nearing the other side of the mines when Pippin makes a silly mistake, but Frodo has no anger in him to spare on Pippin because all of his anger is directed at the creatures in front of him.

Why are there Orcs in our halls?!

It is a question that continues buzzing around Frodo’s head and it is a question that leaves him unable to think of anything else. He remembers, of course, his uncle’s murmurs about the old battles at the gates of Khazad-dûm. Those are stories Thorin does not like to tell, but they are stories he believes Frodo should know, so he tells them nevertheless. But Thorin’s tales are of old deeds and old companions, and sorrows that he can barely stand to speak of, ones that make his words blunt and curt. And Thorin has never been inside Khazad-dûm itself.

Thus, none of his uncle’s stories prepare Frodo for this feeling of wrong. There are Orcs in Khazad-dûm. Their drums echo down the halls where his people’s hammers should be ringing out; they scrape their ugly swords on delicately welded columns. It is wrong, it is wrong, and Frodo is irrationally angry because these are the halls of his fathers, these are the halls of his people, how dare they how dare they how dare they.

He’s glad now that they came to Khazad-dûm; he’s forgotten all about the Ring and all about his Quest and if he dies here he doesn’t care because he’ll at least take a bit of the filth out with him.

Frodo meets Gimli’s eyes and sees the same bloodlust in his friend. They charge, ancient cries of war upon their lips.

But there are worse injustices than Orcs in Khazad-dûm; Durin’s Bane is not just a myth.

Of course.

--*--*--

And then they are out of Moria.

Gandalf has fallen and it is all Frodo’s fault, all Frodo’s choice, all Frodo’s desire for a distant, long-lost past. Anybody who would deny that Frodo is a true member of the line of Durin has never been more mistaken; he is practically a direct descendant. After all, lust for an ancient homeland runs in that family, as does the curse of ruin and downfall that follows.

Of course.

Chapter Text

Frodo had never been to Lothlorien before. Travelling along Mirkwood was dangerous for a young Hobbit; later on he had never found the time. And in general, grand forests interested him far less than tame gardens or deep mines.

Still, seeing the ancient trees in all their splendour struck a chord within him, and he found himself wishing he had visited before, before his memories were forever tainted with grief.

--*--*--

Frodo had never been to Lothlorien before, but that did not mean he had never encountered the Lady of the Woods. Not for several years now-- a dark shadow was spreading across all Middle-Earth and no one had time for light-hearted visits anymore.

But he could remember her stopping by when he was young. She would visit as regularly as the moon rises, and indeed it was the moon risings that she followed, stopping by the week of the third full moon after the summer equinox every three years.

The old memories brought with them a vague feeling of embarrassment, for it was on Galadriel’s long tresses that little Frodo had learned to braid.

You see, Hobbits do not bother to grow their curls long, and indeed it takes long for a Hobbit’s hair to grow. Frodo was a completely normal Hobbit boy, and thus when he first came to the Lonely Mountain his curls were wild and short. As he slowly, quietly grew into being Prince Frodo of Erebor, he found that he too wanted to braid his hair in the traditional style.

But what could he practice on? His own hair was too short, and the Dwarves’ too rough and thick for his little Hobbit hands to grasp properly. Bilbo’s was perhaps finer, but it was still short enough that starting out practicing was difficult, and full of tight curls besides.

And that was the first time she arrived.

Still and serene she sat, as Frodo’s pudgy fingers wormed and grasped their way through her hair. Guiding the Hobbitling’s hands was a fiercely uncomfortable Thorin, who anxiously pulled open Frodo’s fists whenever the child tugged too hard. It was as though the Dwarf was constantly afraid the Lady would smack the boy for daring to presume. No matter how tranquil her smiles, he was constantly alert just in case he’d need to pull Frodo away at a second’s notice.

But it was Thorin who felt awkward in the situation, not Frodo. Frodo grew up practicing braids and plaits on Galadriel: Herringbone and Gathered Threads, Lace and Rope, Cascade and Accent, four strands and five and eight. And with each braid he learned a story, murmured by Thorin to Elf and Hobbit during their sessions. Herringbone braids should only be braided after a good harvest; seven strands may only be used by members of the royal house but eight were most common amongst the mining folk; one braided in silver for weddings and left the tips untied for funerals.

Such things, and many others besides, Thorin explained to the two.

Frodo loved the lessons and he loved the feeling of cool, sleek hair under his fingers. And as his hands grew more deft and steady, he got the feeling that the Lady began to honestly enjoy it as well; her amusement and sweet patience turned into genuine joy.

It was a happy time.

--*--*--

Frodo had never been to Lothlorien before, and now, standing there, Frodo did not dare look up at her face.

What would she see in his eyes, this Lady who knew all hearts? Would she be saddened to know that he had taken those quiet murmurs so seriously? Perhaps if he had listened less to the stories and had concentrated more on his fingers, he would have chosen another way, a way that did not lead to ruin and fall.

This question, this what if, haunted him and tugged at him, every waking and sleeping hour of his day. He realized, vaguely as if from a great distance, that tensions within the Fellowship had been increasing since Gandalf’s fall. Aragorn and Boromir were snapping at each other for the first time in weeks, and Gimli and Legolas were being far too harsh on poor Pippin, which in turn set off Merry. Sam just followed all of Frodo’s movements with sad, worried eyes.

The Hobbit knew he should stop pulling away, should comfort his best friend and help the others along as best he could (it was unfair that they were blaming Pippin, when Frodo was the one at fault). But he found that he just... couldn’t. Plain and simply couldn’t.

And while the others all hailed the Lady of the Golden Wood, in their own manner and way, Frodo found no words for his own greetings. He did not want to force her to look upon his guilt-ridden face.

And yet... when the others were all asleep or at least turned away from the moonlight, Frodo stood and crept away from them. He let his feet take him where they wished to, as he often did above ground and he did not consider where the path lead. But although it was not conscious choice (not like Moria had been), he was still not altogether surprised to stumble upon Galadriel, standing silent in a grove.

She turned towards him, and Frodo’s eyes automatically, unintentionally went to meet hers. A small smile was upon her lips, though it was disconsolate enough to make Frodo wish to weep.

But her voice was soft as she spoke. “Come Frodo. Will you not plait for me a braid of Mourning?”

Frodo swallowed hard, still unable to reply. But he nodded to her wish.

--*--*--

Frodo had never been to Lothlorien before, but he knew nonetheless that they made the oddest pair there. The mighty Elf was sitting gracefully, peacefully on the ground, and the young Hobbit was perched on the edge of an elegant bench, carefully weaving together nine strands into an intricate pattern.

It was good work.

Keeping nine strands untangled and correct was difficult, and Frodo had no time for what ifs and other old stories. No, all he had space for was his hands and the task in front of him. It was nice, it was clean, and it was simple, even in its complexity.

All too soon he was finished. His hands felt empty after the long work; he clenched and unclenched them at a loss. Mourning braids were not tied off-- they would come undone when they came undone. Just like a grief would fade when it faded, Frodo realized suddenly. And perhaps it was a good thing to realize. Certainly, the weight lifted off his heart just a little. But... despite the cleverness and meaningfulness of the ancient tradition, right now all Frodo wished was that he had at least one more thing left to do with his hands.

A sudden sharp tug at a plait above his temple-- it jarred Frodo out of his thoughts completely.

He blinked; it was the Lady Galadriel who had led him out of his despair thus. And in a manner reminiscent of a Hobbit child no less! As if hearing his thoughts, the Lady smiled mischievously and pressed a featherlight kiss of comfort to his brow. Then suddenly her smile shifted, and she again seemed ancient and mysterious in a way he could not properly describe.

“Now come, Ring-bearer, I have many things to show you.”

--*--*--

Frodo had never been to Lothlorien before, but perhaps one day he would come back.

Chapter Text

“But Uncle Bilbo..! It makes perfect sense. After all, it will take a while yet for reinforcements to arrive from Erebor... What if the Enemy comes back to the Shire until they arrive, what will we do then?”

That was Kili. He was wheedling and pleading, his eyes big and puppy-like in a way Bilbo swore hadn’t worked on him in decades (but in fact worked well enough whenever Kili really went for it).

Speaking of Bilbo: the Hobbit shook his head regretfully. “I know, I know, I would prefer to make sure everything is safe there as well. But our Erebor needs us too, and we have no time to dally...”

“We cannot just drop everything and go off on a sudden holiday, Kili,” added Thorin. But there was, perhaps, a touch of of remorse in his speech as well. It was difficult for a Dwarf as proud as Thorin was to admit that his promise of protection had failed; he itched to head for the Shire and ensure everything was as safe as he had promised it would be.

“Come on, Uncle Thorin,” put in Fili, an even mix of light-heartedness and bitterness in his voice. “Our youngest is off to the land of the greatest enemy, to destroy an evil magical artefact in a volcano. The only ones protecting him are mainly half-grown kids we all remember playing Wyrms And Ladders with. We kind of need a holiday.”

Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could not deny the words.

And so that was that.

--*--*--

At the not-particularly-hurried pace they were going, their little company was expected to reach Bree in a bit more than a week. This was plenty of time to enjoy the quiet, peaceful countryside and to reminisce about the last time they had all travelled this land together. (The lesser guards had been sent off to find their fellow soldiers coming down from the Lonely Mountain, so the only Dwarves travelling with Bilbo were ones who had been part of the Company: Thorin, Fili, Kili, Dwalin, and Gloin.) It was also plenty of time for Bilbo to fret about their youngest.

“I just hope Estel keeps an eye on him,” sighed Bilbo for the third time that morning. “You know how he tends to wander off...”

“Frodo off,” corrected Kili. He was tired and saddened at Bilbo’s worry and he wanted his uncle to cheer up. Also, that was the correct term.

“What?”

“To frodo off: to wander away from the group and then get into trouble for no discernable reason,” explained Fili helpfully.

“Like that time when the Gamgees were visiting and in the middle of the picnic he just wandered away. I know he explained that he wanted to find a very specific flower he thought Sam would like, but it was still a not-very-merry three hour search he led us on!” added Kili.

“Or the time we went fishing with Estel and he just vanished. That was before he had really learned to swim-- I thought for sure he had drowned.” said Fili.

“Or when Legolas and I took him on his first anti-Orc patrol and he went missing. You have no idea how terrified I was-- and he never gave me any good explanation for why exactly he was sitting in that tree.”

“Or the incident with the honey, the geese, and the tar. I was sure he would break five bones at least, but he was fine!”

“Yes, just like when he was trying to climb up the side of that cliff to impress what’s-her-name.”

“Or when--”

“Enough, enough,” Bilbo held up his hands in defeat. For the first time since the journey started, he laughed. “Frodoing off it is.”

Then he shot a smirk at his husband, riding silently beside him. “At least we know where he got it from. Having absolutely zero sense of direction above ground? Very thorinesque indeed...”

--*--*--

For the Dwarves, arriving at Bag End was like meeting an almost forgotten relative you hadn’t seen since your childhood: on the one hand, you barely remembered their name, but on the other, you could specify exactly how they took their tea.

The first few days they settled in were thus mainly spent properly exploring all the rooms they hadn’t yet seen. And by then nearly all of the Shire had heard that Bilbo’s Dwarves were back; half the Hobbits were clamoring to have afternoon tea and second breakfasts with them, the other half were clamoring for them to be kicked out of Hobbiton.

Altogether it was a lively enough time, and the first time in decades that Bag End was so loud of and full of life. But their evenings were of a different nature than their days.

--*--*--

Bilbo sighed as he stepped outside into the cool, night air. The breeze nipped at his toes and the darkened sky made Hobbiton look far more foreboding than it had ever actually been. It made for an altogether unpleasant feeling, but he just couldn’t stay inside any longer. Not with the fake smiles he was trying to sport for the others’ sakes.

It wasn’t that Bilbo believed he was the only one worried about Frodo and the others. No, he knew it wasn’t just him: Thorin’s nightmares came more often than they had in years, and Fili and Kili’s laughter was too loud and often even for them. But they all attempted to hide their anxiety, whereas Bilbo just didn’t know how to hide his.

So he came to sit on the bench outside of his Hobbit hole, on some evenings, to have a good long Worry all by himself. And then he could go back in and at least attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening with his family.

Except that he was not all by himself.

Captain of the royal guard, Dwalin son of Fundin, was sitting on Bilbo’s mentally dubbed Worrying Bench. When the door clicked shut behind Bilbo, his head whipped around and he gave Bilbo a friendly, respectful nod.

(It always amused Fili and Kili that there was this formality between captain and consort, and honestly it had used to confuse Bilbo before he got used to it. Perhaps, Bilbo decided, in his own way Dwalin was just trying to show his appreciation for Bilbo’s quick thinking saving the lives of those he loved best.)

Bilbo nodded back, and perched on the bench next to his old companion. A silence stretched between them, and although it was not altogether uncomfortable, it left the Hobbit feeling uncertain as to how to proceed.

Luckily, it was Dwalin who was first to break the silence, in that blunt way of his.

“I worry about him too you know,” he said.

And Bilbo had known that, consciously, he swore he had. After all, Dwalin treated Frodo basically as a son-- or perhaps grandson, for parents were seldom as kind and patient with their children as Dwalin was, whereas grandparents tended towards leniency. But knowing it and hearing it spoken aloud was still different.

Dwalin continued. “I wonder whether I have taught him enough, whether he will be able to defend and fight back properly. Whether I have been too harsh or too kind...”

“Whether I have failed him in any way,” murmured Bilbo.

“Whether I have failed him in any way,” agreed Dwalin. “Yes.”

Silence stretched out between them again, neither finding any more words or need to express their thoughts. But this time it was not awkward; their thoughts might be leading them in a different way but the center of the labyrinth, Frodo’s well-being, was the same.

Together, Dwarf and Hobbit looked to the East.

--*--*--

A few days later, Bilbo was wandering through the rooms of Bag End to wash and air out the old sheets, when he stumbled across Thorin and Gloin. The two were sitting on a bed in a very spare bedroom, conversing quietly in Khuzdul. Bilbo was better at understanding the written language than the spoken one, but even he could immediately make out the words scared, lost, far away. And, of course, Gimli and Frodo.

He quietly shut the door and moved on to the next room.

--*--*--

It was at supper a week after that incident that shutting doors and stepping outside stopped working.

Just as they were all digging into their mashed potatoes, Kili pronounced suddenly: “He’s not dead you know.”

This statement was followed by a lot of blinking from the others, which was in turn responded to by glaring from Kili’s side. But Fili was able to elaborate for his brother, as always.

“What Kili means,” he said. “Is that Frodo will be fine.”

“We know he will be, lad,” said Dwalin gently. “But it is impossible to not worry about him nevertheless.”

“Well you shouldn’t,” said Kili. A touch of anger was in his voice. “He’s smart and brave and good. Don’t start burying him before his time.”

“We’re not,” interjected Bilbo. “But--”

“Frodo will be fine,” repeated Fili, a bit louder. He shot them a sunny, unconcerned smile. Bilbo noticed how tightly his hand clenched the fork, yet his voice was steady. “If he needs advice, Gandalf will help him. If enemies come, Estel and Legolas and brave, wonderful Gimli will protect him. If he wants to cry, Merry and Pippin will cheer him up.”

“And if worst comes to worst,” piped up Kili. “And he frodos off as he always does, Sam will just have to find him, as he always does.”

He grinned at the others. It was just a tiny bit too wide to be completely, utterly real. But Bilbo’s heart felt just a bit lighter nonetheless.

--*--*--

“I suppose they are right...” murmured Bilbo. Curled up in bed next to Thorin, blankets pulled up to their chins and curtains shut tight against the outside world, it was somehow easier to say. And perhaps even to believe.

“They are,” said Thorin. His voice was firm, but not the kingly voice Bilbo hated hearing outside formal meetings. It was just the voice of a parent who was willing to loosen the apron strings, and at least attempt to trust their child into adulthood. “Frodo will be fine. He is our boy after all, and Primula’s besides. We must have confidence in him. And then he will be just fine.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could not deny the words.

And so that was that.

Chapter Text

And then they were on Amon Hen and Boromir was ranting at him, delirious.

His Uncle Bilbo’s training kicked in first. Frodo had been drilled constantly on the wisdom of negotiations, in Bilbo’s fervent attempts to get at least one member of the family to consider words before fighting.

“Boromir, you are not yourself!” said Frodo.

But Boromir just shook his head, growling: “No, Halfling, it is you who are behaving strangely! Did you not wish to protect this land, your family? Do you not see the folly of this plan?!”

He advanced upon Frodo, his eyes crazed with power and greed and despair. An awkward sense of non-realness came upon the Hobbit; reality tipped back away from him. It was as though he was watching a play of Bilbo’s tale of Thorin’s mad lust for the Arkenstone, with the role of Thorin played by Boromir. So strangely fitting was the comparison (was this why Uncle Bilbo told him to always keep the ring out of sight of Uncle Thorin?!) that Frodo felt completely off-balance.

Which, of course, allowed Boromir to tackle the Hobbit to the ground and attempt to wrest the ring from his grasp. Frodo fell heavily and Frodo fell hard. He landed in an awkward position, pinned below the much taller warrior.

But Bilbo was not the only uncle whose lessons were drilled into Frodo’s head.

Frodo twisted, shifted, slid out of Boromir’s grasp, and counterattacked. A slight change to a better position-- and he drove his knee into the Human’s face. There was a sickening crunch, and Boromir’s nose spurted blood all over his face. The Man blinked it away. And with the blood he blinked away the madness.

“Frodo?” said Boromir, his voice cracking and lost. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

Frodo hesitated for a few seconds, panting from the suddenness of the exertion. Boromir certainly sounded better. But... Dwalin had always said that one should finish a job, and pretending to be weaker than one’s actual state was something Nori often did in a practice match.

So Frodo shifted once again, and brought his powerful feet down. The force of the blow knocked Boromir out.

Then he crouched down next to the still body, and turned the Man onto his side so that the blood pouring from his nose would not suffocate him. After making Boromir as comfortable as a beaten up person could be, Frodo stood up and considered the situation. He did not want this to turn out like Moria again; he needed to plan this through. So he tried to think about it like Thorin would, if he was being King Thorin and not just Uncle, or Bilbo would, if he was being... well, Bilbo. (They tried not to let it be known further afield, but it was widely agreed amongst the Dwarves that the only one in Erebor with any amount of sense was the Royal Consort.)

So... thinking about it strategically, logically... on the one hand, he could continue travelling with the others, and just knock Boromir out again if this sort of stuff continued happening. But... What if he was sleeping? What if the crazed Boromir took a hostage (Sam, Merry, Pippin)? And what kind of damage was this doing to Boromir’s mind in general?

On the other hand, he could split away from the Fellowship, and go into Mordor by himself. But... Frodo didn’t like to admit it, but he really did have a bad sense of direction; what if he got completely lost? What if he got captured by Orcs? What if the Ringwraiths came upon him and he could not resist the temptation of the Ring? (What if he in general could not resist the Ring?)

It was while he was lost within these thoughts and doubts, still standing above the prone body of Boromir, that Aragorn came upon him. Without meaning to, Frodo flinched back from the tall Human.

And all at once, his choice was clear.

“I am going to Mordor,” said Frodo, before Aragorn could speak. The word alone went unspoken, but not unheard.

Aragorn took in the sight of Frodo, his feet still red with blood that was not his own, and the body of Boromir laying on the ground beside him. He nodded slowly.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” said Aragorn, and what he was apologizing for neither of them knew.

“Me too,” sighed Frodo. “But... perhaps it is best this way. Perhaps that is how it was always meant to be.”

Aragorn and Frodo moved to each other slowly. They smiled sadly at how each was trying to futilely delay the parting for just a few seconds longer. Man and Hobbit embraced one final time, just as tight and just as long as Frodo had hugged Fili and Kili before setting off on the journey. Frodo broke the embrace first though, and he said, nodding towards Boromir: “He should not come to for a little while longer. I will take my leave until then.”

“Let me at least help you move some equipment to one of the b--”

A sudden shriek pierced the air. Pippin! The yell was followed by the noise of a scuffle, the distant sound of steel upon steel. Frodo and Aragorn exchanged wild glances.

“I have to go help--” said Frodo.

“No!” interrupted Aragorn. “Now, more than ever, you must not let the Enemy spy you. I will take care of the Hobbits. Run.”

Frodo hesitated for a second longer. Aragorn grabbed him, gave him for one last quick hug, then spun him around and pushed him in the direction of the boats. He himself took off in the opposite direction: the direction of the fight.

“Good luck upon you and your journey, Prince Frodo of Erebor!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Until our next meeting, King Elessar of Gondor!” came the distant reply.

And then both were out of sight and beyond hearing, each consumed by their separate destinies and paths.

--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

BONUS: This Is Too Silly Even For This AU But I Wanted You To Read It Anyway...

Sam reached the boat within seconds and clambered aboard with Frodo’s help. Then he sat there for a little while, dripping wet and trying to catch his breath, thanking his lucky stars that Bilbo had insisted that they all learn how to swim. The adrenaline was wearing off and he had never been a particularly good pupil; it took him a while to calm his racing heart enough to speak. And meanwhile he just shivered in silence, not looking up at Frodo. Afraid, perhaps, that there would be anger there and a desire to send Stupid Sam back to be protected from things Prince Frodo of Erebor could face alone. He was not sure he could handle it.

But when he finally felt well enough to look up, he did not find pity or anger, just Frodo staring at him with a half-heartbroken expression on his face. But! the other half was fierce joy at Sam’s presence. And Sam remembered there was a reason he and Frodo were best friends, and that reason did not include patronizing or disregard.

And thus he found the strength to choke out: “I made a promise, Frodo. A promise! Make sure he eats his vegetables Samwise Gamgee. And I mean to! I mean to.”

Chapter Text

A letter, written in Dwarvish runes, covered in ink splotches of an enthusiastic but careless hand. It is slightly ripped and soggy from when the bird carrying it flew under rain, but it is nevertheless readable. The paper is of Hobbit make.

Hey F!!

Sorry it took us so long to write to you; messenger bird finally came back from E. How’s your trip going? Tell us everything: it’s not like anyone else can read Dwarvish runes anyway, and this particular bird is trained in shredding and swallowing messages too. (F insists we should code this as well, but I think that’s kind of a waste of time.)

There’s space on the back of the sheet to write back, in case you have no paper left. Hope to hear from you soon, little bro!

F + K

--*--*--

A letter, written in a much steadier hand on the back of the last. The paper is now far grubbier, and smells faintly of ash; the ink appears to be the last dregs of some old storage. The missive, written in Dwarvish runes, has been coded twice: once in the standard Dwarvish code invented by Nori of the Hidden Vine, and once more in a code used only by the Royal Family and invented by the three nephews of Thorin II Baggins Oakenshield.

YOU IDIOT BROTHERS. YOU REALIZE I THOUGHT THE BIRD WAS A SPY AT FIRST?! I ALMOST BEAT THE POOR THING TO DEATH YOU IDIOTS. WHY DID YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Just so you know, the only reason I’m replying is because the thought of this whole nonesense is making S. smile. And once we get into M. proper I’m going to stop. And you better too, because I will not reply to any of your pesterings!

We are doing well. Please tell D. not to worry, I am not forgetting to keep doing my push-ups. Please tell B. not to worry, I am not forgetting to eat my vegetables. And just send my greetings to T. because he will worry regardless.

--*--*--

A missive again, this time written on elegant paper made by Elves; there is a hint of the spices used only in Rivendell still present. The message is similarly coded as the previous had been. There is a small doodle of a practically un-bearded Dwarf in the lower corner; he is sticking out his tongue. Next to him there are some very complexly coded words (in a further four codes on top of the previous ones) that spell out f is a dumb spoilsport and worrywart he is the worst.

Hey F!

Woah there little bro, lighten up! Come on-- you’re only on your way to get rid of a ring, sheesh, you’d think the whole of the world is depending on you.

I kid, I kid.

(I’m sending this off before the older F. (not you) wakes up, by the way, because I want your next letter to be a surprise to him. Do you still remember that it’s his birthday soon, or has being important and having an awesome quest made you too good for your little ol’ family?)

Anyway, you may be wondering why I’m writing on this frilly paper. If you weren’t, ask yourself now. Done? Alright, here’s the answer: we are... ta-dumm in R.! N. sent us some worrying news: things are heating up back home! So B. wants to talk to E. and coordinate all our defences or whatever. I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care: I just can’t wait to kick some ass! (Although T.’s twitching and grumbling about us being back in R. is honestly the most hilarious life has been since you left. It’s just not as fun to annoy people when there isn’t a tiny face with huge, traumatized blue eyes looking up at you from around knee-height. Hurry back!)

Tell us more about what you guys are up to. The previous message made it seem as though it was only you and S. on your way to M. hahaha.

Have you guys driven your own B. crazy yet? He looked a bit stiff; I bet you and he will get along great, you over-serious people you! Also, G. told me that his own private quest-during-a-quest will be to learn to walk quietly enough to surprise E. and L. Has L. knocked him out without looking at him yet? Hehe.

In general, more news and more stories please and thank you.

Your bro,

K.

--*--*--

The majority of the message is coded in some of the most complex and archaic codes the Dwarves had ever invented, moreover it is written in a Shire-script not used for the last few centuries. This appears to have been done out of spite and sheer boredom. Rolled up into the message are some tiny black pebbles.

The first part of the message is only coded two-fold:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY F.!!!!

Everybody sends you greetings, and G. requests that K. drink to F.’s health because he isn’t home to do it himself. So sad I’m not home to celebrate; you guys will have to celebrate extra hard for me as well!

The rocks I included are in fact from M. (We have just reached the outer mountains.) Can’t get you anything better because there’s nothing better around, but perhaps you will appreciate this, O Mighty Dwarf.

This is where the coding becomes a lot more complex.

Hey K.-- just so you know, I’m definitely much better at this stuff than you, so don’t even bother trying to ‘annoy’ me with that amateur sextuple layering: I read it within minutes so there hehehe. Whereas this? Will you be able to read it by yourself or show it to B. after all, thereby getting yelled at for insulting poor little me? (He was totally mean to me in all his letters, Uncle, as always. Even called me short, which violates Family Rule #3: No Teasing For Hobbit/Dwarf things.) (Mwahahaha, did you enjoy that three-hour lecture on peoples relations?)

To answer your questions: yup, B. is by now totally crazy not in a particularly funny way; more in a ‘he tried to kill me’ way

This is crossed out to such an extent it is unreadable. Instead the letter continues:

-- a real part of our funny little troupe! Nobody’s had a punch off yet, but bets are on P. vs G. because P. insists on throwing something important into some high tree and then watching G. use whatever tree-climbing skills L. taught him to get it down. Only reason P. is still alive is because G. has spent so much of his life saving P. from things falling on him, and G. doesn’t enjoy undoing his good efforts.

E. is currently trying very hard to get better at jokes. Here is his latest one:
Q: Why is 6 scared of 7?
A: Because 7 8 9!
Yup. (Don’t worry if you need F. to explain this to you, K., I know math isn’t your strong point.)

I guess I’ll end it on that because nothing can beat that. You better be happy I have so much time on watch in general! Oh, and we’re going to have to stop within a couple letters: I’m not risking our quest on your silly little games.

Although I appreciate and treasure each letter, I really do. Sometimes I think they’re the only things that keep me going: everything here is so bleak and dull and each letter is a little drop of sunlight from a different world and I just w

The phrase ends here and is once again scratched out until it is just a dark mess. The letter then ends simply:

F.

P.S. Oh! Almost forgot: S. thanks you for the smoothness and nice smell of the previous letter. It is nice to touch something so clearly plant-like in this dusty hole, he says. So thanks for the letters! (Too bad he only likes the Elfishness of them haha!)

--*--*--

This message is a lot messier than the others, but coded just as thoroughly as the previous one had been.

F.,

just so you know, you are a useless liar. for your future information, G. would never be so polite: he’d ask K. to chuck a rock at me instead. the others are off too (E.’s joke was too funny to be his)-- except perhaps S.

that’s it, don’t bother replying; K. and I are getting down there. E.’s foster-dad foresaw something or other so we’ve volunteered to go down; E.’s older brothers are taking some elfy troops up home with T. and B. in a funny little cultural exchange. this would all be hilarious if i wasn’t so worried for you. i hope all your dumb companions have just gotten more mature since we last saw them-- if it turns out they let you and S. wander off there will be some serious Consequences.

see you soon.

F. senior (and K.)

P.S. thanks for the present. i know you were making fun of me, but those rocks are truly fascinating! unlike anything i’ve ever seen; it is such an interesting structure of carbo

The word stops in the middle, there are small scribbles: evidence of a short scuffle over the pen. Then a different hand continues.

F. was getting long-winded and boring again. you can listen to the beauty of rock formation in person.

you better be safe and whole when we get there.

or else.

Chapter Text

Dusk

It was still dark, but dawn would break soon enough. Nori rubbed his tired face; he wished he could have slept just a bit before the meeting with Thorin and Bilbo. But by now it was too late, and a three hour nap would tire him more than it would rejuvenate him. Next to him, Dwalin continued his rumbling explanation of the best places to position the guards. The Royal Spymaster knew he should be paying attention, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care: Dwalin always knew best what to do with his warriors and telling Nori about it was a mere courtesy. (And Nori’s own, far more secret defenses would go up next to Dwalin’s anyway.)

Instead, he squinted down once more at the map spread out on the table in front of him, fighting a headache. He and Dwalin were in a small chamber next to the royal bedrooms, a sort of private audience hall that only the most trusted advisors were privy to. It was a quiet room with comfortable chairs, and more importantly, was one of the few places Nori knew there were no prying ears. Still, it would have been just a bit nicer if there were enough windows for the tiniest rays of moonlight to creep in.

There was a noise from the door, and Nori was abruptly shaken out of his musings. His head whipped around immediately-- it was too early for either Thorin or Bilbo to be awake and Fili and Kili were off who-knows-where.

His gaze met that of a startled child-- the newest addition to the royal family.

Little Prince Frodo looked up at the Dwarves with huge blue eyes, a little curious and mainly unafraid. He seemed tinier than Nori could imagine a child being; surely even Ori, whose earliest years Nori still remembered clearly, had never been as small as this Hobbitling! It didn’t help that Frodo also had a half-anxious expression on his face at all times. To Nori he looked like a poor half-drowned pup, and he turned to Dwalin, hoping the warrior would handle the situation properly. (Everyone knew Dwalin had doted on the son of his poor little princess Primula since the first second Frodo had stepped into Erebor.)

Dwalin didn’t disappoint.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” he said roughly, pointedly.

“Can’t sleep,” said Frodo. His voice lowered to a murmur. “Dreamt of lakes and ponds and rivers.”

Now even Nori, who was one of the most scoundrelest scoundrels of Erebor (if he did say so himself), couldn’t help but wince at Frodo’s expression; that permanently heartbroken face had just turned just a bit more heartbroken. Dwalin’s stern scowl was already melting away and he looked ready to abandon their meeting to stay guard against nightmares until Frodo got a proper eight hours' worth of rest. But the plans they were discussing were just a bit too important to abandon like that, so Nori acted first:

“Why don’t you stay up with us then?” he said to Frodo, as he had always said to Ori way back when.

“Can I really?”

The look Frodo shot Nori at his words was delighted, and for a second he finally stopped looking like a sad little waif. In return, Nori nodded. Ori had always fallen asleep because of the sheer boredom, to a child, of Dori and Nori’s conversations, and Nori assumed Frodo was likely to be similar in this respect. This night, Dori’s role was played by Dwalin-- and thus Frodo promptly perched himself on the huge warrior’s knee.

Once Nori and Dwalin assured themselves that everyone was comfortable, they continued their discussion. It really was not that exciting: mainly how many archers would be needed to protect from an ambush if the rebels decided to go for something drastic, or whether it was more important to recheck all of the kitchen staff in case the enemy went for the more subtle touch of poison. It all went far over Frodo’s head, and indeed the child was already nodding off, curled up against Dwalin’s chest.

When suddenly--

“That’s wrong,” said Frodo. His voice was drowsy, but he sounded absolutely certain of himself.

Nori blinked at the Hobbitling, then blinked back down at the map. He was sure the ambush would come from around the area of Lake Nor, if it came at all, and around twenty archers should be enough to-- no, wait, Frodo shouldn’t be understanding any of this at all.

“What do you mean..?” Nori said.

“It’s not ambush,” mumbled Frodo.

Nori exchanged a look with Dwalin. Of course, there was a chance of a different type of attack, but Bombur had a tight grip on the kitchens, there was not enough discontent for there to be a real enemy army, and... no, wait, he was over-thinking again. Frodo was a child; even Fili and Kili hadn’t been forced into military strategizing by Thorin that early.

“What do you mean..?” Nori repeated, feeling a bit dumb for being unable to understand Frodo. (He was supposed to be the Spymaster for crying out loud, and here he was, he was thrown off by a little boy!)

“Uncle Bilbo explained it to me yesterday,” said Frodo, quietly but without a wavering note of doubt. “It’s not ‘an bush’, it’s ‘a bush’. You only add an ‘n’ when the next words starts with a vov-- a vowel.” He added: “It’s a Rule. An official one.”

At this little speech, Dwalin and Nori just... kind of paused. They blinked down at Frodo, and then they blinked at each other. Then Dwalin cracked up, his great shoulders shaking with laughter. Nori fought an embarrassed flush, after all Dwalin hadn’t gotten it either. ...It was just that it was Nori, not Dwalin, was supposed to be the brains of the king’s defences, so the warrior definitely had far less reason to be embarrassed than him.

Meanwhile, Frodo, who did not understand Dwalin’s laughter, scowled.

“Don’t laugh at him!” he said heatedly, sounding just the smallest bit like Thorin in a huff. “Kili told me Dwarves aren’t good with plants. I’m sure he just got confused!”

At that, Dwalin’s amusement just doubled-- he didn’t bother to even attempt to stifle his roar of laughter. Even Nori had to snicker at Frodo’s passionate defense. Suddenly, the long, headache-inducing night seemed just a little shorter, a little kinder, a little more purposeful.

And when Bilbo, yawning and wondering what all the merrymaking at such an hour was about, came to comfort Frodo and put him back to bed, Nori was just a little sad at their young waif-prince’s departure. ...Though not sad enough that he didn’t let out an evil chuckle at Dwalin’s panic at having woken Bilbo up-- the Dwarven warrior really was too hilarious when terrified.

(And years later, as he and Dwalin sit at the same table until dawn, and discuss enemies far harder to deal with than some idiotic rebels, he remembers that other long-ago night. But there is no Frodo to come interrupt their planning with grammar corrections now; he is far away and dealing with problems far more important. Still, even their ‘little’ battle at Erebor is an important part of the campaign for the freedom of Middle-Earth, so Nori spares only a second to reminisce. Then he goes back to paying attention to Dwalin’s rumbling.

He wants to make sure everything will go right, so that Frodo can come back to Erebor and look at him with a stupidly heartbroken expression that is actually just Frodo’s way of expressing joy.)

Midnight

There is burning and wailing and the smell of scorched flesh and the world is too bright, too bright-- the light will incinerate him and leave nothing, not even the smallest specks of ash-- but it is not for himself that he fears-- there are familiar voices calling out from beyond the flames-- he cannot move he cannot get over to them--

--and then he is falling and falling--

and there is darkness. Darkness untouched by the sun since the world was made. Silence dwells in these depths; it smothers him and he cannot breathe. Where are his loved ones? Where is Bilbo, where are his nephews? --No, that’s right. They aren’t the ones who are supposed to be here with him; it is Dwalin’s and Frerin’s familiar voices that should echo down the tunnel. Where are they, his brother, his brother-in-arms? Have they fallen to the darkness? He cannot see and he cannot hear and he cannot move, trapped in this black despair--

--and then there are drums.

Drums in the deep.

Thorin awakens with a gasp and a lurch; his eyes are open so wide they hurt and he is covered in a cold sweat. His breath comes in harsh, uneven pants.

“Thorin..?”

Bilbo’s voice is quiet, reassuring, steadying-- and coming from the completely wrong direction. Why is his husband not in bed with him? Thorin looks around wildly, still unbalanced from his earlier terror. He finds Bilbo standing uncertainly in one of the far, dusty corners of the awful inn room they are staying at. The Hobbit looks equally ready to either flee from the room or hold down the Dwarf’s thrashing form. But seeing that rationality has returned to Thorin’s eyes, he walks slowly to the bed.

Thorin can see fingerprint-bruises on his lover’s shoulder; a few centimeters over and Thorin would have crushed his windpipe.

Bilbo lets out an awkward laugh when he notices the direction of Thorin’s gaze. “Not as young as I used to be, unfortunately. Reflexes aren’t as good anymore...”

In response, Thorin falls back down on the bed, his eyes screwed shut. He groans.

“Now look, Thorin,” Bilbo says, crawling into bed with him. His voice is back to a bossy, firm tone. He always adopts it when he realizes it is up to him to make the important decisions right now because Thorin is too-- something. (Arrogant, tired, screwed up.) Thorin always appreciates it, and right now, coming from a worse nightmare than he’s had in years, he appreciates it even more. “There’s no harm done. I’ve told you already-- you’re the only one who expects perfection from yourself. We’ve gotten through this before, remember, we’ll get through it again.”

(Of course Thorin remembers getting through it before; it is hard to forget almost regularly waking up and finding out you have hurt your beloved in your sleep.

For many years, Thorin and Bilbo tried everything they could to cure this malady, all the remedies common to Hobbits and Dwarves. But it turned out that doing an extra amount of physical activity just led Thorin to insomnia, unable to stop his mind from continuing to work even as his body screamed for rest; sleeping with a small torch of flickering light just worsened his screaming terror; and sleeping in complete darkness made him awaken thrashing and fighting unknown enemies-- which usually meant Bilbo in the waking world.

And Thorin also refused to take any but the mildest of Oin’s medications. What if there is some sort of problem during the night?! he protested, and ignored Bilbo’s counter-arguments that the city could surely take care of itself for a few hours while its king rested.

Neither of them could find a definite pattern to why and how Thorin’s nightmares arose. Stressful months would pass (threats of uprisings, visits from Elves), and Thorin would be fine. And then a week of complete relaxation-- and he awoke screaming and fighting.

The saddened, frustrated Hobbit tried to figure out if any of the triggers from the ‘remedies’, which had in fact worsened Thorin’s terror, were present in his husband’s waking life. But no, Thorin seemed completely well-adjusted when awake. He could sit at a dead-boring conference for hours without growing restless, he did not flinch away from open flames no matter how tall, and he went with Bofur into the deepest mines with ease.

In short, nothing made sense.

At last the two were forced to admit to themselves that it was not the outside world at all that was bothering Thorin. No, it appeared that the threat that pressed most heavily upon him was that of being unable to do anything. An awake Thorin could well imagine rescuing loved ones from dragon flames or from Orcs’ blades-- he had done it before after all. But in his nightmares all he remembered was the fear of being helpless.

Neither Thorin nor Bilbo knew how to solve that.

All around them, Erebor was flourishing, even the lands around it enjoying a wealth and happiness that had been almost forgotten, and both Thorin and Bilbo worked hard for that improvement. But inside their own bedroom, it was torturous. Not every night of course, but far more often than need be.

They learned to get around it, in their own little ways.

Thorin sound-proofed their room. He wished to never wake up Fili and Kili, who had suites in the royal wings, with his cries. For once, he was grateful he had learned skills uncommon to princes while in exile; Thorin wanted as few as possible to witness his shame.

Bilbo learned how to roll out of bed and into a far corner, all while half-asleep; after all, it then generally took only a few seconds for Thorin’s eyes to lose their hazy panic, and the flurry of blows to become a waterfall of apologies.

And the both of them quickly turned adept at falling back asleep after any nightmare, and, in fact, at catching a few extra minutes of sleep whenever they possibly could.

Still, it was all just a difficult, semi-temporary solution.

Until Frodo came into their lives.

Frodo suffered his own nightly terrors, crying and thrashing about in the night even more often than Thorin. He would shake and shudder, and half-drown and half-strangle himself in his sheets. Bilbo tried to give him bed sheets and quilts less silky, less smooth, less like cool water-- but Frodo half-suffocated himself in the coarsest blankets. None of the other remedies worked for him either, and Oin was unwilling to sedate such a young child.

But Frodo would quieten when somebody sat with him after his terrors, and soothed him, telling him he was not all alone in this world. Eventually, the job fell to Thorin, or, rather, he took it up willingly. It seemed natural that one suffering from nightmares could best help another.

--And for some reason, it worked.

Thorin, waking from his own nightmares, would stumble to the other room and almost always find a whimpering Frodo, tossing and turning. He would awaken the child with a soft murmur and a hand on the shoulder. And so Thorin quieted his own fears of being helpless by quieting the fears of another.

Frodo grew up and his nightmares disappeared completely; Thorin’s became seldom enough Bilbo sometimes joked that the Hobbit was slowly overtaking him in number of bad dreams. Thorin himself could never joke about it: the terror was not there anymore, but neither was it completely gone. Lying in wait, dormant was perhaps the most correct description.

So yes, Thorin remembers well how they ‘got through it’ in the years before Frodo came into their lives. How terrified he was in the dreaming world, and how terrified he was when he awoke-- what if this was the time Bilbo was not quick enough and Thorin awoke to the sound of snapping bones (or worse)? Thorin is half-convinced that without Frodo’s presence he would have gone mad a long time ago.

And now Frodo is gone, and the nightmares are back. It is almost poetic.)

Bilbo looks ready to add something else, but he is interrupted by a banging on the door and alarmed voices. The two concerned people outside are Elrohir and Elladan, Estel’s beloved’s brothers who are coming back to Erebor with them and a small troupe of Elves; it is in their stead that Fili and Kili are sent to Estel. (Elrond and Bilbo seem to think this will foster some sort of great Dwarf-Elf, Dwarf-Man friendship in the younger generations, even in the Elves’ twilight years. All Thorin can see it fostering is a headache.)

Thorin can admit to himself, of course, that it is nice of the Elves to care. But right now he cannot deal with them and with the explanations he will be forced to give. He wishes they were back in Erebor already, in the bedroom he had never bothered to un-sound-proof. All he has here to silence himself is a pillow.

He groans again, and buries his head in it.

Dawn

A cool breeze drifted over Aragorn’s half-sleeping form, rustling his hair and chilling his nose. He found he did not mind; the breeze carried with it the rustles and sighs of the rest of the Fellowship.

Ah! he could hear Pippin and Boromir discussing this or that, their voices full of a quiet excitement. It was their turn on watch. Aragorn sometimes dreaded going on watch with Pippin: the Hobbit had found out Aragorn’s weakness for awful puns, and had thus taken to telling him the stupidest ones he could think up. The Man laughed uncontrollably at each one, which of course woke up the rest of the grumbling camp. But Boromir seemed immune to such pranks, and was listening to a story of some famous ('famous' being a relative word) Took or other with great interest. Something about the game of golf?

The gust of air shifted, and Aragorn heard the by now very familiar sounds of his companions’ snoring. Gimli, Merry, and Sam were all spread out next to each other this night, it seemed. Aragorn spared a drowsy, gladdened thought for how much closer Sam had become to the other Shire-folk. They had all become so much closer really; it was comforting to hear even their loud, annoying snoring intertwined.

His thoughts turned next to Legolas and Gandalf. The wind was not strong enough to bring him their exact words, but that was fine too. Aragorn had grown up amongst Elves, but the type of Quenya Gandalf would be speaking to Legolas was never used anymore. The Ranger could read it, just a little, but grasping it as a spoken tongue was beyond him. The fact did not bother him. On this night, at least, Aragorn was content that the others were content.

And finally, Frodo. The Ringbearer sounded fast asleep-- no, wait. The current brought with it sounds of half-stifled whimpers and a shifting, tangled blanket. Aragorn frowned. He remembered Fili’s quiet warnings that Frodo had used to suffer from regular night terrors, but they were supposed to have passed many years ago. Still, there was no way the Ring would not have affected that, Aragorn decided, and he moved to untangle himself from his own blanket. But before he could finish, the breeze brought with it the sound of footsteps. Boromir was padding softly over to Frodo; Aragorn heard sounds of the Hobbit being gently shaken awake, and then reassuring murmurs too quiet to make out.

Aragorn shifted, and bundled the blanket more tightly around him. There was no point in eavesdropping anymore, all was well with his friends. He drifted off to sleep.

(He thinks of that scene now, curled up in his bedroll and attempting to catch an hour or two of uneasy napping before they continue their Chase. That night was so very different from the one that lies upon them now. Five of their friends are gone. As for the ones who are left... Boromir is a pale shadow of himself; even the untiring Legolas and Gimli are wearied with grief and anxiousness.

Constantly plagued by these thoughts, Aragorn doubts he will be able to sleep at all. Worry over Merry and Pippin’s fates has settled into his very bones and it is difficult to get himself to stop moving. Only through sheer willpower does he manage to force his muscles and mind into relaxation. He turns over, and lets himself drift off, remembering another, happier night. If he cannot sleep, he will at least think of good things.)

Land Of The Midnight Sun

Frodo doesn’t sleep very much at all anymore.

He tries and tries, because he thinks he’d be able to go a lot further and last a lot longer if only he could sleep a bit. But it’s difficult, it’s difficult. When he closes his eyes, he sees fire and dust and the Eye. (It is so different from his old dreams of cool water; he marvels that the terror remains the same.) And when he wakes up, the dryness of his mouth reminds him so much of those dreams of ash and black deserts that he wants to retch; except he doesn’t have enough within him even for that.

So instead he watches Sam sleep.

Sam sleeps like a rock: curled up tight and not showing any motions of life. It isn’t at all what Frodo remembers him as, back in the happy days of sleepovers. That Sam used to snore lightly and sleep on his back, arms and legs splayed out like a mayapple. But no plants grow in Mordor and Sam, mimicking the world around him, loses his own vitality.

And this barren earth has even worse effects on him: for the first time since he was a young child Sam has nightmares.

It takes Frodo a while to notice, because Sam doesn’t have nightmares the way Thorin and Frodo do. Sam doesn’t thrash about or almost injure others. He just curls up even tighter, his breathing so light Frodo can barely hear it. When he awakens, his expression is one of dazed misery; shock and dismay that this is happening to him is plain on his face. He tries to school his expression into forced cheerfulness for Frodo, but Frodo doesn’t sleep so hiding those few milliseconds of truth is impossible. Frodo’s heart aches for Sam; his poor friend should never have come here, into this land of dust and rock, dragged away from green and light and all the things he holds dear.

But there is one good thing about dealing with nightmares, and about being unable to sleep, at least: one has both the experience and the time to help others conquer the same problems. So whenever Sam’s breathing turns shallow and his sleeping form becomes even smaller, Frodo wakes him with a light touch.

“Scoot over, Sam,” he says, and curls up next to his friend, their backs pressed together.

They draw what little comfort there is to be found from each other, and Frodo falls into a light doze.

Chapter Text

Boromir awakens with a start; he sits up immediately, clutching his head. The first feeling is a mixture of panic and confusion. A split second later, the world slides into some sort of focus and understanding, and a wave of shame hits him. He groans.

His face is sticky with dried blood and mud, and there are dead leaves in his hair. But the main feeling of dirtiness nonetheless comes from inside. Boromir’s thoughts are dark.

(Paradoxically, it was, in fact, his very madness that allowed Frodo to escape from him. The Ringbearer is a fine warrior, but he does not have to fight every day for his life and the lives of his family and people. It is only Boromir’s hazy, Ring-clouded mind that allowed Frodo escape without complication. Yet without the madness Frodo would have had no reason to run in the first place; there is no comfort to be found in this puzzle.)

Presently, there is a rustle and Boromir looks up. He finds Aragorn leaning against a tree and breathing hard. There is blood on his cloak: the consistency and color identifies it as some type of Orc. Aragorn does not have the signs of battle-readiness upon him, so Boromir assumes the enemy must be gone. Yet... the battle is over, but Aragorn’s sword is neither cleaned nor in its sheath. The battle is done; is it now time for the execution?

(There is a sort of grim humor, and justice, in this thought.)

As though sensing the direction of his musings, Aragorn reacts. His eyes do not leave Boromir’s as the Man slowly and deliberately slides his sword back into its scabbard. Boromir remembers that just a few scant days ago, he had told Aragorn, passionately and without hesitation, that there still existed honor within the race of Man. His own honor could never be cleared with death; but perhaps he can do so with life. He will at least try.

Boromir stands up.

--*--*--

He feels the judging looks from the Elf and the Dwarf, of course-- no, from Legolas and Gimli. He wouldn’t feel quite as ashamed if they were still just Elf and Dwarf to him. Well, that is not true, he would still feel as ashamed, but the feeling wouldn’t be compounded in the way it is now. Their stares are hot on his back. He will not meet their eyes, but he can well picture their wise, saddened looks at their disgraced, disgraceful companion.

The four of them are chasing poor Merry and Pippin, running faster than Boromir has ever run before. His water flask is empty and he cannot breathe properly through his nose-- Frodo’s kick got him good. Boromir’s lungs are bursting and his head throbs. The valleys and hills before him blur together.

Just as he thinks he can no longer go on, Gimli calls a halt. The rest is welcome; Gimli grumbles about how the rock formations above ground make running uncomfortable. But Boromir knows it is him who is trailing behind, and it is for his benefit that they are now pausing. The shame, which never really goes away, intensifies. He does not want to be the reason that Merry and Pippin suffer for a second longer than necessary (if only he had been awake to at least try to help Aragorn protect them!) and the relief for the break is mixed with a strand of bitterness.

Suddenly, a flask is thrust under his broken nose. Boromir blinks at the water for a second, his mind still clouded from the light concussion that was Frodo’s other parting gift. Then his eyes slowly follow the arm up to meet the gaze of Legolas. There is no disgust, or pity, to be found in those old eyes; there is only companionship.

For the first time since the madness took him, Boromir begins to really believe that there is perhaps some hope left for him.

--*--*--

The feeling vanishes when they see Gandalf-- Gandalf the White now. He is even more distant than he had been before his Fall; Legolas, the most otherworldly person Boromir knows, seems as solid and simple-hearted as Sam when standing next to this new wizard. With each second though, Gandalf becomes a tiny bit more there (as Merry had once explained the concept to Boromir during a rather monotone watch). Boromir is terrified what he will find in those ancient eyes when Gandalf the White’s color turns just a slightly darker shade.

But all those thoughts are driven out of his head by the course of action Gandalf decides upon. It was evening when they had met the wizard and thus they are now sitting around a small campfire (made from only dead wood, a small distance from the Forest). Boromir has listened silently to Gandalf’s story of his Fall --he does not think he can bear the wizard noticing his guilt and so for now he keeps quiet-- but it is difficult to contain himself at these plans.

Why must they ride to Edoras?!

Surely now, if Gandalf is certain Merry and Pippin are safe and Frodo and Sam are beyond their reach, now is the time to tarry no longer but hurry back to Gondor? His father would-- well, Boromir would get him to see reason. Lord Denethor would not turn away fighters as strong as these, not when Mordor is breathing ever heavier down their neck. And together, they could keep the Eye away from seeking Frodo.

But no, for some reason it is to Rohan they must ride, to the Horse Lords who honor no peace treaties and keep only to their own lands. It is hard to swallow down the petulant It isn’t fair, they never helped us and now I have to help them?! that threatens to escape; Boromir knows it is childish to think thus but he cannot completely squash the thought. And it is impossible to hide his disappointment that Aragorn agrees with Gandalf’s plans immediately; there is not even a hint at protesting for a different choice. Once more, the Man who should be his king is off to help others-- always somebody but never Gondor.

The disappointment he feels at Aragorn’s choice both does and doesn’t surprise Boromir. He isn’t sure when anger at the idea of a King shifted into anger at the absence of the King, but it is not an abrupt development. Perhaps his view changed when Aragorn forgave him his treachery, perhaps it was when Gandalf fell and Aragorn did what was needed, and perhaps it was the first time his feet unconsciously snapped to attention at a careless, hurried order. Boromir is a man of action: if his body acknowledges something, then he knows his mind, kicking and screaming, will nevertheless be dragged along. And secretly, Boromir also knows that Aragorn will be a good king: he is just and it is tempered with mercy, he is strong and it is tempered with wisdom.

But ever his would-be king runs away from his people, and it frustrates Boromir. He turns away from the others when Gandalf announces their course; if he stays there he will start raging and screaming and he does not wish to say something he would regret (nor to draw Gandalf’s attention to him). He mutters something about going off to search for more firewood.

Legolas and Gimli follow him.

“You owe him your allegiance,” reminds Legolas.

As if Boromir didn’t know that already!

“That is not the problem,” grinds out Boromir, because after what they had all been through the two of them deserve an honest answer and a proper explanation. “I would give him my allegiance in a heartbeat-- I already have-- but he would throw it away, as he throws away all our people’s love and devotion. I-- we do not enjoy being discarded so lightly.”

“But that is not it at all!” Legolas says, agitated and saddened for his friends. (The Elf’s emotions are never easy to interpret, but Boromir knows he feels each more deeply than most mortals ever do. Sometimes he secretly wishes Legolas could care less, just forget about all Middle-Earth’s petty squabbles and run off to the West with the rest of his kin; Legolas reminds him of Faramir.) “Aragorn would not-- he does not mean to--”

“Kings think differently than normal folk,” breaks in Gimli. Boromir is reminded of how much younger he is than his friends; Gimli’s voice is as slow and deliberate as stone. “They have to. I have known two kings in my time, and even when they are playing with their children or reposing with their loved ones, their minds are constantly whirring around deep, broad matters. But sometimes,” his solemn face morphs into a crooked grin, “they can still be a little dumb. Go talk to our young king and tell him your thoughts plainly. He is not particularly good at this type of thing.”

--*--*--

Boromir does what his friends suggest; they have not steered him wrong yet (and he is still constantly grateful for how little they have judged him for his mistakes). Still, it is more than a bit nerve-wracking, and as he goes to find Aragorn he wonders how best to approach the topic. Boromir is a man of intense actions and introspective silences-- it is hard for him to express thoughts and feelings out loud.

He walks, thinking of his frustration:

Why will you not come home to us? Do Elves and far-off places entice you so much? Are we too plain and normal to be worthy of your time? We have our own wonders and our own goodness, and every door and window would be flung open to greet you if only you stopped running.

He thinks of his secret fears:

Is it that we’re not good enough, not good enough for our wise and powerful, destined king to come home? I failed-- I do not deny it-- but do not take your anger over me out on your people. If you wish me gone from your sight I will leave at once, but your people need you and it is cruel of you to make them wait. I know what I have done, but what have they? In what terrible ways have they sinned that makes you so unwilling to come home?

And he thinks of his anger:

How dare you run away from your throne at every chance! What fear drives you, my King-- and what allegiance do I owe a king who ran away from his people before, and is now doing it once again?! A coward, I call you! A coward who does not deserve the throne of Gondor no matter how willingly we may offer it to you.

It is in the midst of his raging anger that he stumbles upon Aragorn.

The Ranger is sitting on a fallen log, slowly and methodically wiping down his sword. He has not yet noticed Boromir-- or, more likely, has pretended not to notice him coming a mile away out of courtesy. There is a heavy weariness in his stooped posture and his brows are creased together slightly with a worry that never quite leaves his face. One last swipe and Aragorn finally looks up. His eyes are full of resignation: he is prepared for Boromir to come and rage his fill. And then he will quietly tell Boromir not to worry (because Boromir is not good with words, especially when he is angry, and Aragorn will certainly misunderstand the reason for the ranting) and that he is not looking for a throne but only to help all people. And then they will be back to where they started.

Suddenly, taking in the sight of this tired face and hunched shoulders, Boromir’s anger vanishes.

He strides over to Aragorn, unsheathing his sword. The Man twitches in surprise (and Boromir feels a little twinge of pleasure at surprising his oh-so-wise king) as Boromir nears him, but he does not move. Boromir knows exactly what he needs to do and say, to finally, properly get through to Aragorn. He goes down on one knee before his king, offering his sword hilt-first, his head bowed. There is a sharp intake of breath from Aragorn.

“I offer to you my life and allegiance,” Boromir says. “And, as heir to the Stewardship, on behalf of our people I offer to you the throne of Gondor-- if you will have us.”

There is silence, and all Boromir can hear is his own wildly beating heart. Then Aragorn takes the sword from him-- and props it on the log he is sitting on, a little awkwardly; he is clearly unused to such an offering. Boromir still cannot bear to look up, and the sudden warmth of hands cupping his face startles him. But Aragorn is merely steadying Boromir as he gives him a soft kiss on the brow. The king murmurs: “I accept your oath.”

Aragorn releases him, vaguely motioning for his subject to stand. But Boromir is not yet done; his eyes are still firmly focused on Aragorn’s boots and he is still kneeling. Being deferential does not come easily to the warrior, but this is important and this is necessary and this is right. And if he wants Aragorn to be a king, then Boromir must at least attempt to act the part of the steward.

“Will you not come home to us, my King?” he says softly. And once he starts, it is difficult to stop. “Your people need you-- why must they suffer and die while their king protects all others but them? You are no coward or fool, so the problem must lie with us, yet-- I know I have sinned, but do not take your anger towards one out on-- there are warriors brave and true at the White City and they would be gladdened of your help! What have we-- they-- the people done that makes you so unwilling to defend them from the Enemy? Why are our-- why are their lives worth so much less to you than others’?”

Then he clams up abruptly, because his own issues and shames are slowly crawling into the plea, and this formal audience with the king (as formal as Boromir can make it whilst Aragorn sits on a log instead of a throne) is not about Boromir. It is about kingship and Gondor and the people. His own feelings are not part of the topic; his role is to be an emissary between People and King. He hopes he is at least partly succeeding.

There is a bone-weary sigh from Aragorn.

“Boromir,” he says. “No, Boromir, look at me; this stuffy formality is silly.” A short pause, and Boromir’s eyes dart up to Aragorn’s face. At the sight of the raw honesty he finds there, they stay, transfixed. “Boromir, I cannot go to Gondor-- no, don’t hide your feelings and hurt under that stoic warrior mask-- just listen for once. I cannot go to the White City now. I will not return to your-- to my-- to our people-- like an unwanted beggar at the door. Don’t try to protest-- it is true. Do you not remember your own feelings towards me at the start of the Council-- Boromir, honestly, I am not criticizing, just stating the truth. It is how it is. And thus, I will not turn to our people with empty hands. I will ride instead with Gandalf, and renew the peace and friendship with the Rohirrim, and come to Gondor with pride and help in our darkest hour. Then, perhaps, Gondor can begin to put the same amazing trust in me that you do now, and that trust will seem to all well-founded.”

With that he stands, pulling Boromir up next to him. He clasps Boromir’s arm-- a bond of friendship and brotherhood that runs far deeper than this newer vow of fealty. Boromir’s heart lifts suddenly and the hope flickering in his chest blossoms just a bit more. For if his king reaffirms the bonds Boromir was sure he had ripped completely with (in) his madness, surely this means there is a real chance of redemption left for him?

Aragorn speaks again, and his voice is strong and light. “And then the trumpets will ring out-- the Lords of Gondor have returned.”

“‘The Lords of Gondor have returned,’” echoes Boromir softly. “Yes, the King and his court will have returned.”

He smiles and his king smiles back.

--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

BONUS: Just So You Know I Think Boromir Is Secretly Just As Traumatized By His Dad’s Weird Issues As Faramir Is

“By the way,” says Aragorn, going for light-hearted but coming out as concerned. “Perhaps it is not too late to talk about these deep-rooted feelings of shame and lack of self-worth that you sometimes show. I do not think it very healthy, and as your newly affirmed king, I feel it my duty to help you overcome them...”

King or not, vow of allegiance or not, at the threat of more talking about feelings, Boromir picks up his sword and runs. A faint cry of Who’s the coward now? drifts after him.

Chapter Text

The blindfold was taken off him and Frodo blinked in the sudden light. It was already dark outside the cave they were in --or something like a cave, at least; the rock formation was so different here he wasn’t even sure if the room was completely man-made or just tweaked-- but the moonlight shone bright. A quick check beside him found a similarly blinking Sam, who shot Frodo a small, reassuring smile: his friend was unhurt. Where Gollum was off to Frodo could not tell, but he hoped the poor creature was safe.

The Hobbit took in the room with a wary interest, eyes searching for an escape, but for now there were too many Men to make any real plan. And besides, perhaps Sam and he would get out of this with only diplomacy this time-- the Men guiding them had been efficient but not unkind. His eyes focused finally on the person who seemed to be the leader of these warriors. It was strange: there was the something the slightest bit familiar about this young Man... an annoying itch of recognition like a word on the tip of his tongue... He could not place it.

As if sensing Frodo’s thoughts, the stranger-but-not-a-stranger walked over to crouch next to the two Hobbits. A puzzled frown was on his face; he spoke briskly, but it was tinged with curiosity.

“You are not a Dwarf. You have their height and braids, their weapons, their clothing. But your sword and your cloak is of Elven make, and you have no beard. What are you?”

It had been so long since someone questioned him thus, Frodo had almost forgotten what it felt like. You are not a real Dwarf, you are not a real Hobbit, others used to ask him, back in the Shire, back in Erebor. What are you? But that had been long ago, and eventually Frodo had made a place for himself with both Peoples. It was strange to hear the same question again, so far from home.

A little spark of Prince Frodo of Erebor, one which he thought had been drowned by the Ring, returned to his heart. He opened his mouth to go on his usual rant (Biologically, perhaps I am a Hobbit, and my heart is molded from the same clay as theirs, but my spirit was carved by Mahal just the same as any Dwarf’s!) but Sam, always the more practical, nudged him in the ribs. Hard. Frodo closed his mouth, swallowed down his words, and said, a bit sulkily:

“I’m a Hobbit.”

“A Hobbit?” The man’s frown deepened. “Ah-- a Halfling? What would a Halfling be doing in such a place? Have the Halflings finally decided to take sides-- spies for Mordor perhaps?”

“Never!” Sam broke in, his voice heated. “He is Prince Frodo Baggins of Erebor. Have you never heard of Thorin Baggins Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain? This is his nephew and you should show some respect.”

Frodo glanced at Sam, a wry smile on his face. Sam just shrugged slightly and lifted his chin defiantly. It had been a long time since Sam had been forced to defend him thus, from sly whispers and cruel laughter, but he had not forgotten how.

The human warrior’s gaze turned appraising as he turned his attention to the other Hobbit for the first time. “And you are..?”

“His best friend.”

For the first time the Man’s expression changed from one of businesslike neutrality; a brief smile flashed across his face and his posture relaxed a little.

“All right,” he said. “Let us say I believe you-- we have not had dealings with Dwarves for many years, but the name Oakenshield is known to me. That still does not explain what a prince and his friend are doing, wandering the Enemy’s land.”

Frodo chewed on his lower lip, wondering how much to say. Perhaps Sam had gotten a bit carried away, telling this Man their names. He seemed-- there was still that frustrating sense of almost-familiarity, but who knew what that really meant... Ah well, only one way to find out.

“We have told you our names,” Frodo said softly. “Will you not return the favor, before we talk more?”

The Man gave him a long, appraising look. Then he said: “That is fair. I am Captain Faramir, son of Denethor.”

“Denethor?!” Sam and Frodo exclaimed together. They exchanged wild, amazed glances.

“Then... perhaps you are related to Boromir?” said Frodo hesitantly.

“He is my brother.”

And the feeling of familiar stranger resolved itself abruptly. Frodo could see the family resemblance well: the same strong nose and willful glance. The determination in that expression was of a different sort than in Boromir’s, but it was equally strong. And there was also a glimmer of quiet wisdom in Faramir’s eyes that Frodo did not remember in his brother. For a second he allowed the face before him to merge and intertwine with his memory of Boromir. The man he now pictured was as strong as he was wise, with no shadow upon him. It was a good image; perhaps it was how Boromir would have been, had the memories he had recounted in the middle of the night not been true, had he had enough time with the Fellowship and their cheerfulness, had there been no Ring. Until he saw Boromir again, he would remember him thus, without a trace of the madness he last glimpsed.

“We are companions of Boromir!” Sam said, ripping Frodo out of his broodings. “We travelled from Rivendell with him and six others.”

Faramir’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

“If you are truly companions of Boromir,” and his voice held a challenging lilt to them, just barely covering a deep excitement underneath, “then you could tell me something about him-- an object that he carries with him and holds most precious, perhaps?”

“That’s easy,” Sam shrugged. “It’s that little silver brooch of his.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Faramir. His crouching form wavered and he tipped over to sit on the floor next to the Hobbits. Faramir’s eyes were wide.

“You thought Sam would speak of the Horn of Gondor, didn’t you?” Frodo smiled. “But no, it is that little brooch that you gave him; that is what he values most.” His smile widened into a sad, weary grin. “And now I know that you are who you claim to be as well-- you brothers are similar in your nature.”

At this comment, the young Man flushed to the roots of his hair. But his excitement soon overtook his embarrassment. He cleared his throat.

“Aye?” he said, going for nonchalant. But his eyes shone like a little boy’s when opening presents, and he spoke quickly and eagerly. “Ah, well, any friend of Boromir is my friend also! I will aid you in any way I can, you and that skulking creature we saw near you-- is he a Hobbit as well? But no matter-- tell me more instead of your travels!”

Frodo looked at the enthusiasm on Faramir’s face, and he thought of how young the warrior appeared right now, and of the little things Boromir had said and the little things he had left out. And he thought of how much Boromir worried about his brother. Next to him, Sam was attempting not to chew his lip anxiously.

“Your brother is-- fine,” Frodo started hesitantly. But gradually his voice gathered in strength. “No, Boromir is better than fine. He has become a true friend and a loyal companion to us all, and he is someone I would not hesitate to call friend.”

“And his soups are quite tasty, too,” chimed in Sam.

But Faramir’s excitement had slipped from his face and he regarded the Hobbits with a shrewd, serious eye. Sam and Frodo’s words were genuine, but they could not completely cover the darkness that shadowed the descriptions true and loyal. And Faramir, with the patient cunning that was so unlike Boromir’s boldness (and brashness), saw through it immediately.

“Still, there is something you will not say.”

Frodo hesitated, then he replied slowly: “If you are truly a brother to Boromir, you know why he travelled to Rivendell.”

There was a moment's pause, as Faramir considered those words. Then his eyes widened suddenly and he let out a shaky sigh; he buried his head in his hands. A barely audible whisper of Isildur’s bane escaped him. Silence stretched between Hobbits and Man as each considered what they knew of Boromir and, more importantly, what they knew of the power of the Ring.

“Tell me,” said Faramir, looking up from his hands finally. His expression was blank and his voice smooth. “Did he fall into madness? Was he why you left your companions?”

“No!” said Frodo at once. “Well-- he-- no. I left willingly. He did not drive me out, and in the end, he broke free of Its curse. No, it was my decision alone to leave.”

Another shaky sigh escaped Faramir, but this time it was relief that stirred it.

“Then there is hope for us yet,” he murmured.

He would have said more, but one of his warriors had hurried over. The Man spoke quietly into his captain’s ear. The words were too quiet for Frodo to make out well, but from Faramir’s expression the message was clear: their guide to Mordor had been found. The time for talking and reminiscing was over; it was time for decisions and action. Frodo held his breath.

“Come,” said Faramir; he stood. “I said I would aid you, and I will honor that.” His smile was soft and sad. “No matter what our father wishes... In the end, Boromir made his choice. And I sincerely hope it was the right one, for I will keep to it." He reached out a hand to the Hobbits and pulled them to their feet, one after the other. Abruptly, the Man's widened into a grin, one with a hint of a mischevious edge. "Long has my brother watched over me, and ever has he helped me when I failed. And now I finally have the chance to return the favor! We shall see what he thinks of that.”

There was a note of satisfaction and a triumph in his voice amidst the solemn wonder; Frodo, also a younger brother, thoroughly approved.

Chapter Text

“Do you ever wish it had turned out differently?”

Merry turned to look at Pippin directly, noting his brooding stare across the barrels full of who-knows-what floating in the flooded valley. Pippin’s hands were not holding a pipe, so Merry assumed the question was serious, not one of the hazy, rhetorical ones his cousin tended to ask after a long smoke.

“You mean, if we had managed to find Frodo in time, and gone along with him to Mordor?”

Pippin nodded at the question. He tore his gaze from the wreckage and looked at Merry; Pippin’s brows were furrowed together in worry.

“Yeah... I guess the others will help him, but... you know how Frodo gets. He’s gloomy. And all the others... they tease Frodo, but secretly they’re as bad as him. They overthink things.”

Despite the seriousness in Pippin’s face, Merry had to snort with laughter at that. Of course Pippin’s biggest concern was that Frodo and the others would be sad, not their physical safety. (Although-- if what Merry feared about the Ring’s powers was right, perhaps he wasn’t too far off.) Still, Pippin could not be dissuaded by Merry’s mirth, and he continued morosely.

“And Bilbo and the others will be so mad at us, too.”

And there went Merry’s good spirits. Thorin’s ranting temper was legendary, and Fili and Kili could be quite vicious in their jokes. But it was Bilbo’s anger that everyone actually feared: a tirade, even if it went on for quite some time, would eventually be over, tricks could be painful or humiliating, but they were just unpleasant events. But a disappointed, chiding stare right into the depths of your heart? That stayed forever.

Still...

In the dark tower looming over them, a wizard of the highest order was seething powerlessly. Creatures so apathetic to the cares of the world they had passed into legend had changed the fate of the many, and made sure they would never be forgotten. And two little Hobbits who didn’t even have Dwarf relatives to rely on had caused all this.

“No. No, it is good like this.”

Some things were worth the wrath of Bilbo.

--*--*--

“Do you ever wish it had turned out differently?”

Next to Thorin, his husband was looking dispiritedly towards the horizon, where the masses of Orcs gathering to attack Erebor could just barely be seen. Gone were Bilbo’s impossibly steady hands and forever golden-brown curls that had been the cause of much envy amongst the other Hobbits his age; there was finally white blossoming at his temples and Thorin not certain that he even saw the distant Orcs.

The Dwarf didn’t know if Bilbo was talking about the soon-to-be demise of the Ring, or that all their children were off into parts unknown and dangerous, their family powerless to support them. And he didn’t know which question he was answering when he lifted Bilbo’s slightly shaking hand to his lips, kissed the palm and spoke.

“No. No, it is good like this.”

Perhaps both.

--*--*--

“Do you ever wish it had turned out differently?”

Boromir started at the question, and stumbled to a stop. He turned back to look at the young woman holding the sword he had just smuggled her. (Boromir honestly didn’t agree with Eowyn’s weary-of-life desire to fight and tumble into a violent death. But a violent death was likely coming for them all within the next few hours, and he was too practical not to let her attempt to delay it in any way she knew how.) Eowyn’s eyes were serious, full of a half-hidden despair, as she elaborated.

“Do you wish you had made some different choice, so that you did not end up here?”

There could only be one choice that she spoke of, even if she didn’t know she spoke of it. If Boromir had only had the strength of will to resist the Ring... Frodo would not have had to go into Mordor with only Sam as back-up; the Orcs could have been defeated and Merry and Pippin wouldn’t have had to suffer at their hands; Gandalf would not have awoken King Theoden only to have him lead his people, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn, and Boromir into almost certain death.

And Boromir would not have gotten the promise of a king to return to his people.

A small smile lurking at the edge of his lips, Boromir turned to this shield-maiden-to-be, standing there so fierce and proud and with a wish for the impossible the likes of which he’d seen before only in his younger brother.

“No. No, it is good like this.”

He would make those words his oath, and do anything in his power to keep from being an oathbreaker a second time.

--*--*--

“Do you ever wish things had turned out differently?”

Kili cocked his head when he heard the strangely melancholy tone that had entered Fili’s voice. The further along the Anduin they travelled, the more Fili became convinced that their brother had run off into Mordor with only Sam to help him, on some stupid foolhardy whim. And Elrond’s request for the brothers to travel to some specific place in the Eastfold where they would supposedly meet the Fellowship did nothing to appease him.

Personally, Kili was absolutely sure Frodo had run off into Mordor with only Sam to help him, but, unlike his older brother, he trusted completely there was some reason in his madness. (People always underestimate the youngest in the family; Kili had spent decades in this position and could sympathize.)

“You mean if we had joined this fellowship of theirs instead of, or alongside Gimli? Could have been both Companions and Fellowshippers so that Gandalf doesn’t get too lonely...”

At the response, Fili rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, though without any real ire. It had been a long shot anyway: Kili rarely answered something seriously if a less somber (more interesting, as he would put it) answer was available. Still, the alternative was too tantalizing to resist...

“Might as well just make it a family trip completely and take along the old company too.”

“What was it Bilbo wants to call his book again? There and Back Again, right? And now this: There And Back Again, And Then Somewhere Else. Not quite as catchy, is it...”

“Perhaps not, but can you imagine us trying to sneak across Mordor with those old bastards?”

“Especially Oin-- do you think he can hear anything at all anymore or is he just pretending he can out of vanity? EXCUSE ME WHAT ARE WE DOING WITH THIS RING AGAIN? The Eye would be drawn to us immediately!”

“Ah, but you have to admit, Oin would be nowhere near as Eye-catching as Bilbo and Thorin’s combined rage at everyone’s inability to be stealthy. We’d leave a wide trail of plants wilting at the sheer anger that would come off of them like steam...”

“True, true...”

The Dwarves chuckled at their own foolishness. But finally Kili sobered up and he grinned fiercely at his brother as he answered the original question.

“No. No, it is good like this.”

Unfortunately, at some point even the littlest brothers have to be allowed to grow up.

--*--*--

“Do you ever wish it had turned out differently?”

Sam took in Frodo, his eyes still glassy from spider poison, his body shaking and covered in bruises from the Orcs’ treatment, and his eyes, shadowed and half-dead from the weight of the Ring. He answered truthfully.

“No. No, it is good like this.”

Because it was.

Chapter Text

“Where is your old ring, Bilbo?” asked Gandalf slowly, abruptly, each word a heavy stone of suspicion thrown upon the pool of their long friendship.

Bilbo blinked back at him, bemused by this sudden turn in the conversation.

There were times when Gandalf visited every Autumn, and there were times when he did not turn up for so long Bilbo became half-convinced the old wizard had finally retired. But when he did finally show up, it was to beautiful fireworks and splendid tea-times; Gandalf’s current furrowed brows and serious stare left Bilbo feeling decidedly off-balance.

“Oh you know,” the Hobbit muttered, waving his arm vaguely. “Around, somewhere.”

He had tried for light-hearted, but the air in the room grew still and heavy; in the fireplace the flames themselves forgot to flicker, as though they were scared to draw attention to themselves. Not when Gandalf looked so stern...

“How often does it call to you? How freely do you wear it?” the Wizard continued, his voice a harsh whisper.

“I don’t!” said Bilbo, indignant. “If you must know, I hid it in an old sock drawer. Thorin...” he hesitated, not willing to reveal his husband’s secrets; but Gandalf’s solemn, piercing gaze could not be denied. The Hobbit continued in a rush. “It gave him migraines. He told me it reminded him of bad times: gold sickness and a greed he has long since conquered.” Bilbo shrugged. “So I stopped wearing it, put it away. Now that I think about it, it might actually be amidst some old underwear...”

As Bilbo spoke, the air gradually cleared and lightened, and the fire sprang merrily back to life. With the Hobbit’s final words, Gandalf could no longer contain a chuckle.

“My dear Bilbo!” he said. “Please forgive me, I underestimated you once again. Hobbits really are the most amazing creatures. Elves may sing the most heartbreaking love ballads, and Dwarves may carve the most intricate gifts for their lovers, and Humans may do the bravest deeds in the name of love. But I think, in the end, it is Hobbits who understand love best of all. To think, the Enemy’s ring in an underwear drawer because it gave a loved one headaches!”

Saying that, he began to laugh in earnest. Bilbo was again left to blink at him, uncertain as to whether he was missing something or Gandalf had indeed just gone mad since this long, most recent trip of Wizard Business.

Finally, Gandalf’s mirth ended and he said, soberly: “What is it that you planned to do with it, though?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Bilbo shrugged once more. “At first, I wanted it to be Frodo’s when he comes of age-- he needs all the help he can get to keep up with his brothers! And his thirty-third birthday is coming up in the Spring, you know. But it is bad for Thorin, and might be bad for Fili and Kili too, so I’ll tell him to wrap it up in some old socks until he really needs it.”

“May such a time may never come to pass..! No, Bilbo, your trinket will have a use of its own yet, but I do hope it will never be that one.”

And, Gandalf’s anger and distrust seemingly forgotten, the conversation turned once more to lighter topics.

(And much later, when the whole truth about the Ring of Power came out, Bilbo forgave his old friend the suspicion. But for as long as he lived in Middle-Earth, he never did quite forgive Gandalf for not telling him immediately what a dangerous burden he had accidentally saddled his nephew with. Some things may be forgivable, but some things are not.)

Chapter Text

Pippin scurries through the long hallways, trying to be as quiet as possible. Beregond has told him that a member of the Guard should stand tall and straight, but Pippin is a Hobbit, big for his People but small for the rest of the world. Treading softly comes naturally to him. And whenever possible, he does not wish to be seen.

It shouldn’t have been like this; he didn’t think it’d be like this.

For the first time, he wishes Boromir was more of an oathbreaker instead of less. It is a peculiar thought, and it is full of a quiet sort of resentment that leaves Pippin feeling ashamed. But it is true nonetheless. If Boromir had not shook his head and said his place was with his future king, he’d be here with Pippin, trying to cheer up the poor Steward and keep him from despair.

(Pippin knows Lord Denethor is Boromir’s da and he knows that family can be a little strange and one shouldn’t judge, but he can’t help but resent the old man: No wonder Boromir turned out the way he did, so closed and serious, if he grew up with such a father!)

There are shadows creeping up the walls of the White City and Pippin does not know how to chase them out.

The people of Gondor respect the Steward, but they do not love him, they would not walk through flames for him. Boromir would, and from what Pippin’s heard of Faramir, he would too. But Faramir is off who-knows-where, and besides, Lord Denethor seems to care little for his youngest.

And Boromir...

Boromir would walk through fire for his da, but right now he is too busy doing the same for Aragorn.

It worries the Hobbit that even this great lord of Gondor, who Gandalf says has wisdoms of the Numenoreans second only to Aragorn himself, can be affected by what, in a lesser being, Pippin would call jealousy.

So Pippin keeps his head down, and curses himself for his own foolishness. He should have just given Lord Denethor Boromir’s message word-for-word, without any extra flourishes. What possessed him to add But we are brothers-in-arms, Boromir and I, and I would help you in his stead while he is busy-- if you’ll have me, Pippin does not know. Whatever it was, it is gone now.

The Hobbit stops his gloomy thoughts and scuttling footsteps to look outside the window. What he sees there does not cheer him greatly: the dead, withered White Tree of Gondor is the only thing in the courtyard not made of stone.

Glumly, Pippin hopes the others come soon. Before he is as withered as that once joyous tree.

--*--*--

The trees around Boromir are strange: their height and wisdom are as foreign to him as are the Men of Edoras he rides with now. He has underestimated them both. But, as he glances at the long lines of solemn Men riding near him, he decides he will not make such a mistake again; they have proven to be valuable allies against the Enemy and he would help them in return.

The quiet clip-clop of horses resounds from the left, from the side of the deep forest. Boromir twitches and whirls towards the noise-- his instincts say that this rapidly falling dusk would be the best time for an attack, but surely nobody has gotten past the sentries?

But no, it is only his over-wearied mind heightening tensions; the horses coming up beside him belong to Legolas and Aragorn, with Gimli and Merry sitting behind them.

Boromir settles and pats his startled horse.

“Paranoia got the best of you?” Gimli says with a chuckle.

Embarrassment flushes his cheeks red, but he replies, haughtily and without missing a beat, “I cannot help that some of us breathe as heavily as Orcs, Master Dwarf!”

There is a loud chortle from Merry, and (Boromir’s eyes dart quickly to the side) grins from Legolas and Aragorn. Gimli lets out a squawk that is far more amused than offended.

(And if Boromir is secretly so, so overwhelmingly glad that he has read the situation correctly, that he can poke fun at someone without hearing well at least I’m not an oathbreaker in return, well, that is his own secret to keep.)

A few more comments along the same lines follow, along with a good-natured argument on who the loudest sleeper amongst them is. Aragorn and Legolas are convinced it’s Gimli, who they proclaim sounds like a mûmak when sleeping. Merry claims it’s Gandalf, whom he swears he’s seen actually sleep once. Gimli says he truthfully doesn’t know, which just bolsters the accusations against him (Ah-ha! So you admit you can’t hear anyone over your own snoring!). All in all, if the Dwarf could balance well enough on a horse to fight, axes would have been thrown a long time ago.

Boromir listens to his companions bickering and is silently, peacefully content.

And so heated and rapid is their argument that Boromir startles when Merry leans over to poke him and ask what the human warrior thinks of the matter.

“Frodo’s the loudest.”

The response tumbles from his lips without consulting his brain. Boromir freezes, his eyes fixed on his poor horse’s ears. There is silence from the rest of the Fellowship. But Boromir can fill in the blanks by himself, can hear the coming accusations and justified indignation (how dare you! after all you’ve done, this is how you speak of him?); the Man cringes. Whatever possessed him to say such a thing?!

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Legolas open his mouth to speak (to condemn).

“You know he’s right?” the Elf says thoughtfully.

Sorry..?

“Yeah... He lures you in with his giant blue eyes, pretends he’s all innocent...” says Gimli, in the tones of one coming upon a huge discovery.

“And he usually sleeps next to Sam, so you think the noise is coming from the both of them combined...” says Aragorn in much the same tones.

“But it isn’t,” says Merry. “Sam’s snoring is at the most a tenth of the total noise.”

“Huh.”

It is a noise of dumbfounded astonishment from all four of them; it is as though they have opened a book that should contain the most arcane of arts and found somebody’s old shopping list amidst the pages-- but that shopping list does indeed contain all the secrets of the world. Perhaps the metaphor got lost somewhere along the way, but Boromir can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. The others follow quickly.

But gradually the lightness of the laughter fades, as such moments are wont to do when one’s friends are scattered across the world by war. Boromir wonders how Frodo is doing, whether Sam can still smile cheerfully.

His musings are interrupted by a quiet: “Boromir... Can I ask you a question?”

“Hmm?” Boromir turns his head to find a nervous Merry playing with the hem of Aragorn’s cloak and staring fixedly at the Ranger’s back.

“Pippin... He’ll be alright in Gondor, won’t he?”

The suddenness of the question startles Boromir and he is left at a loss. What to say..?

His first instinct is to shout Of course! but... Pippin is loud and cheerful; he belongs on the soft grass and rolling hills. Boromir loves his city with everything he has, but he has grown on this journey and he can no longer immediately confirm that the little Hobbit will be alright in the White City, when it is built of stone and solemn silences.

But he is saved from answering by Aragorn.

“Of course!” the Man says. He shoots a smile at Boromir, and only the very edges of it are crooked. “He will be a guest of Boromir’s father, a wise and just man, and Minas Tirith is a beautiful city in and of itself. And Gandalf will be with him besides.”

Boromir’s intake of breath is harsh, but silent. He did not expect this response. He did not expect Gandalf’s presence to be an extra to Pippin’s well-being, instead of the main part.

Out loud, he confirms Aragorn’s words. “Yes, I am certain that Pippin will be treated with utmost courtesy-- although some people might not understand he is not a child, which is unlikely to be to his liking!”

Merry chuckles at poor Pippin’s plight and Boromir relaxes in his saddle. He looks up at the sky, full of bright, glittering stars. They are riding to war, but for just this one evening it does not feel this way. The stars shine bright.

--*--*--

Pippin’s gaze is wrenched from the window, where he’d been idly counting stars, by a knock at the door to his chambers.

He cautiously opens the door a crack, and finds Faramir, son of Denethor and brother to Boromir, standing there. The Man’s bright smile is tinged with anxiousness, as he politely asks to come in.

“It’s your castle,” points out Pippin, and then wants to smack himself. He’s only seen Faramir for an hour in total, so far. During that time he’s learnt practically nothing about him-- only that, as far as Gandalf is concerned, the poor Man has been sentenced to Death By Osgiliath. That is a cruel, saddening thing to hear, especially as the order comes from his own father, but it still tells him nothing of the Man’s character: should Pippin treat him as the son of his current liege lord, or the younger brother of his friend?

But Faramir doesn’t appear offended; the nervousness fades from his gaze as he steps through the door Pippin has flung open.

“Not for long though, I hear,” the Man says softly.

Now it is Pippin’s turn to stiffen. He can’t say that he properly understands the politics of Gondor-- or humans’ weird grappling over power in general. Probably Sam would tell he’s been living a very sheltered life-- well, no, Sam wouldn’t, but Frodo would, and he’d get his facts from Sam. Probably there are such conflicts amongst Hobbits as well, and Pippin is just at the top of a pyramid so high and sturdy that the lesser struggles for power don't even shake his own position. Yeah, probably all that is true, and Pippin should examine his society more critically. Still, none of it exactly helps him now, when Faramir’s question is just the slightest bit probing and Pippin has no idea what to say.

Faramir must have noted Pippin’s not-particularly-well-hidden panic, for he bursts into a sudden laughter.

“Peace, Master Halfling,” he says. “I am here to exchange information, not pry for it.”

Pippin nods slowly in response, and the two sit down at a low table Beregond (who is still not over how tiny the Citadel’s latest warrior is) had dragged into the room yesterday. The tall Man’s legs stretch out awkwardly, but he does not comment on it. All at once, Pippin is struck by just how similar he and Boromir are-- how similar and yet how different.

Faramir breaks the silence first-- a calculated ploy or willingness to give Pippin news of his friends? The Hobbit cannot tell but he sincerely hopes it’s the latter; he is tired of always being stiff and formal and on his guard.

“As you know, I encountered Frodo and Sam just two days before,” the Man begins. “We gave them what supplies we had to spare, but they are headed towards--”

Pippin interrupts him right there, before he can get carried away with talks of grand schemes and plans and maps. Maybe Gandalf is interested in hearing about that; Pippin has more important things to worry about.

“Did Frodo smile?” he asks instead.

Faramir’s mouth snaps shut; he is clearly taken aback by the question. But his own lips curl up softly as he responds. “Yes. Yes he did.”

At that, the Hobbit can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him. If Frodo can smile, then Sam can carry on. If Sam can carry on, then Frodo will make it. These are the best news he’s heard since he met the others of his Fellowship in Isengard, alive and well.

“Your brother is smiling too,” Pippin says with a bright grin of his own. “Last I saw him, he once even hid a chuckle at one of Aragorn’s puns. And I don’t think he was being polite either-- believe me, nobody is that polite.”

If Faramir’s “Oh?” is a little bewildered, Pippin can’t blame him; and besides, he makes up for it with enthusiasm as he pesters the Hobbit for more news.

The two stay up late, talking, as Pippin recounts basically the whole story of their Quest (the parts of it he knows) to the young captain. Faramir makes a good audience: he gasps when Pippin tells him about the drums of Moria and the flooding of Isengard, he is solemn when Pippin tells him of Gandalf’s Fall and the Breaking of the Fellowship. And he laughs and laughs when Pippin recounts all the silly little scrapes the nine of them have gotten into: the time Boromir mistook Gandalf’s firework powder for spices and almost blew them off the cliff they were on; the time Frodo wandered off and they searched for him for a whole day and a half before finding him mysteriously stuck in the only quicksand that was around for a thousand miles; the first time Aragorn made Sam smile with a joke...

(And there is something in their conversation that reminds Pippin uncomfortably of a last meal given to a man condemned to execution, but he shoves it away violently. There may be a knot of lead in his stomach, but he will not let his smiles falter and his tongue turn to wood because of it.)

At last Faramir excuses himself-- he tells Pippin he must awaken early tomorrow and face whatever the day brings properly. The Hobbit waves him off, with a last little anecdote of Boromir And The Tomato Soup. At last he crawls, completely exhausted by the day’s events and anxious for his friend’s little brother (who is really an awesome guy; Pippin will help him gladly in whatever way he can, though he wishes Boromir were here to protect the young Man properly), into bed.

--*--*--

It is Boromir’s turn on watch. He awakes swiftly, rolling out of his makeshift bed without a sound of complaint. Silently, he pads over to a nearby campfire, started by Aragorn who had the previous guard.

There is technically no reason to keep up their watch: they are travelling with a huge army and it is the far-off Rohirrim sentries that would spy any movement anyway. But it is a habit that neither he nor the other members of the Fellowship can shake off. Until they come closer to the battleground, a couple less hours of sleep will not bother them, and it eases the peace of mind of all five.

After a short while, Boromir is joined by Merry.

The warrior smiles sympathetically at the Hobbit. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He gets a small shrug in response, but there is no sheepish, returning smile on Merry’s face. Instead Merry comments quietly: “You didn’t reply immediately yesterday. Why is that?”

There is only one question he can mean, and Boromir sighs. He rubs his hand over his face tiredly; but Merry deserves an honest explanation as to what Pippin will face.

“Pippin will be fine,” Boromir says slowly, trying to figure out where to start. “But... Gondor has long been resisting the Enemy’s tendrils. Something like that... leaves a mark on a people.”

“On a people, and on a ruler,” Merry remarks. His voice is quiet and it does not contain any judgement, but Boromir can’t help his resulting flinch. Merry has hit very close to home. “Is your da so harsh a man? Will he not be happy to hear good news about his oldest son?”

Will he?

Boromir wonders that too, and finds that he is very much unsure of the answer. Will his father approve, will he praise Boromir for choosing the path of honor? Or has the heavy burden of leadership blinded him to the lessons he taught his son himself, so long ago? What will Boromir come back to: I am glad you’re home, my dear son! or And now both my sons are failures: one is a coward and one is a traitor?

Whichever welcome it is, Boromir finds himself hoping that Faramir isn’t there to witness it.

Out loud, he hears himself say, a touch defensively: "My father is a great man. The blood of Numenor flows strong in him, as it does in my brother, far stronger than in me. Pippin will be--"

He is interrupted by a disbelieving snort from Merry.

"Do you really still believe this whole 'blood' nonesense?" The Hobbit says. "Look at Frodo: whatever he is, he definitely isn't completely Hobbit. Practically of Dwarven kind, really, even if he isn't of Dwarven make. And what about Sam? To my great shame, he is certainly far braver than me, even though I have the better lineage. No, I do not trust this 'blood' stuff: it is too fickle."

Merry's words leave Boromir feeling as though he's been hit over the head with a heavy warhammer. His fists clench and unclench. Of all the... How could... There is only one thing all of Gondor has always, unanimously trusted in. The Numenorean blood has kept them going so far, has not failed them yet-- and yet he knows there is a poison, a sickness spreading through the Stewardship. The Man shudders; if blood is failing them, what else do they have left?

But Merry is not quite finished. "So I don't ever want to hear you talk about how this silly Numenorean blood has skipped over you!" he says, adopting the tone and pose of a strict, overbearing schoolteacher. "It doesn't particularly matter anyway, and I'll not use it to judge any one of your family, thanks very much. Tell me instead, whether my cousin will be treated kindly or harshly."

And that is... Boromir blinks rapidly. That's one way of looking at it, certainly. Besides, it is too late now to second guess himself. The warrior tears his gaze away from where it has drifted to. The fire will keep burning even if he does not watch it, and Merry deserves some sort of comfort even if Boromir feels he has absolutely none left to give.

“I am sure Pippin is shown every courtesy by my family. Just think, he is sleeping on a proper bed right now..! And the only worry he has is that someone might try to force him into a school!”

His tone is light, but his gaze slides back to the fire anyway, pensieve and uncertain. Merry has given him a lot to think about.

--*--*--

Pippin stares in frozen horror at the torches in the servants’ hands, torches that are about to light up the huge pyre in front of him. Why is it-- why is Faramir on-- why is is this-- he had technically been expecting this, but not quite this because who can expect this?!

The first full, lucid thought that comes to him is this: There’s being a kooky old relative and there’s attempting to burn your son alive. And you are definitely allowed to judge the latter.

Then the absurdity of his thoughts registers and Pippin springs into action.

Next to him Denethor and Gandalf are talking, arguing-- but Pippin doesn’t bother trying to understand what they’re saying. All he knows is that Faramir is about to burn, burn alive. With a wild leap, he jumps onto the pyre and drags the poor Man off of it.

Denethor and Gandalf are continuing to argue, more violent now, but Pippin does not pay them any attention. All he concentrates on is Faramir; he checks to make sure there is still a pulse. There is-- weak and erratic, but still there. Pippin feels an overwhelming surge of relief. Right, now all they have to do is get Beregond to knock out Denethor for a little while-- or perhaps a long while, until Boromir comes back home and can settle things properly, at least. And then everything will be just fine...

There is a blaze of heat behind him and Pippin whirls around.

For as long as Pippin lives, he will never forget the stench of burnt flesh and the shrieks that escape the old, sickened man, at the end of it all.

But there is no time to stand and stare, transfixed, no, there is not even time to attempt to help (in some way, in any way). The wizard shakes Pippin out of his horror and Gandalf and Beregond half-carry the younger two from the burning room. Gandalf says something, something solemn and sad, but Pippin can’t hear him over the rush in his ears.

The Hobbit’s hand grips Faramir’s wrist, tight, tight.

That weak pulse is the only confirmation that Pippin can at least attempt to meet Boromir’s gaze again. Pippin’s not letting it go.

Chapter Text

Throughout his long life, Theoden had seen many battles and many warriors. Thus, he deemed himself pretty qualified to say that the majority of soldiers fell into two categories: those whose first killing had broken them (poor wrecks), and those whose first killing had left them steel-hard and looking at the world with unshatterable tranquility. The four travellers, Men, Dwarf, and Elf, were definitely of the latter category, Theoden had decided after Helm’s Deep.

Which was why he was looking at the scene unfolding before him in some bewilderment. Surely he must have missed something? But no, there was not much to miss: two Dwarves had ridden up to camp this evening, somehow managing to evade the sentries, and had proceeded to look for Aragorn, stomp over to him, and glare. It would be quite difficult to be mistaken about that.

But it was not even the presence of the Dwarves itself that so befuddled Theoden, but rather the interaction between short, indignant Dwarves, and tall, brooding Human warrior.

“You let him wander off didn’t you,” said the shorter Dwarf, the one with the golden brown mane.

And Aragorn son of Arathorn, a man he had seen face certain death with a steady gaze and an inner calm, flinched.

(Because, not that Theoden knew this, there’s something in you that always remembers your childhood trauma of being lifted up by the heels and shaken for first stealing a really cool knife, and then accidentally losing it somewhere. And Frodo was far more precious than a knife, no matter how cool.)

“N-no,” stuttered Aragorn. Then he looked around, and noticed that the Rohirrim were still standing around, looking at him with an expression of puzzled confusion as he cringed from somebody who barely reached his chest. Thus he recovered; he cleared his throat and began again: “What I mean is, he decided that this is a better way of doing it. We will distract the Enemy; he will accomplish his goal. Yes. That’s exactly it! I mean. That’s what he decided.”

At this, the Dwarves exchanged glances.

“Don’t bother denying it,” said the black-haired one grimly.

“You lost him,” added the golden-haired one in the same tone.

“Typical.”

“We knew it.”

“Frodo really isn’t a particularly good liar.”

Their glares intensified and they advanced upon him; Aragorn took a frightened step back and then pretended he didn’t. But the Man was saved from losing face completely-- the proud lordling of Gondor had just ducked out of his tent and now stepped forward, in front of Aragorn. Boromir’s head was bowed in an odd display of humility and penance. Theoden had never seen such an expression on the younger man’s face before. Honestly, it was fascinating to watch the scene before him unfold; these Dwarven lords brought out the strangest feelings in the warriors he had before known as only earnest and hard. He should probably have offered the newcomers food and a place to repose by now, but it was difficult to interrupt...

“Please, do not yell at Aragorn,” said Boromir softly. “It was my doing-- I fell under Its power. It is with me the fault lies.”

The two Dwarves stared at him for a few seconds, then simultaneously, both made a face of annoyance.

“We don’t blame others for falling under the thrall of treasure,” said the golden-haired one, waving his hands.

“Yeah, it would be pretty hypocritical of us, eh?” said the other. The two exchanged quick, dark scowls; they were full of a meaning that Theoden could not begin to decipher.

“No, no,” continued the golden one, his voice light-- deceptively so, judging by his earlier look. “It is not you we blame in this.”

“Yeah, it’s him,” said the darker one bluntly. He pointed at Aragorn. Then he tilted his head to the side, considering. “And probably the other two as well. I know Estel’s guilty face when I see it, and I’m pretty sure Legolas and Gimli won’t be any different.”

Boromir’s own face could be found in the dictionary under the word Perplexion. Perhaps also under the word Very Subtle Very Guilt-Ridden Hope.

“You mean... is there any chance that..?”

“Yeah, I’m certain Frodo doesn’t blame you either,” said the darker one authoritatively. “That’s why he only broke your nose, not your arms.” Boromir brought his hand up to his still-healing nose with an expression of shock, and the Dwarf mirrored the movement by tapping his own, slightly crooked one, with a proud grin. “Yup, yup, I’d recognize such an injury anywhere. Very distinctive kick, our brother has.”

“Besides,” said the other Dwarf. “Did Frodo never tell you the story of how our unc--”

“Perhaps,” interrupted Aragorn. “It is best if we continue in private..?”

He cast a meaningful look around him, taking in the staring Horse Lords. Theoden King was forced to finally snap into action.

“Ah, yes, of course, my Lords..?”

“Prince Fili Baggins of Erebor,” said the gold-haired one.

“Prince Kili Baggins of Erebor,” said the dark-haired one.

“At your service!” said the two together, with a flourishing bow.

Theoden had never been greeted like that before. And by Dwarven royalty as well..?! Truly, it was strange company that these Gondoreans kept!

“Well met, Prince Fili and Prince Kili,” said Theoden King with a bow of his head, as he would do to any visiting royal.

This seemed to be a correct enough response, and the two popped up, grinning and making faces again.

“We’ll stick with just Fili and Kili, if it please Your Majesty,” said one.

The other nodded and said: “Yes, and we really are at your service-- Uncle Bilbo says we’re not to frodo off into Mordor to look for our youngest if he really has gone off all alone. According to him, Frodo is good at creeping unseen whereas we are so loud ‘the Enemy will hear us coming without any special Ear on top of a tower’.”

“Yep, we’re to find some other way to contribute, says Uncle Bilbo.”

And then Theoden was truly lost; he could not even begin to keep up with which words came from which Dwarf.

“Er, Uncle Bilbo being Royal Consort Bilbo Baggins of Erebor and the Shire--”

“Barrel-rider, Peace-spreader, Burglar and, as mentioned, Uncle--”

“And so on, and so on, but that’s too much of a hassle--”

“Anyway, it’s not the point. What matters is that we also came through Rivendell--”

“Oh yes! Aragorn, we didn’t get to meet her, but your beautifully bearded bride sends you a little something--”

“And your dearest father-in-law-to-be has a ‘present’ for you too--”

“Some creepy-sounding advice, more precisely--”

“Which we’ll definitely give you--”

“Yes definitely--!”

“But only after your punishment for losing Frodo--”

“But don’t worry, Your Majesty, we’ll return him to you afterwards, good as new--”

“Well, almost good as new--”

“Relatively new, in any case--”

“Not too old, at least--”

“You’ll still be able to use him in a war, and that’s what really matters, right?”

“Indeed, in such a dire situation--”

“Yep.”

“Yep.”

The two stopped quite suddenly, and turned their expectant gazes onto Theoden King. The Human just blinked at them for several long moments, then looked around surreptitiously. No, his Riders were just as confused as he was. There would be no help coming from his people, who were all staring at the Dwarves just as blankly as he was.

But Theoden was a king of the Riddermark, and that meant he was used to dealing with strange people asking for things impossible to interpret. He turned over the bits of phrases that had at least stayed in his head.

“Er, I’ll have a tent set up for my Lords immediately...”

There was further beaming from the Dwarves, which meant he had probably guessed correctly. They really were quite lively fellows, he mused as the two dragged off an awkward but unprotesting Aragorn by the ear, with an almost-giddy, though bemused Boromir trailing behind them. And very polite too! (In their own fashion.) Plus, they gave his worried, nervous men a brief respite from the impending battle.

Still, when the next morning found them gone, riding off with Aragorn on the Paths of the Dead and breaking their promises of ‘At Your Service’, Theoden King couldn’t say he felt particularly upset. At the very least, they weren’t any longer overturning his carefully constructed categories.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was honestly not very good at keeping out of the way.

Oh, he had used to be great at it, back in the days of lonely evenings in the Shire, with no close family and friends to pester and to be pestered by. But all that had slowly begun to change on that fine morning he had run out the door without a handkerchief. And when he had accepted Thorin’s surprisingly delicate, shy plea to stay with him in Erebor and rebuild the city as the Dwarven king’s consort... well, the transformation became complete.

In the following years, Bilbo was forced to deal with everything from literal construction work to assassination plots to negotiations with former enemies. And later, to raising a small Hobbit child. So, suffice to say, by the time he and the others returned from Rivendell to Erebor, keeping out of the way was not amongst Bilbo’s strong points.

So why was it that that was suddenly all which he could now do?

And the sense of unrealness that followed that question engulfed him.

--*--*--

“How do you expect me to bear this, Thorin?”

Bilbo had meant for the words to come out an angry yell, or at the very least a frustrated hiss. But somewhere in the middle his voice had slipped and fallen, and the words instead came out cracked and quietly broken.

In response, Thorin’s breath hitched and he turned his head away from Bilbo’s gaze. He looked instead onto where his newly bandaged leg lay, covered though it was by hospital blankets.

It was the third time Thorin had gotten injured since the War for Middle-Earth had begun.

Each time the wounds were long, shallow gashes, for which the king allowed himself only a day or twos’ respite respite from battle. And then he would charge into the bloody fray again, calling and rallying his kinsmen to him. But kinsmen though Thorin called them, they weren’t his family. Not like Kili, Frodo, and Fili were. Not like Bilbo was.

“I can still fight,” said Bilbo, repeating the same words he’d been saying for the last few weeks, uselessly and brokenly. “I should still fight. For our family, for our people, for--”

Thorin shook his head violently.

“No,” he said. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “The Ring’s powers are far away-- your eyesight and your hands already--”

“I wouldn’t let you down I swear! I can still protect myself fi--”

“And what if none of the others understand or accept that? You will be a liability and a danger to all those you wish to help!”

“Well then that’s hardly my problem is it? No, I’ll just--”

“Who will lead our people when I fall?”

The words came as a harsh, angry burst. There was a brief second of silence, of shock on both sides.

“If,” said Thorin quietly. “It was a slip of the tongue. I meant if.”

Bilbo swallowed back his half choked out sob. His voice was a quiet plea. “Thorin, I can’t continue watching all of you go into battle without--”

“You have to.” The Dwarf’s eyes met Bilbo’s, finally. They were steel, unrelenting. “You have to.”

Bilbo screwed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, they mirrored his husband’s steel. But an unreal strength it was, forced in out of duty and understanding, not genuine compliance.

“As my king commands.”

--*--*--

Days upon the battlements were long and unhappy, as Bilbo soon found out. It was the closest he could get to the battle his people and his beloved were engaged in, and he found soon that it was the only place he could bear to be. And yet...

Bifur and Bofur had worked together, in between shifts of fighting, to construct him a most amazing set of eyeglasses. They not only corrected his vision, but ameliorated it over long distances-- Bilbo saw as well as Elf-kind did when he wore them. He tried hard to always wear them, for that was the only useful contribution he could now bring to the war effort: the inside of Erebor had long been refashioned in the manner befitting a besieged Dwarven city, and it could not face defeat through any means but sheer numbers; the outside of Erebor, its unwavering defences, had no wish for him to join them. And so Bilbo was stuck in the middle, neither outside nor inside, spying for far-away troop positions with the help of his eyeglasses, and bidding the ravens to warn his people of the enemies’ movements.

It was not enough.

It was not enough, when his wonderful, terrific, thrice-damned eyeglasses allowed him to see every single detail of the campaign below. See, but not help. See, and watch helplessly as people he had known for over half a century killed and were killed, were injured and were blinded, and bled and bled and bled. From where Bilbo was, the whole battleground sometimes felt unreal, just armies acted out by Frodo’s toy soldiers of old. But the feeling did not last long whenever he saw the blood.

Sometimes he took off his eyeglasses and closed his eyes.

“It is difficult, isn’t it?”

Bilbo’s eyes popped open and he blinked at the Elf in front of him. It was either Elladan or Elrohir, one of Lord Elrond’s sons who had come to help the Dwarves, just as Fili and Kili sped off to help the Men. Without his eyeglasses, Bilbo could not even begin to tell the twins apart, but he would rather risk rudeness than put the cursed things on now.

“I suppose it is rather,” Bilbo answered quietly. “But far less difficult than going into battle itself nevertheless.”

But the Elf lordling shook his head. His voice was just as quiet. “No, I am not sure that is true. My sister...” he hesitated, then continued. “She says she does not fear for Estel, and I can see truth in her eyes... And yet. Within those same eyes, I see how badly such a hurt presses down upon her, this constant waiting. I do not know if I myself could bear it.”

He opened his mouth to continue-- but a horn sounded from the south-eastern slopes. Anyone fit to ride into battle would follow that horn, as quickly as they could. So the Elfling just bowed to Bilbo, and trotted off down the stairs.

The stunned Hobbit was left blinking after him. Then he shook his head firmly, clearing it of the Elf’s words-- concern? praise? Bilbo was not sure he could tell. Still, he put his eyeglasses back on. And he kept them on, no matter how clearly the days stretched out in front of him, long and shadowed by grief of loss.

--*--*--

And then one day, it stopped.

Just...

stopped.

Orcs, wargs, all the dark creatures in front of their walls... they turned and fled, as if driven forth by enemies not visible to the naked eye.

What..?

The whole army held its breath, wondering what manner of evil ploy this was. For if this was no trick, if no hidden ambush followed the enemies’ retreat... then there was only one clear explanation.

Frodo had succeeded.

As if to, once and for all, confirm his own breathlessness, there came a roar of glee Bilbo would always recognize: it was Dwalin, of course, who broke the silence. The sound was taken up by the other members of his guard, those who had been right on the frontlines. And, swelling, the delighted cries and joyful laughter spread through the other fighters like a wave, until at last it peaked and flung itself unto the stone walls of Erebor-- whereby it infected all those inside. Trumpets and drums rang out once more. No longer solemn tunes leading soldiers to their death, but rather fierce, lively Dwarvish melodies and even half-remembered Hobbit jigs, celebrating their courageous warriors and their magnificent Halfling prince.

Bilbo stood amongst this utter joy, stunned and silent. He could not really see where Thorin was, but he knew the king would be up on the battlements as swiftly as he could run. And Bilbo knew there would be hugs and kisses and tears of pure happiness for their nephews, when his beloved came. Yet right just then, the Hobbit could not really distinguish, could not really decipher the pool of emotions within him. It was hard to describe this moment, this glorious moment that had been so long in coming. Still, there were some things he could say:

Right now felt fantastic.

It felt unreal.

...

It felt great!

Chapter Text

Oath

“You shouldn’t appoint me your Steward.”

Aragorn started, immediately looking up from the documents he had been pouring over. A hand flew to the hilt of his sword-- a sword he could not bring himself to stop wearing, even though he was in the safest place in the entire city. In the doorway stood Boromir; Aragorn relaxed from his battle-ready stance. Still, he frowned.

“Boromir, if this is about your guilt complex,” he said. “Please know that you are beating a very dead horse. I have forgiven you, Frodo’s brothers and friends have forgiven you, and once Frodo awakens, he will forgive you too.”

Boromir listened to the words without interrupting (although equally without being able to hide the small wince that his actions still elicited from him), but in response he shook his head.

“No, it’s not-- I--” the warrior cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts.

(As far as Aragorn knew, it was only in his presence that Boromir became that flustered, that easily. ...Which shouldn’t be funny, but kind of was. Especially when the younger man was trying to figure out whether to be more formal or not since their arrival in the White City. Aragorn dared even Arwen not to crack a smile at the frequent, slightly sheepish Your Maragorns and Aragestys.)

At last, Boromir continued. “No, that is not what I mean. Rather... well... to put it bluntly, you do not really need me.” He raised his hand, forestalling Aragorn’s protests. “Again, this isn’t some kind of inferiority complex. It’s just the truth--” he mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You yourself are a war commander, Aragorn. You do not need the exact same skills and reactions from one who should be your primary advisor.”

At that, Aragorn opened his mouth to argue-- and closed it again. When he wasn’t flustered or in the midst of self-doubt, Boromir always made more sense than any of his other companions. Damn him.

Meanwhile, Boromir continued.

“You and I, we startle at loud noises, our first instinct is to block, counter, strike. I came to you within a heavily guarded palace and look--” he gestured at Aragorn’s sword. “You almost cut me down.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to apologize, or protest (he wasn’t yet sure which he wanted to do more), but Boromir, being Boromir and thus possessing only two modes for serious matters (i.e. either hiding his feelings stoically or pouring out all his thoughts in one long rush), plowed over him.

“And I would have done the same! That’s exactly what I mean, we are built for war. So, ah,” he cleared his throat, but looked his King squarely in the eye, as he always did when he was about to say something he’d generally deem arrogant (and what Aragorn would refer to as small glimpses of actual self-esteem hooray). “I’m not saying I won’t still serve you and this city! Of course not. As captain of your guard or a military general, a general advisor or a common footsoldier. I swore this to you, and I’ll hold to it. Until my Lord release me or death take me after all. But not as Steward. There is no point.”

He hesitated then, looking suddenly uneasy. But if Boromir did not manage to say his fill he’d carry it with him like a weight around his neck forever more. Besides, Aragorn did actually want to hear what came next in this long, rambling, extremely accurate speech. He gestured for the other man to go on. So Boromir added, quickly, as though before either of them could change their minds.

“Faramir would be a good choice.”

There was some silence, as both contemplated this idea. Aragorn thought of what he knew of the young Captain-General. Not much, outside of Boromir’s few stories of childhood, and the brief time he had spent calling the poor Man out of his fever-dreams. Still, Merry had recently come by, inordinately pleased and bursting with the latest gossip: apparently, Eowyn had decided to take Faramir as her betrothed. ...Which told him quite a lot about the young man, actually; there was merit to Boromir’s idea.

His gaze shifted to the man in question, who looked sheepish. Well, he had just relinquished the right to Stewardship, and then immediately proceeded to act precisely like one, giving advice he had declared he wasn’t supposed to give. The King smiled ruefully, and did them both the favor of not calling him out on it.

“Ahhh,” said Aragorn instead, lightly. “I see: you’re just trying to get a promotion for your younger brother. Isn’t this the so-called ‘nepotism’ Lord Elrond always warned me about?”

Boromir grinned back, relaxing and shrugging. “Hey, what’s a little nepotism between friends? What with us being old war buddies...”

Both smiles subsided at the mention of war. Unfortunately, Boromir's identification of both men's nature as near warmongering was very accurate. For now, at least. Perhaps it was time to stop carrying his sword everywhere, time to do less pushups and sword drills and instead focus on thick books of ethics and thicker books on the prices of wheat… Aragorn couldn’t help a small sigh.

“I do not know if we were made for peace, you and me,” he said, reaching over to clasp Boromir’s arm. “But we shall have to find out, together.”

For whether Boromir was Steward or not, there was no way he was just letting the younger Man sneak off in the middle of the night to become ‘a common footsoldier’. Aragorn needed good, honorable men on his side, and Boromir was wonderful at that role (when he wasn’t busy being swamped with guilt instead).

(Plus, Aragorn was sure he wouldn’t even be good at footsoldiery: the Man tried to imagine Boromir taking commands from some random corporal, who might well have gotten that position through bribery, deceit, or ruthlessness. The only image that came up was one of Boromir breaking the nose of every commanding officer he got, all the way up the ranks until he reached his King again and then guiltily tried to hide his bloody knuckles behind his back. Muttering about honor and duty all the while, no doubt.)

...Perhaps Aragorn had gotten a bit carried away there. He tried to stifle a pleased grin at his wild ideas as Boromir, ever-solemn, responded:

“Yes, Your Majesty. We will.”

Contract

“You know, Aragorn,” started Merry. Then he stopped.

So did Aragorn, looking up from the desk where he was doing who-knows-what. Merry couldn’t see it clearly from the doorway, but there were reams of paper scattered all over the tiny room, as well as stacks of ancient tomes. On law in Gondor and Arnor, most likely. The soon-to-be-crowned king looked frazzled, and at the sight of his tired eyes Merry turned to leave again. But Aragorn’s expression cleared quickly and he leaned away from the books, openly grateful for the interruption. He gestured for Merry to come in and sit.

“No, no, it’s silly,” the Hobbit sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t have come by, maybe he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

He took a seat anyway.

Both companions were quiet as Aragorn pulled out two small pipes, as well as all the other materials necessary for a long smoke. He strode over to open the window, as Merry busied himself organizing and lighting his pipe, and then the Ranger’s.

If there was one thing Merry appreciated about his old friend being soon-to-(officially)-be-king, it was the fact that they could finally smoke wherever and whenever they pleased. After all, everyone was too intimidated by Aragorn to tell him to knock it off. ...Which actually was not the best situation, come to think of it; a king needed good people who could tell him when he was messing up. Sometimes intimidation sure comes in handy though, thought Merry, and took a long drag on the pipe.

Finally, he spoke.

“I want you to release Pippin from your guard.”

His words were abrupt and direct. Merry had spent a long time thinking about how to approach this, and finally decided that no amount of tricks would get him anywhere. He knew what he wanted, and he was pretty sure that Aragorn wanted it too. A long beat of silence stretched between them.

But then Aragorn shook his head.

“No.”

What..?

Merry’s resulting sigh was half irritation, half frustration, with bitterness sprinkled on top.

“Come off it, Aragorn,” he said. “We both know you have better warriors, and it’s not as though you need every person who can hold a sword anymore. We’ve won! Why not?”

Aragorn’s gaze was steady as he answered. “Loyalty and honor bind us to each other. Do they not bind you to the line of the Rohirrim?”

“It’s not the same. My oath of loyalty is the only tie I have with Theoden King, with Eowyn and with Eomer. Pippin and you, Pippin and Boromir and Faramir, you already have far stronger bonds-- bonds of companionship and love! Pippin is a Shireling like me, he doesn’t need fealty to a strange land. Why can’t the loyalty and honor of friendship bind you, without any pledges of duty?”

Again Aragorn shook his head.

“If Pippin came to me, as you do now,” he said. “I would release him immediately, without a second thought. But it was Pippin who offered fealty, and it is only Pippin who can take it away. How could I refuse that which is so freely offered?

Their glares pierced each other, Aragorn meeting Merry stare for stare. It was unfair-- Pippin would never break like that, and they both knew it. And it should be Pippin’s decision, Merry knew that. But he would never make the right one (the dishonorable one), and so his cousin wanted desperately to make it for him. Wanted to poke his nose where it didn’t belong, because he understood what could lie at stake.

It was Merry who looked away first.

“At the very least,” he said quietly. “Change the words. When you’re crowned king, and Pippin comes to swear to you, make sure it’s to you. To you and not to the city itself, so that if you are not in charge anymore for whatever reason, Pippin doesn’t get dragged back. He’s a Hobbit of the Shire, and he’s going to be Thain. He shouldn’t be chained to whatever creep or madman would take control if you’re not there.”

At that, Aragorn let out a laugh, tired and bitter.

“At last we understand each other, Master Brandybuck.” He gestured at the books of law scattered around him as his speech sped up. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? It isn’t just Pippin. Everyone who serves here-- how do I get them to swear undying loyalty and yet make sure there’s enough loopholes that nobody can take advantage of their loyalty? If they swear to Gondor, they can get manipulated by the court into doing who-knows-what ‘for the good of the country’. If they swear to the crown-- what if I cannot raise a child to become a good king? What if the line of kings fails again, suddenly? And if they swear to me, how can I make sure I do good by them, always? What if I fall to temptation? How can I--”

Aragorn stopped abruptly, his face a complicated picture of emotions, fear and concern and determination warring for mastery. He was on his feet, though Merry couldn’t remember him rising. The Hobbit felt his bitterness vanish suddenly. What had he even been thinking? His old friend was about to be king, but that didn’t mean he suddenly stopped being his old friend, the quiet and soft-mannered Ranger he had met over twenty years ago. Shame flooded him-- but he was Meriadoc of the Shire, not some poor honor-bound Human or Dwarf. Hobbits saw little point in useless shame, not when there was work to be done.

“Slow down there, Strider,” he said, using a nickname he hadn’t bothered with since his tweens. “If it’s really that difficult, you should have said! You should have asked for help! Really, in comparison to memorizing the family lines of three fourths of the Shire, a little Gondorean law will be a piece of cake.”

So saying, he rolled up his sleeves and shot Aragorn a smirk as he picked up the nearest law book and immediately absorbed himself in it. Aragorn blinked at him for long moments, then sat down heavily. A bone-tired chuckle escaped him-- but where before the undertone had been bitterness, it now was hope.

“I really should have,” he murmured, and then the only noise that filled the small room was that of turning pages.

Vow

Although Merry was proclaimed fully healed, he still found himself in the Houses of Healing every couple days, visiting Eowyn or, with Pippin along, making friends with Faramir. Besides, Frodo and Sam lay there, still sleeping off their ills, and all the members of the Fellowship, along with Fili and Kili, spent long hours at their bedside whenever their duty permitted them.

By now, though he couldn’t say he particularly liked the Houses of Healing --it was difficult to like a place where the moans of wounded soldiers and sick civilians could clearly be heard-- he at least didn’t mind it. And the gardens that surrounded the house were nothing less than a marvel, and he enjoyed taking the long winding paths through it when going on his visits.

It was upon one of those trails that he wandered today, whistling under his breath absentmindedly, when he suddenly spied someone lying in the tall grass next to the path--

Was that Sam?

With a hearty whoop, he sped over. Sam, and it was Sam, their Sam, sat up, looking around for the source of the happy yell. The look in his eyes was new, Merry noticed absentmindedly, and he held himself differently too-- but so did the rest of the Fellowship, nowadays. And the delighted grin that he shot Merry as he was tackle-hugged was the same as it had always been.

“What are you-- since when are you-- why didn’t you send someone to come get us?!”

Sam chuckled in reply, but instead of replying immediately he leaned back again, his hands bent under his head.

“I’m enjoying the sun,” he said simply, closing his eyes.

And now that Merry was closer, he could look at him, really look at him, and he winced. It hadn’t been that obvious in the Houses of Healing, which was always dim anyway, wallpaper and bedsheets a dull white. Sam’s curls were nowhere near as sun-bleached as Merry’s and Pippin’s, and he looked pale, closer in color to those sheets than to Merry’s own skin. Some of it was surely the poison that had nearly consumed him and that Frodo was still fighting off, yes, but it was also the pale of a person who simply hadn’t seen the sun in far too long. Sam had always been far more tanned than the ‘gentlehobbits’, and a waxy complexion didn’t suit him, Merry decided. It reminded him too much of the Shadow of the Witch-King, the deathly white of his crown.

So Merry flopped down on the soft grass next to Sam, letting his own eyes flutter shut and turning his face to the sun.

Basking in the sun was glorious. Warmth filled him, from the ends of the curls on his head all the way down to those on his toes. Companionable silence filled the air, and somewhere in the distance he could hear crickets and other little bugs.

--And suddenly it was too much, too much like the Shire but not.

“Sam?” Merry said, rolling over onto his stomach and propping himself up by the elbows so he could see his friend’s face.

Sam’s eyes didn’t open, but he made a sleepy, questioning noise, which Merry interpreted as his cue to go on.

“What will you do when… this is all over? When we go back home?”

At that, the other Hobbit’s brows furrowed for a second and there was a small flash of uncertainty, but then his face went back to a deep, content calm.

“Retire and plant gardens, I suppose,” he said dreamily. “Lush, gigantic trees and all sorts of gaudy flowers.”

Merry considered that, and then considered the first expression that had crossed Sam’s face. He said, slyly, “And the sweetest rose blooming amongst them, eh?”

It was amazing just how violent a blush a person could have while attempting to continue lying peacefully in the sun.

“What of it?” Sam said, his chin jutting out slightly and his eyes resolutely screwed shut.

A soft chuckle answered him and Merry plopped back down on the grass. “Nothing of it. You two will be wonderful together.”

Sam sniffed in reply, mollified.

Crickets chirped again nearby, and somewhere overhead two birds proclaimed their love for each other-- or maybe their hatred, Merry wasn’t good with animals. The sun was making him drowsy, drowsy and happy. The feeling of Shire-but-not intensified, but this time it was not unbearable. Just a good, healthy ache for home along with a bone-deep contentment for where he was right now mixed in.

“Speaking of gigantic trees, you know me and Pippin met some walking, talking ones?”

“You’re having me on.”

“No, really.”

“Really?”

“Here, I bet anything you say about your half of the adventure will seem like a made-up tale too.”

“Ah, let me try… ‘Frodo and I masqueraded as Orcs and marched with them for miles’-- I see what you mean.”

“Did you really?!”

“We did. It was… unpleasant.”

“Ah. Sorry. The Ents --that’s the walking trees-- were really nice. But they’ve lost their wives, or their wives left them, or something. They like gardens though… Maybe they’ll find you, you and your beautiful garden and your beautiful Rosie. And they’ll come back… And they’ll stay… If you promise to have a wonderful garden like that.”

“I promise.”

Merry slept and dreamt of flowers.

Word

Sometimes Gandalf forgot that Sam was the bravest of all in the Fellowship. Indeed, it was easy to overlook, most of the time: he did not have the reckless way of throwing himself into battle, as Aragorn did, and he did not often have the opportunity to prove himself in a battle of words, as Frodo did. But brave he was, brave for his friends, and, more bewilderingly, brave for anyone else he thought needed it. And today, keeping watch over Frodo with him, sitting on opposite sides of the bed, each not meeting the other’s gaze, Gandalf cursed himself for forgetting.

“Only I don’t know how I would have grown up, if I wasn’t friends with Frodo and Aragorn and all the rest. If I had been kicked around my whole life by people I was told were my ‘betters’, and told that the only way I could even hope to survive was by obeying everything I was told. I don’t suppose I would have turned out any better than they did. Would you?”

Gandalf shifted uncomfortably in his chair, passing his staff from hand to hand. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the exact same thing before, a long time ago. (He had been taught by Nienna, thank you very much, Master Hobbit.) But it had been a long time ago since he had had those thoughts.

When had it changed? When had the thought These poor creatures need to be saved from the evil that is Melkor! morphed into There is no way we can let these Orcs live! in his mind? Had he killed one too many? Had he seen one too many villages razed to the ground? Or had it just been easier, to hate with near the same ferocity as all those around him did?

They had been Eldar once, those Orcs, and what Sam wanted, although he didn’t realize he did, was for them to be Eldar once more.

...Gandalf had been looking forward to retirement.

Meanwhile, Sam, very certain of himself and very not, realized that the wizard was not about to respond, and soldiered on.

“I know I should hate them. And… And I guess I do. They’ve hurt Frodo and me, and they’ve hurt my friends, and more people than I can count. But I hated Gollum too, and I didn’t want him to be shown mercy or kindness, and… maybe if I had, Frodo would still have ten fingers.” Notes of anger entered his voice, rising into a discordant crescendo. “And those Orc camps were terrible, for me and Frodo, yeah, but also for them. It’s not right. How else should they behave, if it’s all they know?!”

And Gandalf remembered also that sitting in front of him was the brave, reckless fool who had gone after the last of Ungoliant’s children with just a small blade and the Star-glass.

He sighed deeply.

“Hobbits really are the most ama--” he began, meaning, in fact, just one Hobbit particular.

“Yes, yes, we are very amazing,” said Sam, looking Gandalf directly in the eyes for the first time. He seemed a little ashamed of his own determination, but he didn’t back down an inch. The angry cacophony still played in his voice and his eyes. “But will you do something about it?”

To that, Gandalf rolled his eyes a little, grumbled something about disrespect to wizards and one’s elders, and chewed on his pipe for a bit. Then he muttered, as he knew he would the moment Samwise had brought the topic up:

“Yes.”

The exhilarated grin he got in response was not quite enough to stop him from mourning his early retirement.

...But it was close.

Commitment

“Oh, Gandalf!” Pippin said with a pleased grin. “Just the wizard I had been hoping to bump into: Faramir was wondering if--”

“Not today,” said Gandalf.

He did not look the way he usually did, calm and put together and in control of this situation and every other situation that could possibly come up. He also did not look about to kill something, which was the only type of event Pippin ever remembered Gandalf looking this agitated at.

“No, not today,” repeated Gandalf. “Or tomorrow. Or the next-- let’s say-- month.”

“Sorry?”

“I am taking a vacation, Master Hobbit,” said the wizard. “A vacation that should have been permanent, that should have been a retirement. And now isn’t. Thanks to our wonderful friend, the Ringbearer.”

Pippin was honestly not really following. Still-- “Frodo’s up?!”

“No, no, the other one,” the wizard muttered distractedly, and continued muttering as he threw up his hands in the air and hurried off, evidently having used up his patience for the day. For the next month, in fact.

Pippin looked down the corridor after him, still bewildered. But there was one thing he did recognize, and recognize well. That particular intonation put on the word Hobbit: a little bit of fondness and a whole heap of this-person-is-the-source-of-all-problems-in-this-world. It was a word heard after many of Pippin’s most regretted moments, and it followed him in his nightmares. And for the first time in his life, it was not directed at him!

Making sure Gandalf was well and truly gone, he leapt into the air with a whoop of joy.

Assurance

“We won’t, you know,” said Pippin.

Legolas started out of his reverie, and looked over at the small Hobbit, who smiled up at him brightly, before shoveling more of the admittedly delicious omelette into his mouth. It was early enough that they were the only ones at the long tables, Pippin because of a late night watch, Legolas because sleep was… not really necessary, as such.

(There were certain very positive aspects about knowing a king of Gondor, Legolas decided, and one of them was that they could get food at practically any time. Not that he had ever really delighted in food as much as the Hobbit across the table did, but running around in the Wild with only lembas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner made the finer foods in life (i.e. not lembas) very desirable.)

“Really, don’t worry about it. We won’t,” repeated Pippin. Or tried to, at least. It came out more as Rihgh, hnnt orwi aghou ii. Whii wnnt. Dining table manners were neither especially important nor well-cultivated in the Shire.

“How do you know?” asked Legolas, intrigued despite himself.

For one, he hadn’t actually admitted his secret fears out loud, for another, seeing Pippin pit his own very special brand of logic against various sorts of situations and end up winning by sheer bullheadedness was always amazing.

Pippin swallowed, and answered, waving his fork around in complicated patterns to get the point across.

“It stands to reason. I mean, Bilbo managed to bully three whole kingdoms of different races into having regular contact, and regular playdates. Now, none of us are anywhere near as scary as Bilbo--”

The Hobbit paused for a second and both he and Legolas shuddered in unison at the thought.

“--which, uh, everyone is honestly pretty happy about-- but still, we’ll be able to manage something. I mean I know there’s one more kingdom in the equation than there was when we were young, but on the other hand, it’s not exactly as though it’s Elves and Dwarves we’re trying to get to be friends.”

“Hey!” yelped Legolas. Then he yelped it again: once on behalf of himself and once on behalf of Gimli and Frodo.

But Pippin just waved off his concern, sending bits of omelette flying with it. “No, really, I mean you have the ears and Gimli has the beard, and hey, I have the feet, but we’re not really those races anymore, are we? We’re just… Fellowshippers.”

“Fellowshippers.”

“‘The Fellowship’ is too stuffy, thus, Fellowshippers.”

“I… meant more along the lines of ‘why’ and ‘what’.”

“Well I know for a fact that you carry a small Dwarvish pickaxe on you at all times, and Elves aren’t really known for doing that. Here I am, in wonderful Human livery,” Pippin pointed at Legolas, then himself, luckily not with the fork that the tiniest piece of omelette was still gamely clinging to. “And that’s not even starting on my dear anomaly of a cousin.”

“In fact, there’s nobody else we’ll really be able to relate to, except for each other, so you really don’t have to worry about us splitting up for good, Legolas. If we don’t continue seeing each other regularly, we’ll all go crazy.”

Legolas opened his mouth to respond. Then he closed it again.

After all, how could he argue against that? Once again, Pippin’s ‘impeccable’ logic destroyed sanity itself-- and managed to make perfect sense meanwhile. And although he knew it really wasn’t that easy, would never really be and even Pippin probably didn’t believe everything he had just said, it was as though a stone had fallen off of Legolas’ heart.

And the Hobbit wasn’t done yet.

“Come to think of it-- you, Aragorn, and Frodo-via-Bilbo, and Merry and I could basically make it national policy that we must visit each other for err diplomatic reasons every, oh let’s say two years? Huh. Guess being friends with the king isn’t just useful for getting out of boring night shifts...”

Pippin trailed off, and the look on his face was suddenly one of pure concentration and calculation. He looked stunned for a moment, then his face split into a grin. An evil grin. It was so infectious, Legolas couldn’t help return it with one of his own, if a bit more uncertainly, as he wasn’t quite sure what they were grinning about. Fortunately, Pippin didn’t take long to enlighten him.

“Do you realize that our ‘common ol’ gardener’ Samwise Gamgee has four kingdoms in pocket?”

Legolas had not. He blinked at the Hobbit.

“It’s true, if you go through the Fellowship and count them. Here: Frodo will do anything for him, and Thorin will do anything for Frodo, that’s one. Aragorn and Boromir are both in awe of him, that’s two. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t climb from the deepest valley to the highest mountain for him, that’s three, o Prince of Mirkwood. And of course both Merry and I know that if he wants anything, there’s most likely a very noble, just cause behind it, so we’d make sure to get whatever it is for him too, and that’s the Shire covered, which brings the total up to four.”

Legolas pondered that for a moment, head reeling. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t Merry be the most powerful among us then? He has Rohan 'covered' too, as well as all the others.”

But Pippin just shook his head wisely.

“No, no. We do all love Merry, of course, but really now. If it was a choice between Sam and Merry, the whole world would side with Sam.”

“Merry helped slay the Witch-King!”

“Sam helped destroy the Ring! And I think he won an argument against Gandalf! ...Or annoyed him properly, or something.”

And then the debate was truly on, and there was no time to think of the future.

Pact

“Well, Legolas, I suppose we’re right back where we started.”

“What do you mean?”

“The great Quest of our lives is finished, and it’s back to boring old hunting Orcs. And smithcraft for me, and climbing trees for you, I suppose.”

“For the thousandth time, we do not climb trees.”

“...”

“You’re right, that was a lie. But we do not climb just for the fun of it! ...Usually. A-anyway, for your information, Master Dwarf, I think Mithrandir might be curtailing the hunting of Orcs.”

“What? Why?”

“Something to do with Sam, I believe.”

“...”

“...”

“...Well if it’s to do with Sam.”

“Yes.”

“Wait, then, we’re back where we started, minus the thrill of hunting evil things.”

“I… Yes.”

“Yeah.”

A sigh from both sides.

“You know what though, Gimli? I do think we’ll still keep busy.”

“Oh? With what, pray tell.”

“Well for one, our dear old Estel, yes the very one who truly believes awful puns are as essential to good health as a full meal, is now in charge of a country full of very noble, very solemn people.”

“...Go on.”

“And currently his main advisors are two Men, one of whom either barely talks at all or rants for a full half-hour on the topic of his choice. I’m still not sure how to set off which mode. The other advisor is far calmer, but on the other hand he was brave enough to ride into certain death at Osgiliath, and then into almost certain disembowelment by pestering dear Eowyn until she actually began to like him.”

“A courageous man.”

“A very courageous, very stupid man.”

“He’ll fit in perfectly with the king’s other advisors then.”

“The other advisors?”

“Us.”

“Oh yes, us.”

“...”

“...”

“...You know what, Legolas, I take it back. The following years are going to be delightful.”

They shook on it.

Pledge

Frodo smiled to his friends as they trooped out of the room, happy that they had all come see him wake up (all except for Boromir that is, and he would think about that properly later), but equally happy that they were now leaving. He was tired; it was his first time awake in what felt like months. He was still weak from the Shadow, and he had been absurdly glad that Legolas had noticed and nudged everyone away before Frodo himself had to beg for peace.

But then Gimli hesitated at the door, and beside him Fili and Kili, and Frodo realized abruptly that he still had energy for this. That he always had energy for this, no matter how his limbs felt like lead and his head as though it was full of cotton. A fire blazed through him, burning away useless things like fatigue, at least for a little while.

He waved the Dwarves back in.

They crowded around his bed, sitting as close as they could and trying not to jostle the patient. Strange shadows passed over the faces of the other Dwarves, shadows that Frodo was sure were mirrored on his own face, as they switched to Khuzdul, so familiar between them and yet sounding so strange in these houses of Men.

Khazad-dûm.

The word was passed from one companion to the next, softly and full of a gaping greed, a yearning hunger. Frodo and Gimli told everything they could remember of those ancient halls, and then told it again, and though Fili and Kili must surely have heard it from the Dwarf already, they listened again, enraptured. The Ringbearer cursed bitterly that his small trinkets of mithril were lost somewhere on the banks of the Anduin, and that Gimli had gotten his own gifts broken somewhere in the fight at Helm’s Deep.

But--

But then came Gimli’s news-- news to Frodo at least, though not, going by the grins on his brothers’ faces, hard as diamonds, to them. And the pain of losing that beautiful mithril ring, that delicate bird, and all the rest, vanished as though it never was.

Durin’s Bane is no more.

Frodo looked at his brothers, the same determination that had let him get the Ring all the way through Mordor and to the very pits of the volcano shining in his eyes, and more importantly he looked at Gimli, who had been inside and had been forced to leave.

“We will get it back. We will.”

Promise

Boromir was the last to visit Frodo’s bedside, after being told that Frodo had awoken from his healing sleep. He came in the evening, alone, for the others had already come to visit the recovering patient and left him now to his rest.

The door was open just the slightest bit, and in front of it Boromir hesitated, for some long, awful moments. Then he gently pushed the door open further and slipped inside the small healing chamber.

Frodo looked-- he looked young. He lay there, surrounded by pillows and blankets, face nearly as pale as the sheets. The Ringbearer always been fair-skinned, as Boromir supposed most mountain-dwelling people were, but now he was positively translucent. Even worse, Frodo’s hair was not in its perpetual braids. Dark hair spread out in gentle curls over the pillow, and it looked positively wrong for a reason Boromir could not even begin to explain.

It was hard to take. But take it, he would, and more besides. The Man squared his shoulders. Resolutely, he walked over to one of the many chairs scattered haphazardly around the sickbed and sat down. He would wait here till the morn, until Frodo woke up. He had let this go on far enough; he should have been here when the rest of the Fellowship and the two Dwarven brothers had come to visit. But he had not wanted to intrude upon the good cheer with his own gloom and guilt. ...Or that’s what he told himself anyway.

But Boromir had never been a coward, despite his moments of weaknesses. So he settled in slightly more comfortably and waited, head tucked against his chest.

--Not for very long.

“Promise me you won’t make that face again and I promise I won’t give you another concussion.”

Boromir’s head snapped up at the source of the sound. Frodo was sitting up, not even a faint trace of sleep in his eyes. Of course, he should have remembered: there was no way Frodo could have been asleep, for the room had been deathly still. (It was unlikely that even a trip to the land of the Enemy could have cured Frodo of his snoring.)

Frodo’s frown deepened at Boromir’s bemused gaze.

“I do mean it, you know,” he insisted.

“Uh-- huh?” came Boromir’s brilliant response.

“That face. That face you’re making, as though you want me to command you to throw yourself upon your sword, or that you think I never want to see you again. It doesn’t suit you.”

Boromir opened his mouth, and closed it again. This wasn’t really the direction he wanted the conversation to go: he wanted to apologize and he wanted to atone, not hear these… these… words of comfort?

Meanwhile Frodo continued, insistently: “Despair doesn’t suit you, Boromir! You’re not a great and powerful king, you’re not an old and worldly sorcerer. Your face was built for laughing. You should have come by when I just woke up; I think Aragorn’s gotten better at jokes…”

Shame upon shame now-- to have a companion fall away because of him, and then not even be there to greet him properly when he returned. At the look in Boromir’s eyes, the small smile on Frodo’s face faded away. A wall of silence built between them, and Boromir did not know how to chip away at it. Surely he should just say it-- just say it and then see where the pieces fell.

But Boromir was not good with emotions, and even worse with words, and he did not know how to say what he wanted to say right after a comment about Aragorn’s humor, and then it was too late and he did not how to break the tense quiet. The silent moments stretched.

He was saved, as always, by the Ringbearer himself.

“It took me too, you know-- near the end,” Frodo said abruptly, an awkward grin contorting his lips as his gaze slid away from Boromir’s eyes. His fingers played absent-mindedly with the edges of the sheets, twisting them into ugly patterns. The Man’s breath hitched, and he found he could no longer hear as well for the ringing in his ears. “If it wasn’t for our dear Sam I don’t even know if--”

His hands clenched tight for a second, and Boromir spared a moment to be thankful Frodo still held cloth in his hands, for otherwise his fingernails would have surely dug into his palms far enough to bleed.

“But… but nobody seems to mind, nobody seems to think I’m weak or a traitor. So, so I think… I think maybe it’s no great shame to need help or a reminder from friends. Maybe that’s just the only way to defeat it, to get rid of it. Friendship.”

The Ringbearer trailed off, seeming uncertain how to say what he wanted to say. He nodded decisively, in case that would help. (It couldn’t hurt.) A long silence stretched between them once more, as each was swallowed by their own thoughts.

Then Boromir let out a shaky sigh, and he finally said the words that he had been repeating for the last months, the words he had been mouthing into the wind and seeing in his sleep and proclaiming to many people, anybody who wanted to hear them in fact, and yet not ever the person Boromir actually wanted to say them to.

“Still, Frodo-- just this once-- I’m sorry.”

“And I forgive you. Just this once.”

And the conversation turned to better topics.

Chapter Text

Eowyn stood outside of the door, her hands slowly clenching and unclenching. Only the presence of her beloved, whose hands were similarly twitching, gave her the courage to not pick up her skirts and run away. Yes, run away, something she had sworn to herself she’d never do after picking up a sword for the first time.

But...

Slaying evil, honor, country, duty, devotion, love, freedom. All those words gave her strength on the battlefield, but they were all pretty useless here, in this place.

Here, in this place meaning right outside the door to a small-ish chamber (for a castle), inside of which the Fellowship of the Ring, as well as the Ringbearer’s brothers, were gathered. Just this morning Eowyn and Faramir had formally announced their betrothal, and immediately several parties were planned: an informal gathering for today, and a more proper banquet within the next month, celebrating the union of the two great western countries of Mankind.

Merry had told her everyone was just looking for an excuse to celebrate not-being-dead, but Eowyn had seen the look in her beloved’s eyes. If one thought about it strategically, after all, their marriage was a wonderful way to cement Rohan and Gondor’s newly re-forged bonds: the sister of the king and the brother of the steward, together with no artificial prompting? The diplomatic advisors of both countries were probably thanking the Valar.

And, seeing as how Eomer was currently riding with the Rohirrim to settle matters in their own lands, she was the sole representative of Rohan’s side of the treaty and would have to behave as such. Oh, and inside that chamber sat the man she had had feelings for, not too long ago. And that particular man happened to be her betrothed’s king-- and hers too, now that she was to be staying in Gondor, Eowyn realized with a jolt. And next to him would be sitting Faramir’s brother, with whom she had not yet exchanged more than a couple of words. If he approved or disapproved of this union, she still had little clue. And, just her luck, everyone else inside were heroes, from the two Halflings who managed to rid the world of the great evil, to the others, who all had fought honorably in many battles.

At least there was Merry to rely on. Merry would always back her up, she knew-- had known since she had felt a kindred spirit in him and taken him to ride with her to battle. And of course Faramir would shield her and support her the best he could, although unfortunately he could not exactly stand his ground in defense of Rohan against his own liege.

So, to summarize her own troops: Merry to depend on, and Faramir to lend her strength.

The others’: kings, princes, war heroes.

...She really was screwed.

--*--*--

Standing next to her, Faramir’s thoughts were not any more cheerful. Unlike Eowyn though, who he knew was worrying about matters of honor and country enough for the both of them, his own thoughts turned instead to the intrapersonal relationships both of them had formed with the people inside. For although King Eomer was currently riding to Rohan at great speed, Faramir knew he was not the only member of Eowyn’s family he’d have to deal with.

Because Boromir might have Pippin, Sam, and Frodo supporting him, playing the role of Faramir’s family and Eowyn’s new in-laws... but Merry, Legolas, all three dwarves, and, worst of all, his new king would be playing the role of his.

There did remain three reasons --or rather, three hopes-- for his survival until tomorrow that Faramir clung to. One: there was a slim chance Mithrandir was there too and would consent to play peacekeeper. Two: there was an equally slim chance Frodo’s Dwarven brothers would not hurt him overly much if Frodo put in a good word for him. Three: well, actually there was no real three, but hey, it could have been worse, Faramir attempted to console himself-- at least Eowyn’s brother-by-blood wasn’t there. (His attempts failed.)

Altogether, it was not in a party-like mood that Faramir stood in that hallway, staring at the oaken door in front of him as though it was the source of all his problems. Resolutely, he tore his gaze away and turned instead to his beloved; glancing down, he saw the tight fists she had balled her hands into in order to stop their twitching. Well, if she could steel herself so well, so would he. By sheer force of will, he stopped his own jitters; instead he picked up one of her hands and brought it to his lips for a light kiss.

“We will manage it, Eowyn,” he said, staring at the door as if it contained his doom. (Which, in fact, it kinda did.) “It cannot be worse than what we’ve faced before.”

She answered this foolish statement with a soft chuckle. Their eyes met, and Faramir read the mirth in her eyes. Are you trying to convince me or yourself here, dearest? her look said, clear as glass. Faramir winced and his mouth spread into a wry grin. He kissed Eowyn again-- on her cheek this time-- and determinedly flung open the door.

--*--*--

He needn’t have bothered.

Inside the little hall, pandemonium reigned. The two sides of ‘in-laws’ sat along a long table in the middle of the room. Obviously, those cheering for the same new family member sat next to each other-- all the better to glare across the table. The table was laden with food and drink, but none had yet touched it, being too busy arguing; each side was yelling praises about the person they considered to be their newly adopted family member and mild put-downs about the other betrothed (mainly along the lines of never be good enough for our youngest!). Loudest of all were obscenities that had nothing to do with either Eowyn or Faramir, but a lot to do with the ‘in-laws’ themselves.

“Plus she slayed the Witch-king!” yelled someone.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you that one--” came the grudging reply.

“’Give me that one’?! That was the most amazing sight--”

“As his brother I feel--”

“No-o-o, Boromir, that doesn’t work: if he’s your brother he’s technically our brother too, and I’m squarely on Eowyn’s side.”

“What kind of technicality is that?!”

“Pretty simple: Faramir’s your brother, you’re brother-in-arms with Pippin, Pippin’s distant cousins with Frodo, Frodo’s our brother, and there you go!”

“Yeah, Boromir, same, except you don’t have to take the long way ‘round via Pippin: we’re sworn brothers, etcetera etcetera, but I’m not abandoning my Lady of Rohan! You’ll have to think of something else.”

All nodded in agreement, and Boromir accepted his defeat with a shrug.

“Uh, alright then what about--”

“--and her soup! The most--”

“Whatever, Aragorn is planning to make him St--”

“Plus, Faramir’s basically Estel without that annoying ‘wise’ wisdom. What more could you ask for?”

Laughter on all sides, and an annoyed yelp from the king.

“HEY!”

“Wise wisdom, Kili? I don’t think that works.”

“‘Kingly wisdom’ then.”

“I guess that makes more sen--”

“Wait a second Sam, there’s a bigger issue here-- wasn’t Kili on Eowyn’s side a minute ago?”

“Hm, yes, but Fili is on her side too. No way I’m siding with him over Frodo! Younger brothers unite!”

A cheer from the Ringbearer, as his brother clambered over the table, mindful of the food, to plop down next to him with a wide grin.

At the small pause that ensued as everyone checked that the Dwarf had not knocked anything over, Boromir finally looked up. (Boromir loved his brother more than life itself, but he had also felt a deep fondness for Eowyn since he had snuck her a sword in Helm’s Deep, and subsequently he was the only one not completely entrenched in the quarrel.) He immediately noticed the arrival of the happy (and very bewildered) couple; he gave them a slightly embarrassed wave, then cleared his throat pointedly.

And then had to do it again, several times, loudly, for the small detente was over.

“--our very own princess--”

“You pompous tree-brat!”

“I am a gazillion years older than you, Master Dwarf--”

“Hehe, Pippin’s been rubbing off on you, eh, poor Le--”

“--just because I have a way with words none of you Big Folk would understand--”

Fed up, in the end Boromir just shouted.

“AHEM. Our guests of honor are actually here now.”

As one, the Fellowship (minus one, plus two) swung around to stare at the couple, who shrank into each other in response. The last time either had had to face that much noise and merriment had been on the eve of battle; the Houses of Healing were not exactly known for being loud, or joyful. Both blinked at the expectant looks on their faces.

“Well, come on in properly then,” said Frodo cheerfully, breaking the silence.

“Yes, join us at the table, cousins,” said Aragorn, trying to show a bit more decorum, and valiantly pretending that Sam hadn’t just been kicking him under the table.

He was promptly elbowed by both Fili and Gimli for his efforts.

“Yes, cousins,” mimicked Legolas. “Come join us, and then we can defend Eowyn’s honor properly.”

A roar of outrage came from the other side of the table, along with a shout that it was Faramir’s honor that would win (everyone looked in askance at Kili, who just shrugged and continued yelling) and Faramir's honor that would be defended best.

“I had no idea I had honor left to defend,” said Faramir quietly, partially for lack of anything better to say, and mainly because he felt that sentiment very strongly under the weight of ten very judging pairs of eyes. Beside him, a very confused Eowyn nodded in agreement.

There was a split second of silence and then a loud groan followed from each member of the table.

“Faramir, you are such a spoil sport,” Pippin said sadly.

“I think he’s even gloomier than you were, Boromir.”

“No, no, I’m sure he surpasses that. Probably as good at jokes as Aragorn.”

(“Hey! I’m getting better!”

“Maybe,” came the grudging reply.)

“Is it something in the water here, that they breed you all so sad and depressing?”

Faramir opened his mouth to answer.

“No, no, don’t answer, I see you have your serious face on. See, that was what we in the business call a rhetorical question.”

“Oh? And what business is that, Master Peregrin Took?”

“Ah, well--”

The petty squabble continued, and Boromir, shaking his head ruefully at his companions, stood up to greet the couple properly.

“Welcome, brother,” he said as he reached them. “And I bid you welcome too, sister.”

So saying, he linked his arms with them, marched them back to the table, and ignored the teasing grins from the others as he finally got to play the role of big brother again, keeping Eowyn’s glass full to the brim and making sure Faramir’s plate overflowed with all his favorite foods.

--*--*--

Within half an hour of the rowdy feasting, Faramir had been separated from his betrothed, and had lost track of her. To his great surprise, he was, instead, entangled in a complicated discussion with Sam and Aragorn on which plants still grew in Ithilien, and the complicated ways in which plants from warmer climates could be made to live also in places as north as the Shire. All others, even his brother, had backed away quickly out of sheer boredom.

So it was with great surprise that Faramir felt a nudge at his shoulders. He looked around and up-- but not too far up, as it was Frodo who stood there, smiling. The Ringbearer gestured to the far side of the table.

“I believe there is an interesting sight you might want to see,” said he.

Indeed it was a sight to see, and Faramir gaped at it. There his beloved sat, crushing Merry at arm wrestling. Under cheers of encouragement from the others, she slammed the Hobbit’s hand onto the table with a triumphant grin. The cheers turned into roars pleased for the win, and good-natured insults aimed at Merry. Noticing Faramir’s bewildered gaze for the first time, Eowyn's stiffened and her joy faded slightly.

“They kept telling me they wanted to duel you for my honor,” she explained. Then she sniffed primly. “I told them I am perfectly capable of defending my own honor, thank you very much, and that they had better take those challenges to me instead.”

What was Faramir even to say to that?

She had told him once, as they lay recovering from their wounds, that she had no more wish to battle, to do war, and would rather instead learn to grow things green and beautiful. Yet here she was, basking in triumph and the Fellowship’s compliments for her strength and skill, ready to wrestle, or fence, or see who was brave enough to jump from high rocks. She was not like him, Faramir knew. He fought only out of desperation and the need to protect, whereas the Shieldmaiden of Rohan delighted in proving herself to all: to those who scoffed at her, to those who knew her worth a thousand times over, and most importantly, to herself. How could Faramir begrudge her that?

Besides, the glow of victory suited Eowyn much better than the expression on her face now, this sheepish mask of uncertainty. Faramir found his bride breathtaking no matter what she did, but that second she had won, the flame of battle alight in her eyes, he knew her to be the most glorious being that had ever existed. And he dared even Beren to disagree.

So he excused himself to the king and Hobbits, slid instead into the seat next to her, and helped her pin back her sleeves so they wouldn’t get in her way when she trounced the next challenger.

--*--*--

“I suppose that really wasn’t that bad,” murmured Faramir.

Eowyn considered that statement, as she and Faramir, arms linked, walked slowly down the hallway. The party behind them continued, she knew, but both of them still tired easily. Besides, this way it was not quite yet late enough for their walk to look inappropriate to others in the castle, and she could enjoy his warmth at her side without any recriminations.

Had it really been ‘not that bad’?

Well. She had beaten all four Hobbits easily (though the Ringbear-- no, Frodo claimed he would have put up more of a fight if not for his own wounds, and everyone, including her, agreed), and she was fairly certain she’d be able to at least draw with Legolas when she recovered her strength completely-- he was of more similar build to her than to the other warriors. The others she had little hope of ever beating, as they relied on arm strength much more than she did.

On the other hand, the Dwarven brothers, along with Boromir, said they had time tomorrow to spar with her-- and she was so looking forward to moving, without the shadow-poison or the sling that had weighed her down, cumbersome and frustrating, until just a few days ago. And besides, she wanted to match her speed against her brother-in-law’s strength, and learn tricks from the Dwarves’ completely different style of fighting.

Best of all, of course, was the look on Faramir’s face when she wrestled. When she won, his delight matched hers grin for grin, but even when she lost his look of wonder did not fade. And the glint in his eyes throughout… Eowyn wondered then, at her earlier self, who had been so convinced she had fallen for Aragorn. The feelings she held for the two men were so different-- how could she have ever thought it was anything other than yearning for freedom and honor that had pushed her towards the king?

...Wait.

Somehow, her thoughts had wandered in a completely different direction than what Faramir had meant. She turned over his question in her mind again, and realized, startled, that within just one afternoon the worries that had plagued her as they stood outside that door had vanished, utterly and completely, as though they had never existed in the first place. To such an extent, in fact, that she had to rack her brains quite a bit to remember how much she had once been anxious about properly representing Rohan to the utterly silly, carefree group within.

Of course, there was still that banquet, at some point in the not-so-distant future, where she and Eomer would be forced to dine with fine lords and ladies of Gondor and pretend they didn’t see half of them mimicking smelling horse-shit in their fine halls. But she was certain that even when that awful event did come to pass, all but one of the Fellowship would ‘accidentally’ spill soup all over those fine lords’ and ladies’ clothes. And as for the last-- well, she and Faramir would just have to be the sensible ones and try to convince Aragorn not to throw them all in prison.

She giggled softly at her imagination, and leaned in closer to Faramir, her cheek against his shoulder.

“No, beloved, it really wasn’t.”

--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

BONUS: For The First Time, Instead Of Being Too Silly, This One Was A Bit Too Serious To Fit In Anywhere, But Here, Have It Anyway

“Hello, cousin.”

Faramir glanced up, startled, to find his king smiling down at him. (Faramir wasn’t brooding by himself, not really-- but this was the most people he had seen in one go since almost being burnt alive, and it was slightly overwhelming.) There were two cups of wine in the king’s hands, and the younger Man accepted the one offered to him with a murmur of thanks. Aragorn sat down next to him on the bench, and seemed unwilling to continue talking. Instead, both listened fondly to the discussion nearby.

“Really, I am not certain how else to convince you-- each of these fellows would say the same, my Lady!”

“Yes, why ever would they not have beards?”

“A properly groomed beard on a lass is a sign of virtue and charm!”

“I… I suppose, but… really, beards?”

“Of course, beards, with a multitude of braids, and delicate silver woven in for special occasions, and…”

“Boromir thinks you should be the next Steward.”

Faramir choked on his drink.

“E-excuse me?!” he managed, coughing.

The king looked at him with thoughtful eyes. “He made some very good points.”

Faramir attempted to shift the gears in his brain to focus on serious matters, away from bearded ladies and instead to the statement made just moments ago. He found he couldn’t, not properly: it was just too preposterous of an idea.

“M-my brother is too kind,” he said finally. “And also, a little dimwitted sometimes. He does not mean it, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, but if he is dimwitted enough to offer to give up so much power so easily,” pointed out the king. “Then you are the better choice in any case.”

That hadn’t been what Faramir had meant at all, and both of them knew it. So Faramir waited, his lips pressed tight, wondering whether it would be impolite to ask his liege to get to the point. Luckily for him, the king broke first.

“You’re right of course, that has absolutely nothing to do with it.” He sighed. “You see, the other day Boromir pointed out something very important to me. To summarize his main argument: he reminded me that he and I are too much alike. We are military commanders used to ordering around soldiers, not caring for civilians. Thus, he suggests --and I agree-- that the office of Steward be filled by someone very different from us. What say you?”

A hopeful glint was in the king’s eyes, but as he spoke, Faramir gradually stiffened, until he sat finally straight-backed and not meeting the king’s gaze.

“Your Majesty, I know I was not at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields,” he said and his voice was low and full of shame. “And the Battle of Osgiliath did not-- did not go in our favor. But please believe me-- I am-- I was a Captain of Ithilien, and thus a military commander, if a poor one. I do not believe I am right for the job.”

At that, the king muttered something under his breath in Elvish. (Faramir had not heard anyone speak that tongue for many years, but it sounded something like Save me from the low self-esteem of these idiot brothers and It is fortunate that man’s already dead, or I’d have to strangle him myself. But he was uncertain how that related to this, and decided he had mistranslated.)

Meanwhile, the king was shaking his head. “It is not of military ability I speak, but rather of desire. See, both Boromir and I --and the Lady Eowyn too, although she has suppressed it for many years-- we cannot help, to some extent, but delight in battle. Battle is something I have done the vast majority of my life, I’m afraid, and it will take time to drop the habit. You, however,” he shrugged. “You care only for the safety of those in your protection when you fight, and would rather think instead of other matters. So I'll repeat again: What say you? I will keep Gondor safe from the enemies outside; will you help me make it flourish from within?”

This Faramir mulled over properly, staring at the other man and seeing him in a different light entirely. What he had interpreted as rebukes --what had been rebukes his whole life until now-- he was now informed were his strengths. It would take more than one five minute talk to get used to. But-- the world was shifting, as it always did, and for the first time since he was a young child running after Mithrandir and begging to be taught, Faramir was suddenly determined to change with it.

“Besides,” added Aragorn with a small smile. “To be perfectly honest I’m not too sure you have a choice. And so I ask you a third time: What say you? Your king orders you, do you obey?”

Faramir looked at the merry company in front of them, teasing and grinning, all of whom would follow Aragorn into the depths of Mordor if only he asked. Then he looked at his brother, laughing in a way Faramir remembered hearing only in his earliest memories. Finally, he looked at his king, and considered the stubborn set of his mouth.

“What say I?” sighed Faramir. “Not much. But I hear, Sire, and I obey.”

It was a sigh with an undercurrent of mirth, however, and he and Aragorn drank to each other’s good health.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t as though he hated change, thought Dwalin as he stood there, arms crossed and scowling ferociously down at the Hobbit in front of him. (Sometimes, he desperately yearned for those early days in their acquaintanceship, back when his tattoos and knuckledusters had intimidated the little Hobbit half to death; this was definitely one of those times.)

Well, no.

That was a complete and utter lie.

Still, it wasn’t as though he despised change.

But he did often feel that most change that occurred in the world brought to worse circumstances, not better. (Dragonfire and over a century of wandering came to mind.)

And somehow-- just somehow-- a certain Bilbo Baggins, Consort Under The Mountain, currently smiling serenely up at him, always seemed to be the one to cause the most negative changes in his life for the last few, peaceful decades. It often appeared to Dwalin, in fact, that the only changes Bilbo brought with him were those of the worst kind.

--Well, no.

Primula’s grinning face flashed in his mind, followed quickly by Frodo’s somber eyes, and then by Thorin, free of goldlust due to Bilbo’s cleverness, and Fili and Kili, alive and well, and--

Enough, Dwalin told himself firmly, though a stab of guilt still pierced his heart for having entertained the thought for even a moment. Alright, alright, it had been an exaggeration.

Still, that didn’t mean it was a complete lie, as evidenced currently, by the stubborn set of the Consort’s jaw right after he had proposed the most badly thought-out idea that Dwalin had heard since Thorin had announced they’d be reclaiming their homeland with exactly eleven other Dwarves and a Hobbit.

So he repeated, “No,” just as he had done before, back in the Blue Mountains so long ago, just as he had done before, five times already during this conversation.

Bilbo pressed on, undeterred. (He really had become so much like Thorin these days-- or was it the other way around?) “But don’t you see? This could be a fantastic chance: a way to get a much better, longer-lasting peace treaty than if we just continued the way we’ve been going on for millenia, and--”

He broke off with a frustrated huff, as Dwalin’s expression had not changed from its stormy grimace at this ‘explanation’.

Seizing the opportunity, Dwalin said: “Can’t it wait?”

Yes, waiting, that would be good, would be fantastic, he just needed to get Bilbo to wait. Either until Thorin recovered enough from having his leg near chopped off to resume kingly duties, or until Fili returned and the Heir overruled the Consort, Dwalin wasn’t fussed really.

But Bilbo was shaking his head as he spoke: “Unfortunately, no. Right now they’re still easy to find, but who knows what will happen if we wait long enough? They might gather their forces and attack again, or they might flee to where we will not find them until a new master claims them. No, it has to be done as soon as possible; so write both Gandalf and Sam.”

Gandalf and Sam, eh? Dwalin had little trust for the machinations of wizards, no matter how well they had served them in the past, but Sam-- Sam gave him pause. If Frodo’s best, most sensible friend thought the same… Perhaps there was an iota of merit to the idea. Still…

“It’s just… so soon after the battle. They’ve killed so many of us…” he tried again to protest.

“And we’ve killed so many of them,” said Bilbo firmly. “How long do you propose we wait? How long will it take for nobody to remember who killed who anymore? No, we should finish it with this generation, if we can.”

“But… this whole plan is just plain dangerous!”

The Hobbit opened his mouth to reply-- but then his eyes widened. Instead of a retort, he positively beamed up at Dwalin, his mouth a happy grin that showed all his teeth.

What..?

Oh.

Oh.

Dwalin had not meant for it to come out like that, as though he was actually considering the plan from a military angle instead of dismissing it altogether. That hadn’t been what he meant at all; curse the Hobbit for taking it as such! For making it seem as such in Dwalin’s own mind-- for once the mad thought had fluttered by, he couldn’t help wanting to actually break apart and remodel the 'plan', fix it and reconstruct it into something that would work, if poorly.

(The Dwarf was aware that it was, technically, impossible for Bilbo to have somehow sneaked into his own brain as he had sneaked into the Elf King's dungeons, and there turn it against himself; that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.)

He straightened himself up to loom properly and begin to protest again-- but Bilbo’s eyes flashed steel and his grin grew just the slightest bit wolf-like. And at that look, Dwalin could never help snapping to attention in response, Mahal help him. (He pretended very hard, just for a second, that he missed the days when it was only Thorin’s eyes that could make him jump to obey, but he didn’t, not really, and he banished the illusion glumly.)

“Well then, Dwalin,” said Bilbo, notes of triumph in his voice. “Please find me an Orc leader, and we can finally make peace.”

Dwalin just nodded in response, resignation heavy in his eyes.

(As he had known he would from the second Bilbo had started explaining his insane schemes, really. Dwalin hated change, and he hated (most of) Bilbo’s changes more than others, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know it would occur, and from Bilbo more than others. The only thing left for Dwalin was to make sure the Consort actually survived them.

...He’d have to rework the plan completely.)

--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

BONUS: Parlay!

Despite Bilbo’s grand proclamation, it was the Elven twins who were sent to find the Orc they needed in the end: a sergeant, they explained, who was well-known by other soldiers and by their higher-ups, but someone who was much easier to, ahem, bring-to-Erebor-to-negotiate/kidnap than a commander. (How they got their information and the Orc besides, Dwalin had no idea, but the Elves had proven themselves trustworthy (for Elves) and he didn’t particularly care; at least it was one less thing for him to take care of.)

And now he stood in an unassuming, well-hidden chamber, Nori at his side, as they waited for the Orc to be dragged in-- er, shown the way. The Consort had at first wanted to be alone with the enemy ‘diplomat’, but there, Dwalin had stood his ground, no matter how sharp the glares he got. For one, it would be a shame to be killed by Thorin after surviving three wars at his side, for another, Frodo would be devastated if harm came to his uncle.

...And Dwalin supposed he didn’t want Bilbo hurt either.

(Probably.)

Thus, the King’s Spymaster and the King’s Captain stood, waiting and gripping their weapons tightly, behind Bilbo. The Hobbit himself sat at a delicate table, tranquil as the Mountain itself, for all the world as if he entertained Orcs for tea every day.

And tea it was: the table was sagging with scones, crumpets, lemon bars, tea cakes, and dozens of other delicacies Dwalin knew for a fact the Hobbit had prepared the day before. A gigantic teapot stood proudly in the middle of the table and Dwalin wondered absentmindedly if Orcs even knew how to use cups.

“Hey Nori,” he said quietly. “Do you think this plan will work?”

“Nope,” came the cheerful reply, Nori not even bothering to lower his voice. (Bilbo shot them both a glare over his shoulder.) “But our Mad Consort Baggins thinks it will, so who knows?”

Who knew? thought Dwalin, as the Elves shoved the Orc into the room, then into the chair opposite Bilbo’s and she sat there, bristling and baring her teeth at them, the fear in her eyes palpable even as she cursed them and their ancestors.

Who knew indeed? thought Dwalin again, as the Orc finally began to eat, slowly and checking each bite for poison at first, but then speeding up, swallowing food as though she had never had anything quite so delicious before in her life-- as if she had never had anything edible before in fact.

The answer to any question that contained the words who and knowledge, Dwalin realized in a daze as the Orc began to cry, earnest tears sliding down her face, broken by kindness she had never before encountered and promising them to force the others into peace forevermore, was always Bilbo Baggins.

The Consort shot him a pleased smile.

Chapter Text

“No. No, Gandalf,” said Bilbo.

He had stopped short in his steps, as though rooted to the ground. Next to him, Thorin had stumbled at the proclamation too, but seemed not entirely surprised. The old Wizard just smiled sadly. And Bilbo suddenly hated him, him and his meddling ways (even worse now as Gandalf the White), him and his gift. How could he announce this so-- so casually?!

“I’m telling you, no. You cannot do this to me. You-- they-- you cannot make me tear my heart in half. You cannot make me choose.”

But Gandalf just repeated, quietly: “Bilbo, you know this to be true. Frodo’s wounds are too great. He may find peace on these shores perhaps, perhaps for months and perhaps for decades, but in the end--”

“But how could I ever-- between one child or two others--” a sob burst from him and stopped him mid-speech.

A sudden warmth on his wrist. Bilbo looked down, trying to blink away the haze of tears. Thorin had reached over to grasp his husband’s hand. The Hobbit looked up, to meet determined eyes staring sadly back at him.

“You must,” said Thorin firmly. “Frodo will not wish to go alone, no matter how wane he grows or how little the healing helps. You have to-- you have to be there for him. The boys and I...” Thorin squeezed his eyes shut, as though not seeing Bilbo’s face would make convincing him easier. “We understand.”

Bilbo’s other hand reached up to cup his beloved’s face. His thumb wiped away the tears slowly making their way down Thorin’s cheeks. The Dwarf’s eyes fluttered open; he had not realized he was also crying. But when their eyes met, Thorin saw that it was now Bilbo who was more collected.

“It is wrong,” murmured Bilbo. “To choose between my loves. And it is wrong to you and your People-- as it has always been.”

His red-rimmed eyes turned to Gandalf. But the Hobbit’s face was firm and there was a determined glint in his eye. Seeing Bilbo’s expression, Dwalin would have long scurried off to do his bidding. Gandalf, however, had not dallied in Erebor for too many years.

So Bilbo grabbed the Wizard’s elbow and dragged him off to the nearest chamber, slamming the door shut behind them.

Dwarven walls are built sturdily, and Thorin could not hear clearly what was being said. Perhaps it was best he did not hear, he thought to himself as he slid down the wall, unmindful of his aching leg, to sit there, head buried in his hands without a care as to who walked by and saw. Perhaps it was best that he did not hear his lover’s pleas being rejected-- for despite Bilbo’s many years of living amongst his husband’s kin, the Hobbit never did quite realize just how Unchosen the Durinfolk were.

And meanwhile, behind the door the argument raged on.

The world is coming under a different dominion now and Dwarves will be taking as little part in it as Elves...

You know they call him ‘Elf-friend’ now, and Gimli too, and Fili and Kili soon as well I wager-- and the next generation won’t even need those silly titles anymore...

What great purpose would this tearing serve?! If you can look me in the eyes and tell me truthfully...

And a half broken sob.

Where is the justice in this Gandalf where is the mercy and the love...

And then the voices went too quiet for Thorin to hear anything anymore. He leant back his head to rest against the cool, cool stone and closed his eyes.

--*--*--

Many histories have been written of Thorin II Baggins Oakenshield and his court, for his was the most glorious time of flourishing and restoration for our people since Durin’s days. In Oakenshield’s time, Erebor was reconquered, and under his guidance, his nephew Fili Baggins the Magnificent took back Khazad-dûm. Moreover, it was his other nephew Kili Baggins the Fearless who finally completely cleansed of evil creatures the most sacred place Mount Gundabad. Of the third of Thorin II’s nephews, Frodo of the Nine Fingers, nothing further needs to be said. Others of import are Oin son of Groin and his invention of penicillin, Bofur of Eorthscrafu's discovery of the mineral group Apatite, and of course Gimli son of Gloin’s founding of the Glittering Caves.

But amongst all the great deeds of their times, it is a certain Bilbo Baggins of Erebor and the Shire, Burglar and Consort Under The Mountain, called by later generations Light Eternal, that is held above all others. It is he, a father of three children not of his own blood, that plead our case to our own adopted Father. And so it is now, and will be until we are finally called upon to make the world anew: If ever a Dwarf tire of this land and the Dominion of Men, he may travel to find what peace he wishes for in the Uttermost West.

Chapter Text

Frodo looked up at the peak of the mountain he had called home for almost as long as he could remember.

Why is the mountain Lonely, Uncle? he had asked once, back when everything had been so strange and big and new. That’s so sad!

His uncle had leaned down and ruffled his hair. I’m not sure Frodo. But I do know it’s a little less lonely now that you’re here.

Frodo had not believed his uncle then, because puns had been his mother’s favorite type of humor, and although he did not understand this particular joke he did at least recognize the shape of a pun when he saw one.

But now, as Uncle Thorin, limping and covered in bandages, and Uncle Bilbo -- when had his hair become so white?! -- rushed through the main gates and down the road to meet their children, grinning and waving their arms wildly and almost tripping down the slope, now… now he wasn’t that sure it had just been a joke.

“Well, I’m ba--” the Dwobbit started, and was drowned in an avalanche of hugs.