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Chapter Text

Bilbo watched, smiling, as the hobbit children of the Shire played with a new Lost Thing. Their laughs and shrieks of delight echoed throughout the rolling hills, attracting amused looks and even more little fauntlings, until even the shyest of them were drawn from their mother’s skirts.

“Silly things,” he scolded softly. He had just entered his tweens, and thought himself well beyond such childishness. He saw no need for all that fuss. While no two things that found their way to the Shire were the same, many were similar, and no one thing should be valued over the other. Fingers touching the rings at the lobes of his ears softly, he corrected himself. Well, most things.

Pushing himself to his feet, he set aside his now-empty pipe - his mother would curse him, if she knew he was smoking, and so he did it but rarely – and approached the gaggle of fauntlings, to peer over little Brandy Proudfoot’s curly head. In her pudgy little hands he could see she held a beautifully crafted toy dwarf. “Well!” Bilbo said, “I can certainly see what all the fuss is about!”

Brandy did not jump, like most little hobbits when someone sneaks up on them. Instead, she turned her little head and smiled gap-toothed at Bilbo, holding up the toy for his perusal. “’S purty, right, Mistah Bil-bo? ‘S name is Thorin, King Un’er the Moun’ain. ‘E’s fierce!” She said excitedly, and pushed the toy into his hands.

Bilbo listened closely. Brandy was growing into a fine Finder, Bilbo could tell, and quite the talented one at that. “And where did this Lost Thing come from?” he asked. Questions like this were asked often of fauntlings, to hone their sense of Returning.

“From a long way away, Mister Bil-bo. Lost righ’ from un’er a dragons nose! ‘E jus’ wen’ an’ forgot about it!” She said, little face flushed red. “It don’ want to be returned. Tha’ makes it a Forgotten thing, right? That makes it mine, right?” Bilbo nodded.

“Right. So keep it safe, now. Forgotten things come to us to be kept safe, and to be loved.”

Brandy shook her head. “Is yours now, Mister Bil-bo. I found a whole chest of ‘em. This one wants tah be yers.” Nodding, resolute, she asked “Come play?”

“Well.” He said. Then, with all the poise of a gentlehobbit of Bag End, he sat down there right in the dust and dirt and began to play a rousing game of King Thorin and His Merry Band of Dwarf Bandits.

--

 

Back in his hobbit-hole for supper, he sat back in his empty dining room, feeling the life that had been with him during his play with the fauntlings fade.

He sipped his tea, and carefully examined the Found toy. It was a painted miniature of a dwarf, with long, black painted hair and jeweled blue eyes. Clever hobbit fingers traced over the empty scabbard at his hip, and the matching sword in his hand. He tweaked the hinged knees, brushed over soft fur and doll clothes. Really, it was quite the beautiful doll. He couldn’t understand why some one would want to Forget such a thing.

Sighing, he set it aside. Time to wonder over that later, though, as he had not yet found time to set aside his father’s things, something that was much more pressing than a simple doll. Near a year had gone by since Bungo Baggins passing, and it was time enough to finish mourning.

Yes, he decided, time enough.

--

 

As most hobbit-holes, Bag End was a mix of hobbit made goods and Found objects, cozy and homely despite the often hectic décor. Some of his most prized objects were those that had been Found – his mothers plates, rare for the fact they looked close enough to be of the same set, his fathers knives, the red leather book that was his first Find, and the toy Thorin from all those years ago – and he treasured them like he did little else.

Of course, those objects were all forgotten things – it was quite unheard of for any goodly hobbit to keep Lost Objects as his own, as the Urge to Return things was consuming – but well tended to at the hands of their new owners. His particular penchant for Finding decorative crafted beads, much like his mother’s plates and his father’s knives, had lent itself to filling many of the rooms in his home. Often, he would find himself sifting through and admiring each one, for no two looked alike and they were all quite beautiful.

It was not greed that led him to doing this, or a need to see his many treasures, but simply a love for the aesthetics of them. Bilbo was a great admirer of aesthetics.

It was in one of these instances, carefully sorting out his favorite pieces, that a knock came upon his door. Setting aside an obsidian and sapphire bead the length and width of his thumb, Bilbo trundled to his feet. He had no idea the effect this would have on his life.

For after Bilbo answered that door, for which Miss Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was lurking behind, he felt a need to smoke his pipe. A very good thing, to smoke his pipe after a meeting with Lobelia. And, while smoking his pipe outside his little hobbit-hole, he came upon a most peculiar stranger:

A one Gandalf the Grey.

--

The magics of hobbits is little known outside the Shire, by more simple coincidence than design. Their magics hid them from the Big Folk; as such, the Big Folk knew little of them.

Bilbo sat by the fire, watching the flames with tired eyes. He’d not been gone from the Shire a week, but already he missed his home fiercely. He ran one plump hand through his hair, working through the knots in his curls. His fingers tangled in one particularly large knot, and with a harsh tug his fingers pulled themselves free. Something hard and round clattered from his fingers, rolling into the dull light of the fire.

He snatched it up without thought, bringing it closer to his face to examine it in the low light of the fire. “Oh,” he whispered. This was another Forgotten bead, wooden, with a mountain carved from its side. Following the grooved wood, his fingers found the bumpy form of an eagle, wings spread, arrows clutched in its beak. The mist of the mountain, stained paler that the rest of the bead, shifted smoothly into a ribbon that wrapped around the eagles talons, and tied itself into an intricate knot between the two figures. “Beautiful,” he breathed. Then, with all the airs of someone who found such a thing everyday but was still in awe of it, he tucked it in his vest pocket.

With a short nod of satisfaction, he walked the four steps to his bedroll, lay down, and promptly fell asleep.

--

 

It id after, when the Battle of the Five Armies has passed, with the dwarves coming out victorious and the Company intact, that it comes to light the peculiar habits of hobbits. As the Company, and as well near all the creatures in the aftermath of the Battle, knew of only one hobbit, they became known simply as the peculiar habits of Mister Bilbo Baggins.

As he was still in exile to Erebor, Biblo did not enter the kingdom of the dwarves. Instead, he lingered just outside the grand gates, mingling with the elves and men still camped outside its entrance.

In this time, he became increasingly familiar with both races.

During the day Bilbo spent his time helping in any way he could around the camps, whether it be running errans or tending to the injured. At night, when dark fell over both encampments, he would sit in one of the many healing tents, red book on his lap, and tell stories to those who could not sleep. He would sit vigil through the night, and often through the next day, and comfort the warriors through fever dreams and night terrors.

The men quickly grew fond of the odd little hobbit that comforted them. They loved his ever-changing stories, and the way he could make even the most hysteric of them calm with a few touches, and the kind, gentle way he would change their bandages. Around both camps the hobbit became a familiar and welcome figure.

It was on one such day, as the burglar was passing messages between the camps of Bard and Thranduil that he was stopped by a dwarf. This dwarf was a stoutly folk, with a deep russet beard braided intricately, tied off with leather and gold and ivory beads and clasps, both hair and beard reaching the respectful length of just above his waist. He carried in his hands a brown bundle.

Bilbo had strayed closer to the Gates of Erebor than most days, and it caused him an unusual amount of anxiousness. Anxiousness itself was not an unusual, of course, as Bilbo was a gentlehobbit not acting as a gentlehobbit should. But at this moment being so near to the Gates, where he could be caught by any passing dwarf who knew of him and his exile from the Mountain, was prompting in him a twitchy, battle-ready energy, and as he had drawn closer to the Gates he could not stop his hand from straying to Sting’s pommel.

“Lad!” Buffeted the dwarf. He had come up behind Bilbo as he was passing away from the Gates. Startled, the hobbit turned and unsheathed Sting, holding it before him in a facsimile of what he had seen others in the Company use. Curses, he thought, if only he’d learned proper how to use the thing!

“Whoa, lad, no need for that! We’re all friends here!” Holding his hands up in a show of peace, chuckling, the dwarf smiled. “I saw you were in need of … less damaged clothing,” and here he, again, he held up the bundle in his hands, “And I took it upon myself to bring you some. Mighty good thing you’re doing here, lady, certainly for one so young.” He stepped forward, pushing the clothes into Bilbo’s hands as soon as he re-sheathed Sting.

It took a moment to realize what the dwarf had said. “I am fifty years old!” He said indignantly. Still, he took the clothes. Hobbits, and Bilbo especially, loved clothing. “Many thanks for this, Master Dwarf.” He glanced down at himself then, for the first time in week seeing his own sorry state.

His britches were more brown than green, and the mismatched patches he’d sewn into the knees some days ago in a desperate attempt to make them last longer were already wearing away. The hems were torn and ragged, and there was mud caked all the way to the bottom of his knees from trudging through the camps. The white shirt he’d started with was mud stained and torn, blood stained brown at the sleeves from his work in the healing tents. He’d lost both his vest and jacket long ago, in the flurry of camp life. He supposed they had become bandages, or rags, because he couldn’t see any other use for them now. Even his hair, once neatly trimmed above his ears, had grown to fall in bouncing curls to his shoulders.

Truly, he looked a fright! “Well, Master Dwarf, I thank you. I must be off, though – Thranduil will be expecting me with news from Bard – but I must thank you again.” Nodding, he turned to leave – only to be called at once again by the dwarf.

“Lad, don’t mind my asking, but where in the blazes are your parents?” Bilbo faltered, and turned.

Staring at the dwarf, he finally answered. “My father is twenty years gone, and my mother is thirty. I do not see how it is any concern of yours, however.”

“Jus’ – jus worried, lad. One shouldn’t be alone, no matter the place.”

Bilbo nodded ascent. It was true enough. “And your name, Master Dwarf? It wouldn’t do for me to take such a thing from you without giving my thanks.”

“You may call me Eoin. And yours?” But then, Eoin blinked, and the hobbit was gone. “What a strange lad,” he said to himself, standing outside the Gates of Erebor. “Much to young for the battlefield. Much too young, yes.” Trundling back through the Gates of Erebor, where Dain had made his camp, he did not stop his murmuring. The hobbit had greatly unsettled him.

Bilbo, the hobbit in question, made his way through the crowded elven camp. He was carrying a written message from Bard in his pocket; it had been quite urgent, if he sent Bilbo, who could transverse the two camps faster than any other messenger, and because both believed he could not truly be trusted in entirety. He stopped off at the healing tents to drop the clothing off near the back, and headed out again. He would change when he had the time to, and no sooner. It would not be proper to shirk his new duties.

It was not until later that night that Bilbo received a chance to head back to the healing tent he’d left his now clothes in. It was an elvish tent, and one he frequented often, and so when he stepped into the dimly lit tent he received many a greeting from the warriors inside.

Slipping into the back, he found a cordoned off are the healers used to change out of bloody clothes, taking the bundle with him. Out of sight, now, he shook out the bundled clothes. They were simple, dwarvish garb, different from what Thorin and the Company had worn, but not by much. There were small clothes, thick and soft, a fine woolen shift, a pair of long pants, a thick tunic, and furred surcoat. All but the small clothes showed wear, fraying around the edges and fading at the seams. Hand-me-downs, Bilbo thought to himself, and felt immediately less guilty for taking them.

He was about to set aside his own tattered clothes when he remembered – the bag of Forgotten things he kept in his pocket! It was the only thing, other than his book, which always made its way back to him, that had survived the trip to Erebor relatively unscathed. Smiling, he dug about the pocket of his pants to pull them out, listening to the clink of them inside their velvet draw bag with almost dwarvish satisfaction.

Maybe he could braid them into the injured warriors hair? It would certainly keep them busy, and their minds off their injuries. Mind made up, Bilbo changed and left the cordoned off section to sit once again with the injured elves. Most of these warriors had long-term but not life threatening injuries, and what time they didn’t spend sleeping was spent fidgeting, or trying to find something to do. Even elves, it seemed, tired quickly of laying about.

“Bilbo!” Maeldor cried from his cot. His leg had been broken in the battle, and he was ever trying to convince the healers he was able enough to stand and leave the tent. Better, at least, than the Men, who he’d heard made weekly escape attempts from their healers. “These elves here,” and he motioned to the prone silver and dark haired elves, both of whom Bilbo hadn’t seen but once, and immediately knew them for who had been moved from the intensive care tents that morning, “Wish to hear the story of little Dandy Baggins!” He smiled broadly, and Bilbo got the feelings that both Maeldor had recently taken his nightly pain tonic and knew something the hobbit did not. These were not unfamiliar feelings.

Still, Bilbo loved to tell stories, and so he dragged a little wooden stool he had claimed as his own close their bedsides, and began his tale. “As you might know, though it is far more likely that you do not, all hobbits have in them a certain kind of magic. There is, of course, the usual magics, which allow us to move silently and disappear, and those let us travel great distances quickly, and which keep our Shire safe from passing eyes. But these magics are not all that we carry in us; there is, also, the magic of Finding objects that have been Lost, or Forgotten, and Returning these object – only the Lost ones, as we hobbits lay claim to the Forgotten, to be put to use and loved as were not in the place they came from – and from that we hobbits derive much of ourselves.

“Every hobbit, from the time they Find their first Forgotten thing, have some particular item our magics attract; and my father, Bungo Baggins, Found Lost people. I was barely out of my first decade, not even thirteen summers, when my father went out on his daily walk and came back with an elf! An elf!” Here, he paused, for the elves were had burst into high pitched and rather undignified giggles. They all must have had their pain tonic, then, and not just Maeldor, Bilbo suspected.

“This elf was a little scrap of a thing, blonde scruff like corn silk for hair and blue eyes much too big for his pale little face. Why, he couldn’t have been taller than my father, which made him a very small elf indeed. For many days my mother and father cared for the elfling, insisting that he eat at least six meals a day and dressing him in the best clothes my father could find, or Find.” Bilbo stopped, and worried the cuff of his shirt. No matter how many times – and he’d only told this once – he always felt so very sad.

“It was to me that he spoke his first words, and forty years gone I can still remember it: in a voice like sweet silver bells, he asked ‘Mister Little Hobbit, could I please get a change of drawers?’. Drawers! The little bugger had wet his small clothes!” And Bilbo smiled broadly, for even now, through the greif of years passing, that first conversation was a source of great amusement.

“Of course, I scrambled off to find him some that would fit. I was a young hobbit, and all young hobbits tend towards wildness, and so in the following months and years that the elf stayed with us at Bag End, I dragged him into many a play adventure.

“Still, he would not tell us his name. He never did, not even the day he left, and to the last he insisted on the name we had given him – Dandy Baggins, a Lost boy of Bag End. I named him, for the hair in his head was as bright and fluffy as dandelions, and my father shared with him our name – a great honor, to be given a hobbit’s family name – taken by his father’s men back to his home.” Bilbo paused, as if just realizing a great truth. “You know, I don’t think he knew it himself…”

Maelder frowned. “I was sure there was more to this story than that, hobbit! What I remember night, your tales went on until dawn!”

“W-well, I very well couldn’t tell that tale now. Last night I was quite drunk, and the only time to tell such tales are when one’s faculties are thus impaired!” Bilbo said, and felt a flush climb from his neck to the tips of his ears.

The elves laughed.

“Well!” Bilbo huffed, and in a desperate attempt to distract the elves said “Why don’t we braid your hair? It’s come loose.” He wished the elves would go back to their singing, and leave off his story.

Mealder smiled. Much more like as Rivendell elf than one from Mirkwood, that one. Not so large of a stick up his ass. “Of course, Little Hobbit. Here, come closer,” and he pulled Bilbo from his stool and into his arms on the bed, scooting over just enough so that the hobbit could sit comfortably by his head. “Braid my hair.”

So Bilbo, despite the sudden feeling of they know something I don’t, took several strand of the elf’s pail hair and began to plait it. When he had reached halfway down to the elf’s waist length hair, he ran a hand through his own mess of curls, as the fingers were cramping, and came away with a bead.

“Ah!” he said, and without a second thought strung the wooden bead on the lank of smooth hair. It looked handsome there, the swirls of vibrant red and brown amongst the silvery strands, and as he finished he pulled another, this time blue, the color of the sky reflect off the River Running, from his pocket and did the same.

He moved onto the next, braiding a thin plait at his opposite temple. This one received four beads, each the size of the nail of his pinkie, in glassy swirls of bright colors. The elves were speaking softly to each other in Sindarin, and the liquid words calmed the hobbit. He spent much of his time anxious, in fear of being caught by the dwarfs of the Company, of angering his new hosts, of being sent, alone, back to the Shire. To have these thoughts leave him was a great thing indeed.

The second braid was finished soon enough, though, and Bilbo was left with nothing else to do. It only took half a minute’s thought – sit here, listening to the elves natter, or braid more of Maelder’s hair? – before he took up more of the elf’s hair.

In the time it took the elves to finish their conversation, Bilbo braided the left side of Maelder’s hair and was starting on the right. The clink of the beads Bilbo had threaded into his hair was like the chime of bells. They were quite handsome things, spots of color peaking through layers of pale gold with every shift of the male’s head.

“Me next! Right, Maelder, can I borrow your pet hobbit for a night?” One of the new elves said, shifting in his cot. His hair was a rat’s nest, tangled and matted with blood and mud and other unmentionables, his shirtless torso wrapped in red-stained bandages.

“I am not,” Bilbo hisses, “his pet.”

“He knows that well enough, Bilbo,” the second elf said, blonde like Maelder but lovelier in the face, barely older than a youth. His voice was familiar, though Bilbo could not place it. “Raneth was simply trying to rile you up.”

Bilbo snorted, tightening another plait in Maelder’s hair. “Not very polite, that, calling me a pet.” Silence fell in the tent; it was a large tent, filled with two rows of twelve cots lining each side, and filled almost to the bursting. It was a good sight for Bilbo. This was a recovery tent, meant for those who were no longer in risk of dying but were not yet fully healed.

Finally, when Maelder’s hair was almost finished and Bilbo could no longer take the silence, he said “Why don’t I tell you lads a story?” He watched them perk up, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Yes! Master Hobbit’s stories are the talk of the tents!” Raneth exclaimed. “Take out your big red book! Tell us the story of the little hobbit girl and the fierce Gnome King!” Raneth was squirming in his seat, excitement and pain tonic making him act more like a child than Bilbo had seen of any elf.

“Alright, alright.” He slipped from where he was laying quite comfortably beside Maelder, padding to the back of the tent where he’d left his few things: his ruined clothing, his spattered pack, and Sting. He set aside the latter and the former, digging into his pack to pull out a red leather bound book.

He took his place next the Maelder, and opened it to somewhere in the middle. “Many years ago, though not so many that this story should be forgotten, but long enough that it has passed from truth to fiction, a hobbit child wandered away from her hole. She was a Took, which made her wild, and a Brandybuck, which made her brave, and a Gamgee, which made her competent, and loyal, and most importantly a Baggins, which made her, in hard times, strong.

“It was her Tookishness that led her to running away. She was very Gamgee for a Took, you see, and while all small hobbits are prone to wildness and pretend adventures, this little hobbit lass was always prepared to go on one.

“And one day, a wizard came through the Shire…”

It was, in the end, a very exciting story.

--

 

Morning in the encampment varied depending on which camp Bilbo chose to sleep in, whether he had spent the night comforting those in the sleeping tents, and if he felt the Urge to Find anything.

This is particularly morning, the hobbit was exhausted. He’d spent from dusk until dawn in the Men’s encampment, calming those who were caught in the throes of fever dreams and relieving those healers that were so exhausted they were nearly to collapse.

He wasn’t much help, squeamish at the sight of gore and made miserable when those under his care passed, but he did whatever he could to make himself useful.

This meant, on this morning, that Bilbo stumbled to a camp cook, borrowed mess-kit in hand, on the elf side of the camp. He wished to visit their recovery tents after he broke his fast, as he’d had two Men succumb to their wounds in the night, infection claiming them, and he found himself much in need of the comfort of those who would not die on him.

Taking his unidentifiable beige mush and brown meat to the elves, he sat among the tall, fair people and ate. They were sitting around a fire to chase off the morning chill, and as the minutes passed he leaned further and further into the side of the elf neighboring him. Bilbo himself had received little sleep these past days; for though he refused to enter Erebor and therefore had little to do with the dwarves, if he was not assisting the many people around the camps he was running messages between them, and no one seemed to realize how ragged he was becoming, for Bilbo could deny no one anything.

“Go,” the elf beside him said when his meal had been finished, his bowl scraped for the very last scraps. “Maelder is waiting for you. Two more in the recovery tent, awaiting your excellent care, Master Hobbit.” Nodding tiredly, Bilbo stood and made his way to the tent.

The days spent there were the most enjoyable to him.

Maybe he’d take a short nap while he was there.

--

 

Bilbo knew he should not be up and about at the late hour – Maelder was expecting him back from fetching water soon, and he’d decided to take his walk quite rashly – and he most certainly knew he shouldn’t be following the quiet hush of voices to Thranduil’s tent.

He knew this, but right now he felt more Took than Baggins, and did it anyways.

“We’ll be running out of food soon,” came Bard’s voice, like the rumble whisper of wind through the trees.

There was a long pause, where Bilbo crept up silently to the tent entrance, leaf-shaped ears perked. He forever has been a nosy hobbit. “My elves have two weeks worth – I can’t lower the rations more without my men risking collapse. Reinforcements from Mirkwood are nearly two months out, in the least amount of time."

A rustle of clothe. “We have even less – my men are on half rations, and I heard the dwarves were fairing even worse. Winter will be upon us soon. I fear – I fear we may all starve to death before that.”

A shiver ran up Bilbo’s spine.

He remembered being hungry, and he remembered being cold. It was this, Bilbo will never tell anyone, that drove him to what he did next.

“Wait!” He cried, pushing his way into the tent. Panic threatened to drown him for a moment – what if they didn’t listen? What if they thought he was just some sill hobbit?

He stood there, in the middle of the candle lit tent, and no one spoke.

Finally, Thranduil asked, sharp tongued, “What, hobbit? Speak your piece and be done!” Bilbo flinched back, wary, but with all the learned stubbornness of a dwarf surged ahead.

“The Shire – the Shire will have a surplus of food. We would be quite willing to share, and it would only take our slowest cart a week to get here, if that, if they come alone.” Both men towered over him, looking down with war-hardened gazes. “That is, ah, if you would accept our help?”

Suddenly, Bilbo felt small in a way he hadn’t since the Battle of the Five Armies.

Thranduil took one step forward, looming over the hobbit. “Can your people do this? It took my elves three months to move from Mirkwood. What makes your hobbits better?”

Bilbo drew himself to his full height. “We hobbits might be small, but that does not make our magics weak! If I say we can do this, we can do this!”

With a laugh, Bard nodded. “It would not hurt to let the hobbit try, Thranduil. Let him go – mayhap fruit will be born from this seed of trust.” The Man looked upon the king kindly, one hand on his shoulder.

“Fine!” Thranduil said, brushing aside pale hair. “Let the hobbit use the ravens to pass along his message.” And he swept out of the tent.

Bard turned to the hobbit. “Well, Master Hobbit, best you write out your message now. Address it as accurately as you can.” And he, to, left the tent.

Bilbo set to work.

--

 

In the end, it took the hobbits of the Shire three days to travel the foot of the Lonely Mountain.

All three camps watched with something bordering on awe as the hobbit caravans trundled up, loud and raucous and filled with little people.

“How,” one man asked incredulously, “Did they not get killed making all that noise?”

Bilbo had to stop himself from laughing.

Instead, he went to greet his relations. At the head of the procession was Miss Lobelia Bracegirdle, umbrella over one shoulder. “Bilbo Baggins,” she said with a smile like a knife, too sharp by half for her young face. “You look an absolute fright!” Compared to her freshly starched pink skirts and bright yellow blouse, he supposed he did.

Glancing at the point of her umbrella, he took careful stock of the blood on it’s sharpened tip. “Run into trouble on your way here?”

She shrugged. Around them, the hobbits had begun setting their own camp, with chairs and tables and infinitely better furnishings than the current ones. “A goblin or two, Some animals.” Her smile grew wider, a tad more vicious. “They were delicious.”

“Ah, yes, I always thought goblin tasted best with a touch of rosemary.”

“Rosemary!” Lobelia screeched. “Sage and thyme, more like!”

The Men and elves, those close enough to hear them, looked green. Bilbo tried to pretend he wasn’t enjoying himself.

“Mister Bilbo! Mister Bilbo!” Two dozen hobbit children darted through the crowds towards him, squealing with excitement.

He tried not to look too excited. “Hello, little fauntlings. Did you enjoy the trip here?” They nodded. Now that he was looking closer he could see that they ranged from infants – barely toddling on soft, pudgy feet – to tweens – who were looking over at the elves and men and dwarves with interest.

“It was very long,” Rosemary Cottonleaf said, her tiny hands gripping tight to the edges of his jacket.

Tobias Proudfoot agreed furiously. “But we had fun! Mister Gamgee taught us what plants we could eat, and we had lots of mushrooms, and we saw mountains!” Eru, but fauntlings were cute.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thranduil fuming, and so he shoo’ed the children off. Lobelia was not so easily dissuaded, and followed him. That was fine, as he rather wanted her company for this.

“Something the matter, your highness?” He asked, and if it came out the slightest bit smug no one would blame him.

Beside him, Lobelia shifted the umbrella from her shoulder – it rather deserved a name, now, didn’t it? He’d have to ask after that over tea tomorrow – so the tip dug ever so slightly into the ground. Her battle stance. “We do not need more mouths to feed, Master Hobbit, and children besides!” With his mouth pursed like that, his handsome face looked rather like a sour apple, Bilbo mused. Not very attractive at all.

It was Lobelia who stepped forward, fury cold as the snows of the Misty Mountains clear on her face. “Proper hobbits do not travel alone,” she hissed, “And we most definitively do not leave our fauntlings at home!” Bilbo took it as a moment of pride when Thranduil flinched back. “I have trampled through mountains, stabbed goblins, and missed elevensies to make it to this damnable mountain, your majesty, and all to bring food to my dear cousin Bilbo Baggins, and you wish to nit-pick?” Oh, Lobelia had a fury like no other. It was good to see it focused on someone else for once.

The king of Mirkwood had the sense to look apologetic, if still with an edge of fury. “Good. Now, if it is understood that our farmers, gardeners, carpenters, and all those other things you people will need to survive the winter, most certainly so if those dwarves wish to make that mountain of theirs habitable are of no problem to you, Maser Elf, I will take my leave. Lotho is waiting for me in my cart.” And she stalked off, elf and man alike scattering before her.

There was a long pause, where the King of Mirkwood stared after her. “Is she always so…?”

“Terrifying? Yes. There is more than one reason orc nor goblin nor vagabond dare to enter the Shire.” Thranduil cast one long look to where Lobelia had disappeared.

“…I am beginning to see why, yes.”

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

 

--

 

Most of the hobbits pretended that Bilbo was wearing perfectly acceptable hobbit clothing, and not some dwarf’s cast-offs. He didn’t ask for new clothes, and they didn’t offer.

“Why do you wear the garb of the dwarves among your kin?” Maelder asked some days later while the hobbit was changing Lithir’s bandages. The elf had grown quite used to the new hobbits fussing over him, and now that he could see the difference between Bilbo and his kin, he grew curious.

The hobbit huffed. “Because a hobbit makes his own clothing, Maelder. I can certainly understand the dwarf giving me his own – how on earth could he understand? – but to be offered clothing by my kin would be a grave insult on their part. It is perfectly acceptable to buy clothing, and to gift it as mathoms, and to make it for your children, but once a hobbit reaches majority it is their responsibility to make their own clothing.” He shrugged. “I am making my own britches and shirt,” and Bilbo pointed to a pile of plain, rough burlap that had most likely come from a sack of flour, or oats, “And refuse to use anything else.”

Maelder, though still curious, nodded. Hobbits were strange creatures, and he no longer questioned them.

A little hobbit lass, barely coming to halfway up Lithir’s knee, hopped onto the dark haired elf’s bed, wooden bowl in hand. “Stew today, Mister Lither!” She said, bright eyed and happy. “I made it special-like, all for you. Extra carrots and spinach, an’ I added onion, too.”

This was, perhaps, the strangest thing Maelder had observed, that the hobbits took as much joy in making the elves and men and dwarves eat as they did eating themselves, always tutting about how thin they were. And shame on you if you didn’t eat whatever food they gave you; they’d force feed you six times a day, and didn’t take ‘no’ for any sort of answer.

“Thank you, Bramble.” Lithir said, moving away from Bilbo’s hands.

The lass grinned at him. “I found my first Lost-But-Not last night!” She said, pudgy little hands holding tight to something he could not see. “I cannae wait until I meet who it belongs tah!”

A wrinkle formed between Lindir’s brows. “Why? And what in Eru’s name is a Lost-But-Not?” Soup dribble from the corners of his lips. Bilbo pretended that he didn’t find that quite as disgusting as he did.

Instead, absentmindedly, as he was busying himself with his sewing, he spoke. “Lost-But-Not's commonly, near certainly, belong to a hobbits future love. Their true love, if they ever find them. Of course, this is all up to choice, and sometimes they choose not to marry at all, but that usually means they’re best mates or the like.”

Both elves looked incredibly perplexed still. Bilbo ignored them. “Well, show us what you’ve Found, child,” he said, and set aside his sewing.

Bramble opened her hands –

And Lindir gasped. Clasped between her rosy fingers was an elf necklace. Bilbo lifted it from her hands gently, letting the pale, silvery-white of the metal shine through the tent. Pink jade knotted through the delicate tri-chain, unpolished and rough cut, leading down like lace to deep emeralds, cut into the shape of a crown of leaves. Hung, delicate among spun threads of mithril and emeralds, was the pink shape of a rose half-bloomed, so realistic it took him a moment to realize it was stone. “A fine first find,” Bilbo said. “Have you shown your mother?”

She shook her head. “No, Mister Bilbo. Do you s’pose this means I’ll go on an adventure? Do you?”

Bilbo sighed, and pressed the necklace back into her hands. “Go show your mother, Bramble. That is for her to decide, not me.” And the little hobbit girl darted out of the tent.

When she was long gone, and the last echoes of her voice faded, Bilbo collapsed back in his chair. Holding his head in his trembling hands, he groaned. “Her mother is going to kill an elf,” he said.

That shook Lithir, who had been shocked into stillness, start. “What is this about, hobbit? Why is that child in possession of an elvish courting necklace?!”

“Because Eru has destined her to marry an elf, apparently. If her parents don’t kill him first, of course. You can never quite tell, with us hobbits, though I am nearly positive her mother is going to be murderous.” The hobbit looked at him as if he were a particularly dull horse.

“And why is that?!” Lithir was getting frustrated. Bilbo would find it funny if he weren’t suddenly concerned for his life.

“Because no hobbit, young or old, lass or lad, who has found any Lost item pertaining to the engagements of any Race hasn’t not gotten married to their owner! And she isn’t but a decade old and slated to be married to an elf!” Bilbo hissed. His hands, sometime during his rant, had buried themselves in his curls, and now he tugged at them harshly in his frustration.

Maelder sat up. He’d been quite content to simply watch, up until then. “And who is the particularly owner of that necklace?” he asked. It was more curiosity than anything, for he had never met such strange creatures as hobbits.

“Some elf lad from Mirkwood. It held the echo of dark trees.” Bilbo said distractedly, busy trying to think of a way to deflect Marigold, Bramble’s mother, long enough to keep her from killing him.

“Echoes?”

The question was ignored. “I am going to go hide. Or warn Thranduil. I am going to warn Thranduil and hide in his tent. Good day to you, Master Elves.” And, with his sewing in his arms, Bilbo stumbled out of the tent.

--

 

“We’re gonna get in trouble!” Drogo hissed. Primula, sneaking behind him, hissed back.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life Urged to Find something in a dwarven city?” She asked, and tugged her stolen pair of pants up higher around her waist. Even the smallest of dwarven clothes they’d … found, were much too large for them.

They’d tied twine around their waists to keep the pants up, and rolled both sleeves and pants six or seven times at the wrist and ankle. It was only Primula’s clever use of needle and thread that they weren’t drowning in them.

Both little fauntlings were sneaking into the Kingdom Under the Mountain, where They Could Not Go For Fear Of Punishment, because Drogo had felt the pull of a Lost thing.

Primula was clever, even for a Brandybuck, and had snuck both herself and the accidental prone Drogo past the dwarves crowding the entrance and through to the back caverns. Erebor was truly a maze once you passed the front caverns, and if Drogo did not have his need to Find the Lost thing to guide him he was sure they would have gotten lost long ago. “It smells like Farmer Maggot’s fields,” he said, nose wrinkled, as he sidestepped a pile of –something.

He’s not really sure what it is, and he really doesn’t want to, either.

“Well, I suspect it would, all’s considering. Miss Maggot fertilizes her fields with dead things, an’ there being a battle here not three moths ago,” Primula said, stepping carelessly over the same pile. Neither of them had seen a dwarf leaving the main halls, and it made them careless.

“They could clean it up, though,” Drogo insisted. He led Primula down a side tunnel, deft feet moving easily through and over the rubble.

The little lass hummed. “I think the dwarves think making sure the mountain is structurally sound is more important. Remember when Aunt Hespied and Uncle Morto’s hobbit hole caved in because he didn’t build it right? They were digging him out for days. I don’t think the dwarves want that to happen to them, too.”

They slipped through a crack in a collapsed tunnel, much too small for any one larger than a fauntiling. Drogo just barely squeezed himself through, and came away with scraped knees and palms.

The cavern beyond was, Drogo thought, something that might once have been grand. And, indeed, it once had been. Wide walls were imbedded with glowing stones in swirling patterns, which cast pale, multicolored light around what the fauntlings were beginning to see was a room. It was choked with soot and dust, and every step they made kicked up great puffs of it.

Still, they forged ahead. Primula pushed softly past him, and trailed one hand along the wall. She could see the tattered remains of tapestries, stiff with age and dust, and she lent forward to study them closer. Old, now, and nearly worn beyond recognition, Primula could still tell they had once been beautiful.

Drogo had found himself a concealed door, in the short time the lass had looked away. “Come look at this!” He said. “I think this used to be someone’s home – I just found their bedroom!” The fauntling said excitedly, dancing in place. He wanted to explore further, but he wouldn’t go anywhere without Primula. He was a Baggins; she was a Brandybuck. He had enough sense to know to bring her along with him.

The Lost thing Urged him into the room, Primula close at his back. The bedroom was larger than the front cavern, dotted with a sparser amount of glowing stones. A canopied bed dominated the center of the room, and too the left, against the carved stone wall was a wooden wardrobe, half rotted but still lovely. Directly next to the bed was a stone side table, and at its foot was a leather chest.

Drogo followed the pull to the chest, and ran one hand over the tool-leather it’s tooled leather images. The straps holding it closed were rotted, and fell apart with a slight tug. He found himself lost in the fervor of being so close to Finding something, and it leant him strength he wouldn’t otherwise have. Hefting the lid, he pushed it open – and the Urge vanished. He’d Found it.

--

‘It’ turned out to be two crowns. The first was a fine example, crafted from a shining white metal, and it sat right in Drogo’s hands. A simple circlet, engraved with flowing, curved lines and shot through with silver, Drogo thought it suited him quite finely. It’s twin, slightly smaller and with a peaked front, was quietly handed off to Primula. Gold where his was silver, hers had a feminine touch he ultimately found uninteresting. “Crowns,” he said in awe, “Like real kings!”

Primula set hers softly on her pale curls. The gold and white complemented her colouring, making her look regal instead of like a child playing dress up. Even in her ragged, dirty dwarf clothes she looked like a queen. He set his own upon his head, and followed her to explore the rest of the room.

She had made a beeline for the wardrobe. “Hey! Drogo, it has clothes our size!” She said, pulling his attention away from the baubles on the bedside table. Trotting to stand beside her, he helped pull away the wooden doors. They snapped off with a hard tug, and he set them aside carefully, feeling slightly guilty.

It was obviously not something that had been used in a long time, but destroying it still made him feel guilty.

But the guilt quickly faded when he saw what was inside. Shirts! And shifts, and britches, and surcoats, and waistcoats, in colors and patterns enough to make his head spin.

Beside him, Primula was already pulling out dresses. She took one after another, holding it up to herself and swishing it back and forth, the full skirts making soft shish-shish sound. “Yes!” she squealed, and delightedly picked out a deep blue and pastel green overdress, and pale cream under dress. The overdress was of soft velvet, the edges embroidered with emeralds and green thread, dotted with lustrous white pearls, while the under dress was plush cream linen, embroidered with more pearls. Over it all was a lace up bodice in emerald green silk, embroidered with tiny blue sapphire-and-pearl flowers.

Nearlt tearing off her borrowed clothes in her haste, she struggled only a little in tying the bodice. “Don’t I look pretty?” she asked Drogo, twirling softly, layers of cloth floating up around her legs. It wasn’t a perfect fit, too small in some places and too big in others, but not uncomfortably so.

Primula hummed, digging past the mound of shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe in search of some girl thing. Bored, Drogo moved to dig through the chest again.

Beneath the layer of plush velvet that the twin crowns had rested on was another layer of jewels. Folding the velvet carefully, he set it aside. Jewels didn’t much interest Drogo, but he was dressed like a dwarf and so was compelled to finish the costume. It wouldn’t do to go around looking only half the part.

Pulling a wide, thick leather belt with intricate designs tooled into the still supple leather, he wrapped it once around his waist and clasped it closed with the intricate belt buckle. It sat loose and heavy on his hips, just a tad too much in length. Next was a thick golden chain, from which hung an ivory pendant of an indefinable shape, that was slipped over his head. Each of his fingers received thin rings next, ten different shapes and metals and stones. Finally, he came to the last of the jewelry on his side of the chest.

Hair pins of mithril and silver and gold and green copper, wrought in fanciful shapes and studded with semi-precious stones. “Oh, what am I supposed to do with this?” He asked himself, fingers digging into his soft curls. His hair wasn’t nearly the length to need to be pinned, coming to the respectful length of just above his ears in the front and just covering his nape in the back. Maybe he could skip it? No, no, then it wouldn’t be complete.

“I c’n help you put those in your hair,” Drogo jumped. Primula had snuck up behind him as he was putting on his jewels, and now was giggling at his startle. “Oops, sorry Dro’. Here,” she said, motioning for the pins. He gladly handed them over.

Turning back around, he presented her with the back of his head. “Do what you must, my Queen,” he said in his deepest and most regal voice, and was rewarded with a bright giggle.

“Be patient my king, and I shall braid your hair in the way of our people.” And, with that, she set to work.

It took what Drogo thought felt like forever for her to braid two tight plates into his hair, going from his temples to the nape of his neck, his wild curls held back by cleverly placed pins.

She held a small, jewel encrusted handmirror infront of his face. He was quite the handsome dwarf, in his opinion. “You next?” he asked.

Primula shook her head. “You can’t braid,” she said, and shrugged. Taking up her own pendant, she paired it with the ivory bracers dotted with sapphires, that laced up to her elbows with supple white leather ties, and a pair of heavy pearl encrusted gold anklets. “Pin my hair?” She asked.

He gathered up her own share of pins in his dirty hands, and shuffled behind her, handing the mirror to her as he want. It took a shorter time to do her hair than his, despite her own being longer, pinning it away from her face. He finished it off with a palm sized mother of pearl and gold pin, which he nestled in her mound of honey pale hair. “Beautiful,” he said with an air of finality.

Now dressed accordingly, the two fauntlings were at a loss for what to do. “Maybe we should head back?” he asked. With the thrill of Finding the room fading, he could feel fear and insecurity creping in. “Our mommas will be getting worried by now.” Logo was less inclined to worry, but his mother was a Bolger at heart, and was inclined towards it.

Primula gave the room one sweeping look before agreeing. “Was getting bored, anyways. Race you back?”

“I’ll beat’cha!”

And the two hobbits were off.

--

 

“I’m going to kill you!!” Marigold screamed. Two of the Brandybuck boys were just barely holding her back from attacking a young, pale haired elf. The poor boy looked scared out of his wits, standing there taking her abuse. It was obvious he’d never been faced with an angry hobbit mother before.

“How dare you do this to my baby?!” Suddenly breaking free, she charged the elf, swinging a comically large warhammer- and where in Middle Earth did she get that, Bilbo wondered – and screaming obscenities. “I am going to cut off your balls and feed them to you! Do you understand me?!” She swung her hammer again, cackling as it clipped the elf’s shoulder, sending him spinning.

The crowd that surrounded the four figures surged up. Someone wrenched the hammer from her hands, more keeping her from charging him recklessly.

“What is going on here?” Thranduil, in all his majestic glory, screamed. As if he flipped a switch, everything stilled. Spotting Bilbo, he stalked towards him. “Hobbit. Explain.”

“Well, ah, Missus Marigold just found out that her daughter has gone and gotten engaged to an elf.” He shifted nervously, holding back a nervous chuckle at Thranduil’s disbelieving look. “Now, she will, uh, attempt to take revenge for him, ah, besmirching her honour by engaging himself to her with out a proper courting period. Don’t worry!” he said quickly, “No one usually dies.”

“Usually?” The elf king asked.

Bilbo shrugged. “Make sure he isn’t alone, and don’t let her near the food, and everything will be fine.” He smiled, half-wistful. “It happens sometimes, in the Shire. We hobbits know how to make sure nobody dies.”

And with that he slipped out of the grip he had on his shoulder, and lost himself in the crowd. It wouldn’t do for Marigold to catch him, after all.

--

 

“We’re lost,” Primula snapped. They’d been walking around for hours, it felt, and they hadn’t gotten any closer to the main caverns.

“No we’re not!” Drogo shot back. They the both of them had tried to retrace their steps as well as possible, but had soon found themselves in unfamiliar corridors.

Now, having found themselves in a wide, golden hall, Primula perched herself on a large piece of rubble. “We need help,” she said decisively.

Drogo’s face screwed up in a frown. “We’re twelve,” he said. “We don’t need help.”

There was a long, drawn out silence. Drogo looked down the corridor, then up it, and then sat down beside Primula. “Maybe… Maybe we do need help,” he said. “But I don’t see how we’ll find anyone to help us here.”

Booth fauntlings were wishing they’d had the mind to grab a pair of shoes from the room before they’d left. Fauntlings began to develop thick leathery soles at the bottom of their feet as soon as they could walk, but they were not fully developed until they hit their tweens, and most children wore protective wraps around their feet and ankles when they took long walks. Both of the bottoms of their feet were scattered with shallow cuts.

“C’mon,” Primula said, and pushed herself to her feet. “Nothing else to do but keep walking.” They continued on their way.

--

Chapter Text

Maelder watched Bilbo, who he was quickly seeing as ‘his’ hobbit, was he puttered around the camp. He’d been released from the healer’s clutches not a day ago, and was gladly spending his time basking in the sun.

“Poor dear,” Poppy Took said, taking a seat beside him. She perched daintily on the log, pale green skirts spread around her. “Saw the same thing happen when his mother died.”

Maelder turned to her curiously. “Same what?” He asked.

“Poor thing refuses to mourn,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “His mother died in the Fell Winter, you know, and even when they put her ashes in the ground he refused to cry. And then…”

“And then what?”

“He busied himself with putting the Shire back together, worked himself into the ground. And when there was nothing left for him to do, when there was nothing left to distract him, he broke.” Poppy brushed grey curls from her head, and Maelder could see the wetness of her eyes, though not a tear fell. “Little Bilbo had his father to put him together again. This time, I fear he has no one.”

The elf frowned. “But I have heard that the original Company all survived.”

Poppy shook her head. “And that, my friend, is the greatest tragedy of all.”

--

 

“My King!” A red-haired dwarf hurried into Dain’s camp. Thorin frowned, but turned to answer the man’s call. “My king Thorin, something grievous has come to light – I need your permission to enter the weed-eater’s camps.”

“Why?” Thorin asked. There was an ache, a tiredness in his bones present since after the Battle, and for now he simply wished to return to his sister-son’s bedsides. He had little time to entertain fools.

“I am Eoin, son of Doin. Two days past I made my way to the Gates, when I saw a dwarf child. Not even to his majority!” Eoin said. “Beardless and homeless, and he told me himself that he lost his parents almost before he could remember them – but thirty when he was orphaned.”

Troubling indeed, Thorin knew. Children were rare and precious, more so after the Fall of Erebor, and he would not suffer a child left alone amongst elves and Men. “He was dressed in tatters, not even a pair of shoes to his name - he is amongst the strange folk that came to us a week ago, offering food, now, but before that I believe he was living in and out of the healing tents – and when I found him he was volunteering in the tents!” Eoin looked aghast.

“And he is without any family?” Thorin asked, urgency tingeing his tone. No child of Aule should ever be in such sate, as to fall to the help of Men and elves. The poor boys parents must have been killed on the road, and he himself had found his way to one of their settlements.

Eoin confirmed it. “Not even a braid of Durin!” He said.

 

“And he is unhappy with the elves? The Men?”

The russet haired dwarf nodded. “He looked quite terrified, my king. I fear they may be hurting him; it is one of the reasons I am brining this matter before you.”

“Then take the boy. If he has not come to us by now, there may be something keeping him there. Make sure there isn’t when he leaves.”

And then he turned away, finished.

He would visit his sister-sons, and talk to Oin, and try not to think about the hobbit he cast out of his mountain. His people had come from over the Mist Mountains to take Bilbo back to his home, and Thorin knew, as he knew the hobbit could feel no more fondness for him, that he would never see him again.

But the time to mourn was later.

He smiled as he stepped into the healing tent, and Fili and Kili greeted him.

--

 

Primula and Drogo had moved on, past the golden halls and into the cavernous space, half-filled with rotting stalls and merchant wares. It was quite obvious to both children that no one had entered the place in a long, long time.

“It’s huge,” she whispered, and her voice echoed through the room. “Who do you think lived here?” She asked Drogo.

The little boy shrugged. “I heard someone say it used tah belong to dwarves.”

“What happened to them?” She asked, her voice high and young.

Drogo didn’t say anything for a long time, both of them standing at the edge of the huge room. “… I don’t know.” He said finally. “I think they died. Like the Fell Winter, ‘cept all at once. An’ everyone was so sad they couldn’t come back for a really long time, like with momma and da and the Brockhouse’s, and how no one goes near their hobbit-hole no more.”

“Oh,” She looked around the big room, feeling small, and sad.

The room once was grand, but in the passing decades had fallen to ruin; its marble floors were cracked and dull, its polished walls turned from sepia mirrors to stone and dust. There was light from the strange glowing stones, golden like that of the sun, that shown over head and formed insidious and evil shapes. Rubble from collapsed pillars was scattered across the floor, and the faint stench of things that had moved from rotting to dust tinged the air.

“Do you want to explore?” Drogo asked, and leaned into her side. Six exits branched from the room. Six mistakes that could be made: to take the wrong tunnel, and to not move at all.

But Primula’s curiosity, so usually implacable, was absent. She was hungry, and tired, and sad. She wanted to go home. “Follow me,” She said, her voice high and hollow. Then she took his hand, and they closed their eyes, and Looked for her mother like they had been taught.

Even when they were bored, and hungry, and tired, it had been an Adventure. Now she knew people had died, and the Adventure was over.

Their arrival back in camp was inconspicuous. Hobbits glanced at them and looked away, unconcerned by dirty fauntlings in strange dress, used more to the sight than Outsiders would think. Primula smiled, relieved, when they opened their eyes and were where they were aiming for. “It’s good to be home.” She said.

Drogo nodded, and smiled. Away from the Mountain, their normal cheer quickly returned. “Time for dinner!” He said excitedly, and linking hands they darted through the crowd of hobbits, to the brightly painted Brandybuck cart.

Tomorrow, they will go back to the Mountain, and they will bring the most adventurous fauntlings with them. But tonight, they will be respectable hobbits.

 

--

 

He didn’t want to stop working, and so he hadn’t.

So Grandma Took made him.

Bilbo woke up in Grandma Tooks tent, on a plush bedroll, head aching but body refreshed.

“You collapsed.” Grandma Took said. She was perched delicately on an overstuffed armchair, nearly swallowed by the knit and brocade fabric. “Stupid boy. You’ll kill yourself, at this rate.” There was a fondness in her voice, for all her fierce expression and harsh words.

Bilbo pushed himself to a sitting position, groaning softly at the aches of his body. “Thank you, Grandma Took,” he said, voice froggy and dry, “For bringing me here.” He ignored her earlier comment to take stock of himself.

“Fool child,” she said again, harsher. “Just like your mother – mourning and he’s not even dead yet!”

Bilbo felt a full body shudder move through him, pain and fear of what had almost happened stealing his breath. “Don’t say that,” he whimpered. He’d been strong for so long now, been so good at not thinking about it, and now he was tired.

“That he might die? We both know he won’t,” Grandma Took stood, whispy white hair floating around her face. “And we both know you’ll work yourself to death soon enough, too afraid to go up and knock some sense into that dwarf of yours.”

“He’s not – he’s not mine.” Bilbo whispered, and fingered the braids and beads Maelder had insisted be done in his hair. “He has made that clear enough. I was his, but he was not – mine.” No, he knew that well enough. No King could love a hobbit, and no man could love a traitor.

Grandma Took huffed, two weathered hands planted on her round hips. “Stick your head in the sand, child, and fill your mouth with dirt! You wear a mithril shirt beneath your tunic, more precious than any paltry words! He saw to your safety above all else!”

“He cast me out of his mountain! Barred me from his bedside when I thought he was dying!” Bilbo shouted back, hands bunched in his blanket. “I loved him, and I thought he would die, and he would not even allow me the chance to say my farewells!” Tears dribbled down his face, cheeks red and blotchy from crying.

“So you mourn him as if he is lost?!”

“I MOURN NO ONE!” Bilbo cried, full out sobbing now. “No one… at all…”

Kneeling at his side, Grandma Took bundled him up in her arms, rocking him softly back and forth. “I know, baby, I know.”

 

--

 

Primula led Zinia, Rhododendron, the twins Delphinius and Heather, and little Button through the caverns of Erebor.

They had all picked up trinkets along the way, small Lost objects that the none of them could leave behind. Zinia’ toes were graces by rings, a war hammer strapped to her back. Rhoda had picked up a heavy leather and steel belt, almost a hands length wide and an inch thick, matching the heavy, metal knuckled gauntlets she adopted. They juxtaposed against her delicately boned body, her fine features and mousy brown hair.

The twins were dressed the same, and looked the same, and, impossibly, had found matching Lost things. They shared the exact same dark hair and eyes, and wore the exact same grey pinafores and green blouses, and around their necks hung thick, collar like necklaces, matching the manacle like pieces clasped around their wrist and waists and ankles.

Button trailed behind the two, pockets rattling, filled with her name sake. Perched lop-sided on her honey-blonde curls was a slightly lopsided crown of interlocking squares of gold. Young enough to be barely toddling along, her feet and ankles wrapped for protection against the cold. “Hungry!” She chirped, scambling over a partly collapsed wall.

Already on the other side, Primula straightened her charge’s skirts. “Alrighty, girls,” she said. She was still dressed in her stolen dwarf clothes, and she was in the mind to get her girls some, too. They had to look the part if they were going to meet the dwarves. Taking little Button’s hand in hers, she led her girls further into the bowels of Erebor.

They searched for what felt like hours before they came upon quarters with girl’s clothing in the right sizes. The place was large, and filled with many different kinds of clothes, bolts of cloth and dressmakers dummies. Once, Primula was sure, it must have been a tailors shop. Now it made a great place for them to find dress-up clothes.

“Oh,” Veira sighed, and ran her hands over a dress still on its dummy, relishing in the plush velvet it was made of. “These musta been made for a lady.” The dress was a deep jade green, that on the doll only reached to its shin but on the hobbit lass would brush the floor. It was simple shift, with the wrists and neck cinched tight and heavily embroidered with silver thread. A matching hat of silver and emeralds was fitted over the headless neck, a gossamer silver veil trailing down to its waist in layers and folds. She was quick to don it, carefully folding her own clothes and setting them aside. They would come back for them later.

The others were not so easily clothed. Heather and Delph were caught up in a silent fight between choosing a smoky grey and deep red tunic and skirt, and another in royal purple and black. Primula had taken it upon herself to dress Button, fighting to get her in a puffy pale gold dress, and failing miserably at it. Rhoda was the only one of them that was still actively looking for something, and was growing more frustrated by the lack of it.

Snapping the matching belt around her waist and settling her warhammer on her back, Veira went to join her.

“Can’t choose?” She asked. The other girl frowned. There was a rack of clothes, made from heavy, durable fivers and metal and looked more like armour than clothing, in front of her.

“I can’t find anything,” she said. “It’s all so … Dull.” Fingering a muted brown and blue tunic, mail soldiered on artfully, she sighed. “So boyish. I don’t want something dull, but-”She growled, unable to put it into words.

Veira cast a look around. This corner of the store was devoted to men’s tunics and pants, overshirts and stocky gloves. She laughed. “You’re looking in the boy’s part!” She said. “Silly goose, girls are over there!”

Rhoda was a farmer’s daughter, and appreciated the thick, protective fabrics of the warrior’s clothing, shunning the girl’s delicate dresses. “I don’t want some silly thing that will rip the first time I pick blackberries in it,” she whined.

Dragging Rhoda over to the other side of the store, Veira laughed. “Women are warriors as well, in dwarf culture. I’m sure they have something for you, too.” Reluctant, Rhoda followed her.

The warrior girl’s clothing was grander than the boy’s, though not nearly so splendid as the civilian’s. Rhoda fell upon the single row of clothes, pulling at each piece, examining each stitch and fold. “…Acceptable,” she said at last, and pulled a warm blue tunic from its stand, the brown undershirt and blue-grey pants.

Heather and Delph had decided on the purple and black set, meeting in the middle with their dark hair held back by a smoky grey silk scarf, decorated with pearls and gold thread. Primula had finally gotten Button into the puffy dress, and now the fauntling was scowling and muttering ‘cupcake’, stuffing her buttons into the dress pockets.

The leader of their Adventure smiled, and patted her on her head. “Good!” Primula said. “Now we look the part enough to see the king!” Nodding decisively, she began to lead the girls out of the room. “Time to go find the boys!”

Leading the girls out in a row, they made their way back to the frontal cavern.

 

--

 

The boys, Drogo, Hamwise, Paladine, Till and Falstolph, had already found themselves trouble. They’d left the girls not ten minutes before, going right when they went left.

They’d found clothing to go with their own adventuring easily enough – short sleeves tunics and tight long sleeved undershirts, fur lined cloaks and heavy belts, thick loose pants and metal helmets that slipped and slid, too big for their heads – but it wasn’t what they were looking for. “I know our momma’s saod Looking for things was Very Naughty, but we have to,” the little girl had said. “We need the dwarves to like us, right? And dwarves like treasure. So Look for treasure.” She’d said as she led them into Erebor.

Looking for things was much harder than simply Finding them. Objects that were Lost and wanted to be Found were beacons, drawing hobbits to them like moths to flame, but Looking for things forced a hobbit to narrow their focus to only certain objects, and to those that did not necessarily want to be Found.

Clenched tight in Till’s sweaty hands was a short sword, though on any larger creature it would be a rather short knife, and he wore the scabbard around his waist. Drogo had found himself a metal-topped staff and was using it as a walking stick. Hamwise had gotten his hands on a bow his height and half again, dragging it and the quiver behind him like a comfort-blanket.

Paladine and Fastolph alone carried nothing, though not for lack of Looking. It was simply that neither could decide on something to present to the dwarves. They’d picked weapons because they thought tough dwarf men didn’t want any fru-fru jewelry.

“It’s just across the ravine,” Paladin said again, making his way across the stone bridge. Said ‘ravine’ was more like a gaping emptiness, so deep and wide that they could neither see the bottom or sides.

Drogo looked across the bridge, and stepped back, tugging Till and Hamwise with him. “No,” he said forcefully. “You two can cross on that death trap. Me and the sane hobbits will gladly stay over here.”

Till squirmed out of his hold, darting to stand on the very beginning of the bridge. “Perfectly safe!” He said, hopping up and down to further his point.

“Don’t!” Drogo cried, pulling him back. “Don’t scare me like that!”

There was a rumble, and the sound of falling stone, and then, suddenly, behind Drogo was covered in stone, and that under his feet was starting to crumble away. “Run!” He cried, dragging Hamwise across the bridge. He paid no mind to hoe dangerous the bridge was – staying was more a danger to their lives now – but dragged Hamwise across, pushing Till in front of him.

Paladin and Falstoph were already halfway across the bridge, screaming and holding their hands over their heads. Hamwise stumbled, fell, and Drogo snatched up his hand and dragged him stumbling the rest of the way across the bridge.

The bridge began to fall away under their feet –

Drogo tripped, went flying –

Landing hard, skinned hands and chin and cheek –

Safe. The world is spinning but no longer falling, pain blooming like mid-summer flowers all over his body. His fingers come away wet as he carefully prodded his cheek, but he paid little mind to that. “’Wise? ‘WISE!! Falstoph! Paladin!” In the pitch darkness of the tunnel he can’t see, and the worrying lack of his adventuring companions is all he can concentrate on. Scrambling to his feet, he walked blindly, hands held in front of his face.

He stumbled over stone, tripped, hands and knees hitting the floor with a loud crack! “Agh!” He cried, stray tears squeezing out of his eyes. “Where are you?!” He shouted, voice echoing. He coughed as dust stuck to the inside of his throat, turning to mud in his mouth. Panic swelled in his chest, until he couldn’t breath.

His stomach heaved. At the last second he turned his head to the side, so that it spattered wet beside him. “Help!!” He shouted, “Help!”

Desperate, purple crawled over the edges of his vision, he stumbled, fell again. He didn’t have the strength to stand and so he crawled, over stone and floor, hacking and crying and screaming, sick and tear dribbling down his face.

“Help,” he called plaintively, voice growing weaker.

As the purple consumed his vision, all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen over the camps, and the hobbits were settling down for sleep. Bilbo did not join them.

The stars were bright overhead, pinpricks of light that made shapes and shaped stories, and as he sat in the tents he spoke of them to the sick. He was sitting with the Men tonight, passing from bed to bed, setting hands on shoulders and knees of he thought they were beginning to stir.

“A story, good hobbit,” one of them rasped, weak hand waving about, clutching at air. “One of happiness, of light.”

Bilbo does not much feel like a happy story. But it would be horribly cruel to deny the man this. “Alright,” He said, and went to retrieve his red book. He’d left it back two tents over, where he’d been called to watch the men so that the elfish healers watching them could get something to eat. They were nearly nocturnal now, awakening at late afternoon and falling to sleep a few hours after dawn. Poor things would have a hell of a time returning to a regular sleeping schedule after this was over.

Outside, he spared barely a glance for the stars; he told stories about them, but that meant little. A breeze, carrying the promise of ice from the north, chilled him, freezing him through his burlap clothes. It makes him glad that they have food enough for the winter, and more on it’s way besides.

The tents are at most fifteen feet apart, but in the moonless night they seemed miles. “Home is behind…” He sang softly, to fill the quiet. His voice was not sweet, but acceptable, and it was something to listen to other than groans and screams and the rustle of clothe.

Boots thump over the soft ground, and Bilbo turned to greet the man. “Hello-” He began.

He never got the chance to finish.

 

--

 

The girls made their way through the tunnels, nearly out when the floor shook under their feet. Rubble fell, large chunks and small, and dust choked the air. Button cried; the twins screamed. Primula darted back and dragged Button into her arms, snatching the hand of the girl closest to her and screaming for the others to “Grab onto each other and hold tight!”

World shaking, she dragged her daisy-train of fauntlings through the halls, head ducked low to protective from falling debris. “Isn’t rock supposed to be unmovable?!” One of them screamed, and another laughed, high pitched and hysterical.

“Earthquake!” was the explanation flung out. Earthquakes were not common in the West, but Primula had heard of them from Drogo, moments where the earth shook and it felt like the very world was coming apart at the seams.

They were almost there. Just the last stretch of hall and they would be home free, safe, out of the collapsing halls of Erebor and in the open.

Rhoda surged forward, twin in each hand, Veira swinging her too-large hammer at rocks over head. “The roof is coming down!” She screamed, and shoved the two girls forward, through the entrance, diving after them.

Just as her feet cleared the entrance to the tunnel, it collapsed, chips as sharp as broken glass slicing the air, and dust choking their lungs and sending them coughing,

Primula was the first to stand. Doing a quick head count, she let out a breath of relief when she knew all of her girls were still there. Next, she took stock of her surroundings.

Their wild run away from the falling rocks and towards what they had hoped was the entrance had rather led them to a long, round tunnel, without doors or end. Here and there nooks filled by vases or statues or tapestries decorated the hall, breaking it up evenly. “Door,” she said at length, “Must be a foreign concept to dwarves.” The others giggled through their tears, and even Button, who had seemed inconsolable, quieted her screams.

Curling her arms tighter around the youngest of her group, she carefully examined each girl, running fingers over their scalps to check for bumps and prodding sore spots, like she’d seen her Aunty Annemoni do when Gert had fallen out of the Party Tree during a party. Prim didn’t exactly understand why, but she knew it was a way to tell of someone was hurt. “Nothing but bumps and scrapes,” she announced after letting Rhoda out from under her hands.

Turning sharply, she headed back to the front of the group. “We move forward!” She said. “1-2-3 MARCH!” And they followed her, patting dust from their clothes and pebbles from their hair.

--

 

First, there was warmth; heady, musky, constricting warmth, the kind felt when wrapped in a huge blanket, curled up next to their pet.

Next, there was cold, along his head and the tip of his fingers and biting at his nose.

He cracked open his eyes, blinking away the crust sealing his lashes together. He ached, and his mouth tasted like sick and sleep. Trying to move his arms got him nowhere – it took him much longer than he would ever admit to for him to realize that he was wrapped in a fur blanket, and even longer to realize that he could roll out of it.

Moving slowly, as every turn of his head sent the world spinning like a pinwheel, he removed himself from the blanket. Standing carefully, he squinted through the darkness. A tent.

He was in a tent. Why was that strange?

Looking, he knew he was searching for something, though he wasn’t quite sure what. Fauntlings?

Yes, that felt right. He was searching for fauntlings.

His head pulsed to the beat of his heart, and his palms throbbed under their bandages, the world tilting and spinning around him. Something warm and wet trickled down his lip.

He patted blindly at the tent edges, leaning his weight against the taunt walls, until one gave away and he stumbled through the slip fabric, and into the light of a room. One hand came up to shield his eyes, the other clutching desperately at the tent flap. For a moment he could not think, the shapes in front of him blurring, too-bright and indiscernible.

And then he fainted. Again.

--

 

“The boys have awakened.” Thorin turned towards the messenger – a dark haired dwarf just who’d just reached his majority – and nodded. “Dain has requested your presence to handle them.”

Standing, he patted Kili’s shoulder, whispered his goodbye’s to both of his sister-sons, and left their tent. “Is the boy panicking?” He asked the messenger, striding through the tight packed tents and crowd of dwarves.

The boy shook his head, one hand on the sword at his side. “No. From what I understand, he is severely concussed. Barely understands what’s going on – he’s confused, but not scared, sitting around the fire with the other boys.”

Thorin grunted. Then they stepped into the circle of the camp fire, then, and the messenger melted away in the shadows of the camp. Over head the lightstones gave off steady, multicolored light, and around them fires flickered. The hobbit children they had found in the collapsed tunnel were chattering happily to each other over bowls of stew, seemingly unbothered by their strange surroundings.

“May I join you?” He asked them, and took his seat next to the smallest. “What is you name?” He asked him. The child was dressed as a dwarf, in too-large training clothes and a rich cloak that looked like it had been made for a large noble, and not this boy barely taller than his shin. His bow was leaned against the bench, as ridiculously large as the cloak, its quiver in the boy’s tightly wrapped arms. “My own is Thorin, at your service.”

“’Wise!” He chirped, voice soft and almost lost in the sounds around them. “My name ‘Wise. Your service.” Nodding, but not looking at Thorin, the boy replied.

“Wise,” Thorin repeated the word, tasting it. Strange name for a creature so young, but it was well known that hobbits were strange folk. “Can you tell me why you were in the Mountain, Wise?” Thorin held himself awkwardly. He had not spoken to a child since his sister-sons were young, and he was greatly out of practice.

“Dwarves,” the boy said. And, then, “’Venture. Primmy like ‘venture. ‘Wise f’llow Primmy.” Little fingers were worrying away at the hem of borrowed clothes, and small teeth worried his bottom lip. “No Primmy here.” Solemn eyes looked at him then, shockingly green under heavy blonde lashed. The hobbit boy was a handsome child; he suspected it would not be long until the dwarves he could see scrambling to finish their work were cooing over him.

“No,” Thorin agreed. “No… Primmy.” Curse Dain, he was horrible with children! “Are your parents expecting you?”

The solemn little boy shook his head. “Tired,” he said, and crawled into Thorins lap. “No ques’ions. Sleep.”

Thorin stiffened, staring down at the boy in his lap. The sleeping boy. The boy with one tiny hand in his mouth, leaking all over his coat. The King Under the Mountain shuddered.

“My names Paladin,” the oldest of the four boys said, pulling himself from his conversation with the other two. “This is Till,” he pointed to the copper headed boy to his left, “And Falstoph,” to the boy on his right, who grinned at him with two missing bottom teeth. “Is Drogo okay?” He was genuinely worried, with something like guilt whitening his face.

Thorin nodded. “As well as he can be. How did you find yourselves in the Mountain? Our guards-”

“Aren’t hobbits. So they didn’t work. We walked right past them on our way in here.” Paladin shrugged, and then shivered, and tugged his cloak around his shoulders like a blanket. “Hobbits ‘re good at stuff like that. Sneaking around and the like, like Nessa made us for, is easy.” He shrugged again, eyes never leaving Thorin’s. There was a challenge in them, though of what the King could not say.

Till yawned, and leaned into the elder boy’s side. Paladin wrapped one arm around his shoulder. “We’re not leaving without Drogo.” He said.

Thorin nodded. “We have sent out runners to inform your families of your where abouts. Will they be worried?”

“No,” Paladin said. “Kids go off an’ disappear all the time, even in the Shire. Momma and da pro’lly think we’re in someone else’s cart, eating supper with them.” It was late afternoon by now, but Thorin didn’t have the heart to tell them all the time they’d lost.

They fell into silence, the boys having no more questions and the King too awkward to delve further.

It was a quiet afternoon.

 

--

 

Lobelia stomped through the crowd, Lotho on one hip. By her side, little Bramble scrambled to follow, one hand at her necklace and the other holding her skirts out of the mud that the elder so carelessly tromped through.

“Mommy will be mad at you,” the fauntlings chided, carefully stepping through the mud. It squished between her spread toes, pleasant but almost too-cold.

Lobelia snorted. “I see no reason why your mother would care one whit who I ask to watch my son – and if you followed me, it is no fault of mine.” Hiking Lotho higher on her hip, she gently tugged her storm cloud curls from his tight grip. “No, sweetie, momma’s hair is not a toy.”

The fierce hobbit woman glared at any staring creature, brandishing her now-infamous umbrella with one hand. “It is simple coincidence that your poor lad is who I chose for the task.”

“But momma said it isn’t proper for courting hobbits to be alone-”

“You do not have to marry him,” Lobelia said sharply. “I did not marry my own destined, and was quite happy while Otho was alive. I have a beautiful son, now, and the memory of those days, and do not wish to find the fool creature Nessa has set for me. Love is not determined by the Valar.”

Bramble stared at her, wide eyed. “Oh,” she said. “Why not?”

Why what?” Be specific, child. I do not play guessing games.”

“Why do you not want to marry your destined?”

“Because,” said Lobelia, “I married Otho, and it is to Otho whom I will remain faithful to.” There was something discomforting about the way she held herself, a darting viciousness in her silent steps. “If we ever met, it would be a fine thing indeed. But I would not love him like I love Otho.” She did not smile, but something softened, then, in her face and the way she held herself. “You have a choice.”

Bramble looked thoughtful. “Choice…” she echoed, like it was a foreign thing.

They were interrupted by the approach of an elf, painfully young and shy. “Hi, Bramble,” he said, ducking his head. The boy could not have been more than a tween, by hobbit reckoning, and Lobelia observed this with a frown.

The hobbit lass ducked behind Lobelia. The woman nudged her softly, until Bramble peaked out, shy faced and red. “Hi, mister Míwon,” her hand tightened around her necklace. “Miss Lobelia says I don’t have to marry you.”

“You don’t,” Míwon agreed.

“I don’t want to.” She said with an air of finality in her voice. The elf looked disappointed, but agreed, his voice whisper soft.

“Alright.”

“But…” She stepped out from behind Lobelia slowly. “But that does not mean I would not like to know you?”

The boy looked relieved. “I would… Like that.”

Lobelia pushed Lotho into his arms, then, amd smirked. “Good. You can get to know each other while watching Lotho.”

She cackled as she slipped in away. Now, to go find that pesky cousin of hers…

--

Chapter Text

There is something to be said of dwarvish craftsmanship, Bilbo thought, in all things. Like ropes, they made rather sturdy ropes.

And there was most definitely something to be said of dwarven thoroughness. Bilbo wriggled in his ropes, rough burlap rubbing the skin raw. He had thick ropes around his wrists, another around his ankles, then around his thighs and upper arms. He rather felt like a trussed up pig.

There came the creak of leather boots on stone, and Bilbo stilled. The strides were heavy, and long, with the barest falter between them.

He was beginning to regret his changing clothes every day; he’d worn the dwarf set the day before, and now he wore the simple shirt and pants he’d made himself. Usually he wasn’t so cold as to bother him, but whatever cave he’d found him self in was infinitely colder than the base of the mountain. Northern winds slipped through the gaps of his clothes, freezing his skin and causing him to shiver. “Damn cold,” he hissed, and tugged against his ropes.

“Little hobbit,” a voice outside of his line sight hissed. “Should end you now, for thinking to sully the line of Durin. Let you bleed out all over the floor, dead eyes and just like your dead soul.” His attacker laughed, high and grating and utterly insane. “Should could would…” A boot nudged him, hard leather in the small of his back. “If I did not suspect you were my king’s One your head would already be rolling on the floor.”

Bilbo shivered. The man was clearly insane, talking nonsense about ‘ones’ and murder so casually. “Who speaks?” he asked, cautious and scared. That he spoke at all was a testament to his change since leaving Bag End: before, he would not have thought to speak at all.

Behind him, he could hear the man pace, though in the darkness of the cave he could not see him. “I am Arke, son of no one,” he said, voice dragging over the ‘r’s roughly. “Just as you are Bilbo, son of Bungo, thief and liar and traitor.”

The hobbit opened his mouth to protest, only to be stopped by a swift kick to his side. It felt hard as stone, and drove the breath from his lungs. “Traitors to the Crown of Erebor do not speak,” Arke hissed. “To speak is to leak and to let myself be weak. I am not weak.”

Bilbo lay gasping on the ground, tears pooling in his eyes and spit dripping down his chin. Pain and shock blanked his mind. Through the haze of pain, he heard the man exit, the tap-stutter-tap of his boots on uneven ground.

He did not speak for a long time after the pain faded.

 

- -

 

Lobelia hissed, frustrated as she exited the elven camp. Her fussy older cousin was no where to be found, and just as she needed him! Oh, the gall of that hobbit.

That – that love struck fool was probably off skulking somewhere, bemoaning his little dwarf love. Man should just buck up already and snog the lad now, just as she had her Otho. All this dancing around, avoidance of the true issue, it never was the Bracegirdle way. And, in Lobelias stalwart opinion, everything would run much easier if the world were more like Bracegirdles- straight forward.

Well, she’d soon know where her fussy older cousin was. Disregarding propriety – she had not the will nor the time for it, as Lotho would tolerate her separation from him for only a short time, and her need to find her cousin was growing by the minute – and so she set her mind to Looking for him.

 

--

 

The hallway curved and rose and dove, as sinuous and changing as a snake’s body, twining through the Mountain at a ridiculous length. At times it opened to wide, spacious caverns, and at other they seemed to enter different parts of the Mountain, but there was never a door or a branch off.

It was all very frustrating, at least to the young hobbit girls traveling it. They did not know how to transverse a dwarven hallway, and where before they slipped between cracks in walls and open arches, there was none of that here, and all of them had quickly found themselves tiring of the unchanging scenery. “I want to go home,” Heather said.

“I want dinner!” Delph added. She picked at the brocaded edge of her dress, and moved to the inside of the cuff, soft fur nearly abrasive after so much time. “We’ve been walking for forever.”

Zinia, shrugged. “We’ll find the dwarves soon,” she said, absolute surety in her voice. “And when we do, they’ll give you some dinner. So stop your whining, Puddifoots!” The end of her war hammer tapped against the ground decisively. She’d been using it as a walking stick for some time, the wooden handle long enough and strong enough to be quite comfortable that way.

Behind her, the twins made faces at her back.

“Now don’t be that way,” Rhoda scolded. Button was folded quite comfortably in her arms, little fingers tangled into the chain mail soldered artfully to her torso. “You don’t see us complaining, do you? And everyone is quite tired now – Button is asleep! Let us move forward a short time longer, and then Prim said she would Find the dwarves on purpose. A few moments longer would be no bad thing.” The oldest of the hobbit children was only a few feet forward, but had, as Rhoda said, began to use her magics to find their destinations, and was blind to them.

They followed he another short while, until they once again came to an open cavern. It was criss-crossed by other paths, stone bridges that shone white under the glowing crystals of the caverns. “We go below,” Primula said imperiously.

Zinia looked over the edge of bridge. Another, a short leap and drop from their own, was Primula’s destination. “Are you insane?” She asked. “I’m certainly not. And I’m not jumping that, either.”

The twins leaned over, staring at the bridge. “We can make it,” they said, and turned in sync to look at Rhoda. The blonde haired girl hitched Button higher in her arms.

“Well,” she said, uncertain, and looked over the edge. “It’s not too far, Zinia, and it’s not like we’re getting anywhere fast at the moment…” She shrugged. “Let’s do it.” The twins scrambled up on the stone ledge, reeling back and forth wildly before leaping.

They landed on the veined marble with a clatter, falling and rolling before meeting the bridge’s other side, thumping against the stone. “We’re fine!” They shouted as they popped up, wild grins on their faces. “It’s not too hard at all!”

Primula scrambled up next, taking the leap with more grace and a wild scream. She landed on her feet, stumbled, and then stood strong, turning back to face her friends. “Well?” She asked, expectant.

It was Zinia who moved next, a sigh heavy on her lips. “You’re all insane,” she chided, but threw her hammer down before leaping over the empty space between bridges, steadier than all of them put together. She was from across the Brandywine, and spent much of her time in the trees of the Old Forest, and as such knew better than her new friends how to land steadily.

Rhoda glanced uncertainly over the edge of the bridge, suddenly aware of the empty drop before her and the child in her arms. But stupidly brave and sure of herself, she backed up precisely six steps and ran.

Vaulting over the edge, Button tight in arm, a scream ripped from her throat –

And then she landed hard, feet and toes digging into unforgiving stone, knees cracking against marble, and then elbows, bowed protectively over her charge. “’M okay,” she mumbled as she staggered to her feet. Her joints throbbed, pain rising and falling to the beat of her heart, and she laughed. “How you doing, little princess?” Rhoda asked the babe in her arms, and Button grumbled, still deep in sleep. “We’re both okay.”

The others tried not to look relieved. Rhoda was the smallest of all of them, despite being older than the twins, and delicate besides. They would worry for her, while they had the mind for it. “Good,” Primula said, and with a swish of her skirts faced to the left of where they had been going. This was merely a crossroads; it was the only place the two bridges came close to each other, and their newest path led off in quite the different direction from them.

They walked. They walked and walked and walked, through caverns, some filled with crystals and others with nothing at all, through blank hallways and opulent paths, walked and walked without an end in sight.

--

 

The children slept uneasily. They had refused to let themselves be removed from Thorin’s side, and so he had found himself trapped in a hobbit-pile, in a mess of furs and armor and children, soaking up the heat of the camp fire. The littlest one – Wise, he remembered – wass tucked into the crook of his arms. Falstoph and Till were sprawled across his chest, and Paladin had taken his own place pressed against his leg.

It was uncomfortable, being trapped beneath the delicate children of the Shire, but Thorin did not mind nearly so much as the look on his face would suppose. He had a thunderous scowl on, and any who did not know the king personally did not approach for fear of being on its receiving end. “Stop looking so gloomy,” Balin admonished him. “Any other dwarf would loved to be in you situation, covered in adorable little hobbits.”

Thorin huffed. “Then someone should come take my place,” he said. Still, his arms tightened around Wise, and his gaze grew more threatening, as if daring anyone to try to take them from him. “When are their parents due back?” he asked.

There was a beat of silence, and then, with a shrug, Balin walked away. Thorin huffed again, and ran his hand through the silk-softness of Wise’s corkscrew hair. The boy murmured against his side, and Falstoph tangled his fingers into the little boy’s clothes, eyes cracked half-blurred and sleepy. He blinked once, twice, and Thorin stilled, hoping the boy would fall back asleep. He did, and the king gave a sigh of relief.

Not that he was scared of the boys, not at all. What a silly notion.

--

 

Lobelia stepped into the dwarve’s camps, umbrella over one shoulder, the hems of her skirt dirty, and a thunderous look on her face. Lost! She’d gotten lost!

Why, the young hobbit woman could nary remember the last time she lost her way, and that had been when she was but a maid, too stubborn to use her magics to find her way back. It was a small, frustrating thing, to think that the oafs they’d come to help had found a way to confuse even hobbit magics. Stupidly antagonistic, that was, to go against the hospitality extended towards them. Given food, and shelter, and not even polite about accepting it!

Huffing, she barged through the camp, dodging the clopping, lumbering figures of the dwarves. They did not see her, so caught up in themselves, and she growled as one stepped on her delicate toes. She was a Sackville-Baggins! Deserving, certainly, of more respect than this. And what was her cousin doing among the dwarves?! She was certain that the boy had more respectability than to drag himself back to the same creature that denied him what he thought would be his final goodbye’s!

Pushing her way through the dwarves, stabbing not a few of them with the sharpened end of her umbrella, it was still a time before she came upon the sight of a fellow hobbit.

This was not, unfortunately, her cousin.

As one Oin could attest, quite some time later, you did not need to hear a hobbit to realize they were cursing at you.

--