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Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins was the perfect little hobbitling. Incredibly intelligent, intuitive, and curious, little Bilbo enjoyed running through the forests with his fellow hobbitlings, leading them on adventures to find elves or fight imaginary monsters. He would read all of his father’s books and maps, trailing behind Bungo Baggins throughout the day and asking after words he did not understand, his eyes always wide and intense at the stories he read or heard.

Not to mention, he was just adorable.

With his bright curly gold hair and large green eyes, he would stutter his apologies and flutter his dark eyelashes whenever he found himself in trouble for trailing mud or trodding on gardens, and not even the most hardened old mothers of the Shire could scold him for long. When his parents dressed him up in a bright green vest and dark maroon trousers, he would puff his little chest up and hold his button nose high and follow behind his father like a wee duckling.

He was the apple of his parents’ eyes.

Bungo Baggins would beam at his little tyke whenever they were together, delighted at his son’s intellect and gumption, though as Bilbo grew older he was becoming increasingly worried about his son’s sense of adventure. Belladonna was delighted by this side, her little leaf’s Took nature, and had endeavored to nurture it while he was young, usually away from her husband’s censuring gaze. After all, it would be quite some time before Bilbo needed to concern himself with the business of growing up into a proper gentlehobbit.

Or at least that’s what Belladonna had believed. The fates, it seemed, had other plans for young Bilbo Baggins.

It began as a little sprout of hair from the tip of her leaf’s chin, at the tender age of twenty-one.

Most curious a thing. Belladonna had noticed it one summer night as she tucked him into bed after a long day of adventuring. She had touched it softly, tickling her leaf’s chin and smiling fondly at his giggles. Later she had told Bungo about it as they readied for bed. He had started, rather shocked. A hair? On the chin of a little hobbit child? Preposterous!

She had insisted it was very true, and that he could look for himself, but Bungo Baggins was tired after a long day of business in Hobbiton and resigned himself to settle his wife’s foolishness on the morrow.

When they woke the next morning and went to the nursery to wake their son, there were two new hairs joining the first on Bilbo’s chin, both gold and curling.

Bungo and Belladonna were shocked to say the least. Hobbits, as a race, were a very hairless bunch, the largest wealth to be had could be found on their heads and the tops of their large feet. The last hobbit to have such hair was Belladonna’s Grand Uncle, Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took, who had been the proud owner of large hairy side-burns that nearly reached all around his jaw. Bungo still privately thought that at some point in the Took line, a hobbit lass had mated with a dwarf, and that was the explanation behind Bandobras Took.

And now, it seemed that their little hobbitling was growing a beard like a dwarfling!

Bungo and Belladonna had debated long into the day and night about what to do about such a development while Bilbo had played in the forests, neither he nor his friends taking notice of the little hairs on his chin. Bungo wanted to remove them, stating that no respectable hobbit would ever have a beard! It was just not done! And his little boy was a Baggins, the most respectable of hobbit families. He would be taking over the Baggins name after Bungo was gone, and his father was determined to turn him into a proper gentlehobbit. And that would require having a hairless chin, like all the other hobbits!

Belladonna was fierce in her refusals of this. Her husband was most likely right; the Took line was known for its oddities and adventuring ways. Her blood was most probably the cause of this sprouting of hair on her leaf’s chin. But that did not mean that they must cut them off! She did not truly believe that doing so would prevent any more growing, as hair was of that nature, and why on earth was that something to be ashamed of? Her great uncle had been revered throughout the Shire, side-burns or no. It was the actions of a hobbit that determined their worth, not their appearance! And her leaf was already an amazing little hobbit, intelligent, free-spirited, and bright. She would not have Bilbo growing up as though his personality or appearance was something to be ashamed of!

They argued long into the night, long after they had eaten dinner and supper, long after Bilbo had been put to bed, wondering with a frown on his face what was the matter with his parents.

In the end, Belladonna agreed to an experiment; they would remove the scant hairs from his chin while he slept that night and see what resulted from that. Belladonna was still furious with her husband about this matter, but she had caved in when he had reminded her that Bilbo would likely become an outcast amongst their people, a weird hairy hobbit that the other hobbit parents would caution their children away from. Belladonna wasn’t sure she believed this, but in the face of her little leaf’s innocence and current happiness, she was willing to try this. Personally, she believed they would grow right back.

She was right, in a way.

When morning came, and they checked on their son as he slept, they found that not only had the hairs grown back, but they had doubled in number over night, now forming half a dozen tiny curls on Bilbo’s chin.

Bungo had struggled with it for quite some time, retreating into his study for days, leaving his little son to wonder why his father suddenly seemed to hate him. When Belladonna had come across her little leaf’s shaking, crying form in front of the door to his father’s study, she had damn near throttled her foolish husband with her bare hands.

They agreed to talk about it with Bilbo, as that was really the only fair thing to do. Anxious at his father’s recent disappearance and his disapproval, he had decided to shave the hairs off each morning and night, however often it took to be the proper gentlehobbit his father wanted. Belladonna had frowned severely at this but had not pushed. She knew eventually her leaf would decide to be his true self and let his hair grow from his chin and wherever else it happened to sprout up from, but for now the growing boy needed the approval of his father and the understanding of his mother.

And life continued on like this for the Baggins family in their comfortable smial. Every morning, Bungo would carefully shave his son’s chin, and after a while his upper lip too, which would grow a hearty ruff over night and once again after supper, all under the carefully neutral but slightly disapproving eye of Belladonna. A couple years into this pattern, Bilbo’s chin would grow hair back so fast that he would often have to return between luncheon and afternoon tea to rid himself of the golden stubble.

As Bilbo grew older, he began to resent this constant shaving of his lip and chin and would sometimes deliberately stay out in the forests around the Shire in the afternoon, strangely proud of the rough stubble. He would come home with his nose turned in the air and his slightly furred chin held high, all the while ignoring the gossipmongers and the titters of scandalized hobbit lasses. His father would sigh wearily and look at him with censuring brown eyes. His mother always beamed at him from behind his father’s back, immensely pleased by her son’s actions.

When Bilbo came of age at thirty-three years, another most curious thing happened. The hair dusting his upper lip and chin became impervious to knife, blade, and razor alike. This had quickly frustrated Bungo Baggins, who tried everything known to remove hair, even attempting the use of fire, which had earned him a large pink handprint upon his cheek, courtesy of his wife.

The golden stubble grew quite quickly then, lengthening and lengthening, until Bilbo could tie it up with a leather thong above his chest. And though he was the scandal of all Hobbiton and beyond, he could not bring himself to feel any shame in his fast growing hair. His mother had commissioned a smithy in Bree to forge beads and trinkets for her leaf’s golden beard, adornments she had seen upon dwarves that occasionally passed through the Shire on their way to the Blue Mountains.

Belladonna could not be prouder of her leaf than when he marched around the Shire as though it were his kingdom, showing off his now long curly gold beard, decorated with little flowers and suns fashioned from gold and silver, even a few gems she had gathered on the brief adventures of her youth and battered for in the markets.

Though the other hobbit parents of the Shire told their children to stay away from that odd Baggins boy, the other young hobbits, both lads and lasses, had taken to spying on the oddity that was Bilbo Baggins. They never approached him, though, not like they used to.

Bilbo had accepted his differences, even embraced them, but they did cost him a valuable thing: friends. None of the other hobbits his age would hold conversations or companionships with him, fascinated though they were by the hair on his face. They did not want to catch whatever Bilbo must have that made him so weird, so unhobbit like. He was wild, adventurous, and beautiful like all Tooks are, like his mother was in her youth. But he was, at the same time, unlike any hobbit before. Had he not looked so much like Bungo, with his curly gold hair and warm cream complexion, albeit with Belladonna’s leaf green eyes, the other gentlehobbits might have wondered if Belladonna had not committed some small indiscretion with a dwarf in the past that resulted in a hasty marriage and such.

It was a terrible day when, barely three years after Bilbo’s majority, Bungo died quite unexpectedly.

The healers of the Shire could not fathom what had brought this early death upon a healthy male hobbit, barely making his strides into old age. All they could figure was that his heart had given out or that he had ingested something poisonous while on the road between Hobbiton and Bree, where Bungo traveled for business.

This prognosis did little to sooth Bilbo’s or his mother’s hearts. They locked themselves up in Bag End after Bungo’s funeral, which all of the Shire was in attendance for as he had been a very prominent and well liked gentlehobbit, despite the idiosyncrasies of his son and wife. For days they remained in there, consoling each other and abstaining from the world outside their hobbit hole. At night, hobbits passing by their smial curiously could hear the beautiful meshing of Bilbo’s tenor sounding voice and his mother’s high soprano singing in the darkness the song of the mourning.

By the time they finally left their cozy hobbit hole and rejoined the world of the living, Bilbo seemed like a different hobbit altogether. He still wore his beard and such in much the same way as before, his clothing still fine and proper, but he seemed to have matured a great deal in the span of a few days. Belladonna also was changed, not smiling with the exuberance she once had and rarely leaving the hobbit hole that her husband had lovingly built for her so long ago. The mother and son often sang together at night, often a song that Belladonna had written after her beloved hobbit’s death, a song about the Fading. It was a beautiful one but incredibly sorrowful.

A few short years later, when Bilbo was nearing the age of forty-four, Belladonna took also left this world, much the same way as her husband did, with little explanation. Bilbo had always believed that she had died of a broken heart.

And so, Bilbo Baggins was left alone in the vast and expansive tunnels of his family home, comforted only by his father’s books and maps, his mother’s tea set and lace dollies. Paltry reminders of the happy family he once had. Sometimes at night, Bilbo would sit on the bench outside his smial and sing his mother’s song into the silence of the night, bringing tears to the eyes of any hobbit who happened to hear him.

When Gandalf arrived to disturb the repetitive schedule of Bilbo’s life, the bearded hobbit wasn’t sure whether to be agitated or grateful for a distraction from the aching loneliness he often felt in those days.

The old wizard had been shocked when he had journeyed up to Bag End and found a young hobbit, dressed in a gold vest and velvet tan trousers, smoking his pipe and stroking a long curly gold beard, magnificent in the morning sun with glittering gold beads and gems in the shape of small flowers and suns holding small weaving braids in place.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at the older man, dressed in all grey with a silver scarf hanging around his shoulders, a large wooden staff in his hand and a tall pointed hat upon his head.

“Good morning,” He said good naturedly, wondering at the strangeness of the gentleman.

“*What do you mean?” The old man asked with a raised bushy white eyebrow. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning? Or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?”

Bilbo lowered his pipe, his mouth opening in incredulity and confusion.

The old man continued, “Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you stating that this is a particular morning to be good on?”

Bilbo gave him a strange look, wondering at the sanity of this tall man. “All of them at once, I suppose,” He replied hesitantly, taking a pull from his handsome pipe.

The older man’s expression suddenly became rather foreboding, and he fixed Bilbo with a searching look.

The young hobbit shifted a little nervously at that before asking, “Can I help you?” He dearly hoped this strange fellow would leave soon. He was making Bilbo quite uncomfortable.

“That remains to be seen,” The old man hummed quietly. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.” He said quietly and with great mystery.

An adventure?

Bilbo fixed the stranger with a look of utter incredulity and nearly dropped his pipe. “An adventure?” He repeated with no little amount of outrage. ”No, I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures” He said with a shake of his head derisively.

Bilbo rose from the benched and checked his mailbox for letters, muttering “Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. They’ll make you late for dinner.” He gave a little laugh at this, shuffling through his letters. His green eyes would dart up at the old man nervously, before he put out his pipe quickly and uttered another quick ‘good morning’ before attempting to retreat inside. He was stopped by the man’s next words.

“To think that I should have lived to be ‘good morning’'d by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I were selling buttons at the door,”* He said loudly with no small amount of irritation. “You are Belladonna Took’s son, are you not?” At this, he surveyed Bilbo with a curious gaze, his grey eyes fixed most notably on the large golden beard. “Bilbo Baggins?”

*“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Bilbo countered rather defensively, the hand not holding his pipe running a self-conscious hand over his beard, making sure there were not hairs out of place or beads falling off.

“Well, you know my name, although you don’t remember I belong to it.” He swept his arms out and gestured to himself emphatically, shouting “I’m Gandalf! And Gandalf means…me.”

Bilbo felt a sudden burst of recognition for the name. “Not Gandalf the wandering wizard who makes such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer’s Eve!”

At this, Gandalf straightened with pride, a small smile appearing on his wizened face, which quickly died at Bilbo’s next words.

“No idea you were still in business.” Bilbo coughed absently.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed. “And where else should I be?”

The bearded hobbit became a little flustered at this, muttering a few unintelligible things, before puffing his pipe rather sheepishly.

Gandalf sighed. “Well, I’m pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it is my fireworks.” He gave a small nod of his head. “Well, that’s decided. It’ll be very good for you…and most amusing for me.* I had worried at first that you would not be welcomed, but well…” He once again gave a curious look at Bilbo’s long beard. *“I shall inform the others.”

Bilbo gave a start at this, protesting the willfulness of this strange wizard fellow. “Inform the who? What? No. No.No—Wait!” He spluttered quickly turning back to the bright emerald door of his hobbit hole, gesturing wildly back at Gandalf and shaking his head. “We do not want any adventures here, thank you. Not today, not—I suggest you try over the hill or across the water. “

He gestured away from Hobbiton with a few waves of his pipe, before entering his home with a quick ‘good morning!’

Bilbo slumped against his door, calming his nerves that had been set awry at the wizard’s words. He wondered anxiously if he was still out there. He crossed to the window but quickly leapt back as Gandalf’s face seemed magnified by the glass, one large grey eye looking within.

Bilbo could hear an odd scratching on his door, and he hastily looked out the window again, seeing the wizard headed away from his smial, off down Bagshot Row.

For the rest of the day, Bilbo found himself looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Gandalf or these ambiguous ‘others’ following him around the market or on his way back home. No one was there, however. And by the time supper arrived, Bilbo was once again quite at peace, alone in his comfy home and having quite forgotten about Gandalf’s surprise visit.

He had just been about to dig in to his supper when his doorbell rang out of the blue. Bilbo was mighty confused. No respectable hobbit would come a-visiting during this time; it would be quite rude to intrude without warning upon another’s meal.

He stood up from the table and walked quickly to the door, a little worried that there was an emergency or something dreadful like that. When Bilbo reached the door and opened it, instead of finding one of his neighbors or cousins, he found a dwarf. A giant of a dwarf, indeed.

The large, muscled man turned to look at him, folding great beefy arms the width of tree trunks across his broad chest and fixing him with a fearsome look in his dark eyes. The dwarf’s baldhead was covered in faint tattoos, his large ears pieced with metal plates, and great iron armor encasing his forearms and chest. He had thick brown hair that haloed around the back of his skull and large tuffs below his great nose and the slim view of his mouth. A long leather cloak was draped over his shoulders and armor.

The dwarf opened his mouth to speak but then caught sight of the hobbit’s beard. Bilbo watched surprised as a bright red flush worked its way up what little the hobbit could see of the dwarf’s neck and face, his eyes becoming rather wide and bright.

Observant a dwarf as ever, Dwalin had noticed a few of the Halflings as he had journeyed through the Shire on his way to the meeting, but none of them had had any facial hair whatsoever. He had walked up to this brightly painted door with Gandalf’s glowing blue signature on it expecting to find a small beardless Halfling, barely able to hold an axe or lift a sword.

Instead he had found a rare beauty with bright eyes like emeralds and long hair like streams of gold that danced in the flickering light of the candles inside the entrance. This hobbit, for surely that was what it was, living in the heart of this green land, had skin that looked as soft as cream and as smooth as the flat side of a blade, excellently crafted and forged with dwarven hands.

And his beard…

Dwalin could barely take his eyes from the long golden length. He imagined it was very soft, sliding easily through the fingers like rivers of gold. There were small braids interwoven through the curly mass, held together by delicate flowers of gold and emerald. Not adornments made by dwarven hands, the craftsmanship was not fine enough, but still…they make a fine sight for weary eyes.

“Dwalin,” He bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off this small, beautifully bearded hobbit dressed in only a comfort robe and some linen wears. “At your service.”

Bilbo started a little at the deep rough voice of the dwarf and hastened to belt his robe when he realized it was gaping open, revealing his nightclothes. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”* He stuttered out hesitantly, a little in awe of this bear-like stranger. He stepped back and watched with much confusion as the dwarf lumbered in.

And so began the night that would ever change young Bilbo’s life

Chapter Text

“Do we know each other?” Bilbo floundered for words, rather befuddled at the sudden appearance of this fierce warrior dwarf.

Dwalin gave him an incredulous look. “No.” Aye, I’d remember you, laddie, Dwalin thought to himself. Dwalin would never have forgotten a being with such a magnificent beard. He could scarcely disdain the hobbit for his gentle, inexperienced ways in the arts of war and weapons when all he could see when he looked at the lad was rich curls of gold on his head and chin and bright emerald eyes.

Dwalin shook himself and strode past the hobbit, attempting to distract himself. “Which way, laddie? Is it down here?” He walked toward a back tunnel, quietly appreciating the mastery of this underground hole. The woodwork was incredible, rich browns and golds arcing overhead, the hanging chandelier just barely grazing the top of Dwalin’s bald head. He noticed a particular smoothness below his furred boots and looked down to find small square tiles along the floor, sometimes covered by soft looking rugs. Upon noticing a bench along the entryway, Dwalin tossed his heavy traveler’s cloak and pack upon it, not hearing the slight huff of the little hobbit behind him.

Bilbo closed the door reluctantly, his confusion causing his face to scrunch up with distaste. “Is what down where?” He asked, his eyes following the dwarf warily.

“Supper. He said there’d be food. And lots of it.” Dwalin walked quickly past Bilbo again without looking, and found the kitchen and Bilbo’s slowly cooling supper. “Ah! Is this all? You’re gonna need a lot more than that, laddie. This is barely a bite.”

“He—He said?” Bilbo trailed behind the burly dwarf, his hands wringing with nerves. “Who said?” But the dwarf gave no appearance of having heard him.

Bilbo watched, appalled, as this strange dwarf littered with tattoos, iron piercings, war axes, and rough leathers and furs ate his dinner right in front of him. The poor hobbit had no idea how to handle this situation. Hobbits were very fond of visitors, but there was a protocol for this sort of affair! There was the notice or invitation that one must receive, and permission, of course, and adequate time to prepare enough food and —

“Very good, this. Any more?” Dwalin asked longingly, not that the hobbit had any clue indication of such in his low rumbling voice. All Bilbo heard was a brutish growl.

Dwalin had not had such delicious food since before the fall of Erebor. The fish was exquisitely seasoned and cooked with exact care. Dwarfs were never ones to particularly enjoy eating vegetables, but these sliced carrots, chunks of broccoli and potato were spiced with a little sugar and cinnamon that made them simply fantastic. Balin would appreciate these, he thought absently, closing his eyes in delight after a particularly hardy bite of fish. Not only did the hobbit have a beard of spun gold and jewels for eyes, the little creature could cook as well! Dwalin wondered if he had ever met so attractive a creature. If only he had some skill with a weapon…Well, Dwalin could certainly teach him the way of the axe...along with a few other things…

“What? Oh, yes, yes. Ah.” Bilbo walked toward the counter under the window, noting absently the dark blue of the evening sky. A bowl of buttered rolls sat on the sill, and he picked it up with some reluctance, subtly sliding one into his robe’s pocket. “Here you go.” He gave the bowl to the dwarf, knowing with a sinking feeling that they would all be in the dwarf’s stomach in a short while.

Dwalin accepted the bowl eagerly; while delicious, the meal he had just eaten was barely more than a tease, and he was still quite hungry.

Bilbo controlled his expression expertly when the dwarf began to rudely stuff rolls into his mouth like some heathen. What atrocious manners!

“Hmmmm. It’s just that, um,” Bilbo sputtered, not wanting to offend this dwarf, who quite frankly looked like he could easily wring the neck of even adult hobbits and was of a mind to do so. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

And, of course, right as he said this, his doorbell rang merrily a few tunnels away. The dwarf Dwalin tilted his head and raised an imperious eyebrow at the hobbit, muttering, “That’ll be the door,” before returning his attention to polishing off the rest of the rolls.

Bilbo walked toward the door, fussing with his robes and running a hand over his beard. Upon the opening of his door, he found another dwarf waiting on his step. This one had a long white beard parted with two tails and great bushy eyebrows. His traveling cloak was a deep maroon with bands of gold markings around the collar and cuffs. Bilbo could see a deep hood hanging from around the dwarf’s shoulders.

He smiled in a friendly fashion and said, “Balin, at your service.” He swept into a much deeper bow than the previous dwarf.

Balin and Dwalin? Bilbo gave a brief moment to wonder at the similarities in their names, before he replied with a quiet, “Good evening.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Balin the dwarf replied throwing a cursory look up into the sky. The older dwarf’s voice had a deep rolling curve to it, something that Bilbo had understood to be rather rare amongst dwarfs. At least, those he had met in passing whenever they crossed through the Shire on their way to Bree. “Though I think it might rain later.” He fixed Bilbo with a firm look, though he still smiled. “Am I late?”

Bilbo gave him a similar searching look that he had tried on the other dwarf but to the same effect. “Late for what?”

The noise of metal clanging on glass interrupted their conversation, and they both turned to find Dwalin attempting to draw a few pastries from a glass jaw, his knuckle dusters making such a task very difficult.

Balin let out a short laugh and headed toward him with a large grin on his face. “Evening, brother.”

Well, that explains the similarity, Bilbo thought blankly, still holding the door open.

Dwalin returned the laugh, his hand still stuck in the pastry jar. “By my beard, you’re shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, not shorter.” Balin corrected him sharply, though there was still a wealth of fondness in his voice. “Sharp enough for both of us.” He winked conspiratorially at his brother.

They laughed lowly and placed their large hands upon the other’s shoulders. For a moment, they just stared at each other until, much to Bilbo’s shock, their foreheads suddenly smashed together. This had Bilbo moving forward with concern and more than a little agitation, which was somewhat cooled at the happy faces of the dwarf brothers.

“Excuse me? Sorry, I hate to interrupt. But the thing is, I’m not entirely sure you’re in the right house.” Indeed he was entirely sure they had the wrong house, but a proper hobbit does not just come out and say such things. It would be very rude to do so. Bilbo tried in vain to get their attention, but they seemed inclined to ignore him, talking amongst each other in a foreign tongue that Bilbo had never heard before.

“And my,” Balin continued, throwing his brother a sly look, “the beard on this hobbit lad.”

“Indeed,” Dwalin replied gruffly; he did look over at Bilbo, looking with disguised awe upon the gorgeous hair.

“It’d be the envy of the Blue Mountains, that’s for certain,” Balin muttered appreciatively. “I don’t believe Gandalf mentioned anything of such a sight in his message. Do you think he does anything in particular to it? It seems awfully soft…”

“Hmmmmm…” Dwalin murmured in agreement. “I don’t know.” But I certainly intend to find out, Dwalin thought.

Balin gave a knowing, and amused, look at him, before he looked over his shoulder and saw the pantry full of food and two kegs of ale. They sauntered over and inspected the food, Dwalin pouring him a mug of the honey colored brew. The dwarves seemed to not notice the hobbit trailing behind him and talking anxiously all the while.

“It’s not that I don’t like visitors. I like visitors as much as the next hobbit,” Bilbo bit out with frustration. A block of good quality blue cheese was tossed over his shoulder as the dwarves muttered and speculated on his pantry. “But I do like to know them before they come visiting.” He harrumphed at this, tugging smartly at the collar of his robe.

“And the thing is—the thing is, I don’t know either of you. Not in the slightest. I don’t mean to be blunt, but I had to speak my mind. I’m sorry.” He nearly shouted this last bit, and the dwarves froze and turned to look at him, seeming surprised hat he was even there.

“Apology accepted,” Balin replied good-naturedly.”Ah, now, fill it up, brother, don’t stint.” Dwalin gave a huff before returning to the keg’s faucet.

Bilbo floundered at this. That was certainly not what he had intended! These dwarves, just barging into his house--This was his house! What on this earth—

The doorbell rang again, and Bilbo turned to answer it, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach. When he opened the door, with an exasperated whine, Bilbo found two more dwarves standing on his doorstep. These were significantly younger than Dwalin and Balin. They were both youthful and handsome, though nearly complete opposites in coloring. The dwarf on the left had long light blonde hair and blue eyes, a large proud nose, and a short beard with two braids hanging down from the corners of his smug smile, held together by silver clasps. The other had dark hair, half of which was pulled back from his face, and dark brown eyes, a rather small nose for a dwarf, and barely any stubble to provide a dusting upon his face. And while the one on the right wore a travel cloak with sandy fur on its trim, the other wore a dark blue and grey leather cloak, a black cylinder of what appeared to be arrows held in the crook of his arm.

“Fili,” The one on the left introduced himself.

“And Kili,” The other darker one followed with a wide grin.

“At your service,” They both echoed, bowing deeply before straightening. They get their first good look of the hobbit and were shocked at what they found.

“You must be Mr. Boggins! But you—you have a beard!” Kili exclaimed loudly, looking very upset.

“A very fine one at that,” Fili said a little wondrously, stroking his own furred chin. “Very fine, indeed.”

Bilbo knew it was rude to do so, but he simply could not let any more strange dwarves into his house! He attempted to shut the door, all the while muttering, “Nope! You can’t come in. You’ve come to the wrong house!”

A strong hand prevented the door from closing, and Kili looked worryingly into the hobbit’s face with large brown eyes. “What? Has it been canceled?”

“No one told us,” The other said, pushing the door wider and giving Bilbo a rather suspicious look.

“Canc—No, nothing’s been canceled!” He said with incredulity, though he regretted this a moment after as the dwarves pushed their way into his home.

“That’s a relief!” Kili grinned but quickly frowned once more as he got a closer look at the hobbit’s beard under the candlelight.

Fili let out a sudden bark of laughter, doubling over and pointing a thick finger at his brother. “A hobbit!” He shouted with laughter, gasping for breath. “A hobbit has a better beard than you, Kili! “

“What? No, no! That’s not fair!” Kili cried out in despair. “It’s not the same thing, completely different situations! Fili! Fili!” He shouted in vain at the other dwarf, whom Bilbo assumed was at least family if their names were any indication.

The other dwarf continued to chuckle as he began to remove the weapons from his back and hip, placing them into Bilbo’s very unprepared arms with a smug smirk. “Careful with these. I just had them sharpened.”

Bilbo began to protest, but was interrupted again by Kili who, relieved that his brother was not teasing him any more about his nonexistent beard, was scuffing his feet on Bilbo’s mother’s glory box!

“It’s nice, this place! Did you do it yourself?” Kili grinned, ignoring the scandalized look on the hobbit’s face.

“That’s my mother’s glory box! Could you please not do that!” Bilbo felt as though he were scolding a child, very angry at the audacity of these dwarves! “And no, it’s been in the family for years. My father—“

“Fili, Kili! Come on, give us a hand.” Dwalin strode through suddenly, throwing Bilbo a quick perusal of his form before grabbing Kili by the shoulder and pulling him along after him.

“Mr. Dwalin!” Kili laughed warmly, patting a companionable hand on Balin’s shoulder as he walked past the elder dwarf, Fili strutting along behind him after throwing a rather suggestive look at Bilbo.

“We’ll have to shove this in the hall. Otherwise, we’ll never get everyone in.” Balin commanded sagely, rubbing a hand down his white beard.

“Everyone?” Bilbo questioned in a bit of a panic. “How many more are there?”

His doorbell rang once again, seeming to mock Bilbo’s misfortune now, and he stalked away to answer it, steaming with anger now.

“Oh, no,” Bilbo muttered furiously, throwing the heavy weapons ladling his arms onto the floor in the hallway. “No. No. There’s nobody home! Go away and bother somebody else! There’s far too many dwarves in my dining room as it is! If this is some clot-head’s idea of a joke—Ha ha!—I can only say,” He grabbed the door handle tightly and wrenched it open. “—it is in very poor taste!”

Dwarves poured into his door, falling upon their faces and muttering very loudly. A tall form peered from behind the pile of disgruntled dwarves, holding a long wooden staff and wearing a pointed grey cap. A wizened, amused face looked in at him.

Bilbo gave a long-suffering sigh at the sight. “Gandalf.”

The dwarves picked themselves up, some immediately walking past him and into the kitchen, an incredibly large red-haired dwarf with a braided loop hanging from round his middle nearly knocking over the others in his haste. A cheerful looking dwarf with a strange hat and dark braids that seemed to defy gravity brushed off his clothes and greeted the hobbit with a dimpled smile, though his large brown eyes widened at the beard.

“By Aulë that’s a beard!” He shouted sounding a little astonished.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo fidgeted, stroking a self-conscious hand down his front. Why on Middle Earth was it such a big deal for him to have a beard? Sure, amongst the hobbits, it was indeed rather odd, but these were dwarves! The most hairy of all races! Thrice now, a dwarf had seemed concerned with his beard!

“Name’s Bofur, Master Baggins,” The dimpled dwarf smiled shyly. Bilbo noticed with rising horror that a blush had formed on the dwarf’s face, and he had taken off his hat to give a deep bow. “You—you have a lovely home here.”

“Oh, well,” Bilbo stuttered, rather pleased. Perhaps not all dwarves had the manners of a troll. “Thank you. My father made it himself. For my mother. As a wedding gift.” He smiled hesitantly at Bofur.

“And is that a normal courting gift?” Bofur asked, sounding very interested in his response. He had even leaned forward a little, making Bilbo realize that they were rather uncomfortably close together.

“No, not usually. I—“ He stepped back a few paces and saw a few other dwarves eyeing him up by the entrance to the dining room. They quickly turned away, and that was when Bilbo noticed that the dwarves were raiding the pantry, carrying bowls of his food out and onto the table.

“What are you all doing?” He asked outraged, moving over to intercept them, but it seemed as though the dwarves were as unstoppable and as easily persuaded as the Brandywine River. Most shouted brief words of thanks and appreciation, as though Bilbo had bought all of that food for them and they were not looting it from his shelves!

“This was not my intention at all!” He clambered into the streams of traffic. “Put those back! Those are my prize-winning tomatoes! Do not—That’s a tad excessive, don’t you think? Hey! Have you even got a cheese knife?” He watched helplessly as the rotund dwarf from before carried three of his best cheese wheels into the dining room.

“’Cheese knife’? He eats it by the block.” Said the dwarf with the strange hat, Bofur. He himself was holding the large honeyed ham that Bilbo had purchased at the market a few days before and had been saving for a special occasion.

Bilbo opened his mouth, feeling exasperated as never before, but he was quickly sidetracked by two dwarves carrying chairs into the room. “No, no, that’s Grandpa Mungo’s chair! Take it back please! Those are antiques, not for sitting on! And that is a book, not a coaster! Put that away!”

But all of his words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Literally, as the dwarf he was attempting to push back, was Oin, who was a medic and legitimately hard of hearing.

Gandalf watched over all this, infinitely amused at Bilbo’s frantic posturing and the excitement and exuberance of the dwarves. Though he did feel rather guilty for springing this upon the hobbit, the old wizard thought that the lad could use some change in his life. Belladonna Took would have never wanted to quiet and solitary a life for her son as he had been living, and Gandalf was intent on fixing that. Bilbo could learn much from the dwarves, and the wizard suspected that in time, they would learn a great deal from the hobbit, too. Gandalf was positive that Bilbo would agree to accompany them on the journey; so really, he wouldn’t need all of this food after tonight, would he?

He had been rather surprised that morning to see the beard on Bilbo! Imagine that, facial hair on a young hobbit! Probably came from his mother’s line, Gandalf mused. It was certainly added amusement for the wizard to watch the reactions of the dwarves to this unexpected development. He wondered idly what Thorin’s reaction would be…

The rest of the company had plenty to say of the hobbit’s beard, Gandalf discovered as he eavesdropped on their conversations. He had known Khuzdul for quite some time now, not that the others realized this.

Gloin was muttering to Nori in the corner as they filled goblets with mulled ale, occasionally throwing quick looks at the hobbit whenever he flitted by.

“Mahal, that is a fine beard…” He murmured staring longingly at Bilbo’s beard.

“You’re married,” Nori pointed out quietly, his sharp eyes also following the bustling of the lithe hobbit through the tunnels, though his attention was not always upon the long length of gold in the front but occasionally upon the tight little backside.  “With a son, too.”

“That does not mean I can’t appreciate a beautiful beard like that when it comes by!” Gloin defended himself, his own large red beard dipping a little into an ale. “I imagine even me wife would be tempted…”

“Do all hobbits have beards like that?” The littlest dwarf Ori asked his brother, having snagged a cup and drinking from it with wide eyes.

“No, Ori,” Nori replied and whisked the ale from his younger brother’s hands. “And quit that, you’ll ruin ya dinner before it’s even begun.”

“You sound like Dori,” Ori muttered petulantly. He considered making a lunge for the cup but decided against it and began to stuff a few rolls in his mouth instead.

Gandalf looked around for said dwarf and saw Dori making his way toward him, immaculately dressed and his grey braids impeccably done. He carried a tray ladled with a tea set.

“Mr. Gandalf, may I tempt you with a cup of chamomile?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Dori. A little red wine for me, I think.” He stood at this and ducked his head under an archway, deciding it would be wise to have a head count. His head brushed against the chandelier, nearly setting his grey hair on fire, before he swiftly recovered.

He counted up the dwarves, noting the dwarven princes, Balin and Dwalin, Ori, Nori, and Dori, Oin and Gloin, Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur. Twelve dwarves.

“We appear to be one dwarf short…” He muttered to himself quietly.

“He is late, is all.”

Gandalf turned to see Dwalin leaning against the wall, drinking contentedly from an ale.

“He traveled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come.” Dwalin turned back to his ale as Bilbo attempted to save his tomatoes from Bombur once more.

Bilbo was ready to pull his beard out! All these dwarves, swarming his hobbit hole, eating all of his food, tracking dirt all over the rugs and scuffing the tables and chairs! And then they began eating, and Bilbo was sure he had never seen so disgusting or appalling sight in all his life! They guzzled down all of his ale and proceeded to expel gas in some sort of barbaric contest or something! How ridiculous! And all the while, they muttered in that foreign tongue of theirs whenever he walked past, eyeing him up like meat on the table!

Bilbo was not an idiot, of course. He knew they were talking about him, but confound it all! What right did they have to gossip like hobbit lasses on a market day! They were the interlopers, for goodness’ sakes! And Gandalf was no better, the damned wizard! Just watching and laughing!

He was just tugging irritatedly on the end of his beard when a small voice piped up from behind him.

“Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt,” The young dwarf that Bilbo had come to understand was called Ori was looking awkwardly at the hobbit with a leather bound book open and a quill poised in his hand at the ready.

“Uh, yes, what is it?” Bilbo rubbed his forehead wearily.

“I was wondering if I could ask a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Ori kept darting looking down at his beard.

“Fine,” Bilbo replied shortly. He was quite finished with this entire business.

“Do all hobbits have beards?”

Bilbo had already anticipated this. “No, no, just me. My great-grand Uncle had large side-burns, but I am the only hobbit so far that has grown a beard. And before you ask, I’ve had it since I was young, and I do not know why.”

“Oh,” Ori replied faintly, before a blush warmed on his face. “And do you—I mean—where did you find those clasps and—and do you do anything special to it? Any oils or—or—“

“What? No, I just brush it, and my mother bought them at a market. Why are you asking these questions?” Bilbo looked suspiciously at Ori and just then noticed that the room had become quiet. He looked up and found that nearly every dwarf suddenly turned their head away quickly, some necks even giving a rather sickening crack. Bofur, who was sitting closest to the doorway, flushed bright red. Most of the other dwarves had a perfected casualness to their postures and quickly began cover-up conversations.

What on earth was wrong with all of these dwarves?

Bilbo wondered for a sickening moment if he had offended the dwarves by decorating and fashioning his beard in what is mother had told him was a distinctly dwarven fashion. He certainly didn’t want to offend them, eve though they had barged into him home and eaten all his food. But honestly, it’s not like there is a hobbit way for him to fashion his beard! And he couldn’t cut it, so—

“Also,” Ori stuttered nervously and picked up his empty plate. “What should I do with my plate?”

What followed made Bilbo wonder if perhaps he hadn’t offended some witch or spellcaster in the past, because surely a curse had been laid upon him. How else was he to explain why there were twelve dwarves tossing and abusing his mother’s West farthing cutlery as though they were sticks or rocks by the river, all the while making a mockery of his hospitality by singing a demeaning song about ‘what he hated’! He could think of twelve more things to add to that list that could certainly do with a good washing and wringing out!

And then a booming knock had sounded at the door, causing everyone to become silent. Gandalf shifted in his seat, his beaming face becoming infinitely more somber.

“He’s here.”

They all gathered quickly at the door of Bilbo’s hobbit hole, Gandalf reaching there first and pulling the door open. Bilbo shuffled behind the door, unable to see the dwarf walking into his smial.

“Gandalf” Bilbo heard a deep voice greet the old wizard and the thick thumping of footsteps on his tiled floor. “I though you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice.”

Bilbo snorted quietly at this, though he was still unable to see from behind Gandalf’s large form. Really, twice? There were signs everywhere in the Shire. There was actually a specific sign pointing in the direction of Bag End!

“I wouldn’t have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door.”

Bilbo stepped around Gandalf at this and walked quickly toward the open door, wanting to see this supposed mark. “Mark? There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”

“There is a mark,” Gandalf said rather sheepishly as he closed the door. ”I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.” He gestured grandly toward the dwarf that had just entered, but said dwarf was still turned away, muttering quietly with Balin and tossing his coat on a nearby bench stacked high with other such coats.

What Bilbo could see of Thorin Oakenshield was very impressive, indeed. This dwarf had large shoulders and a broad back, not as tall or muscular as Dwalin, but certainly imposing in his own right. He seemed to have long black hair streaked with veins of silver, and he wore dark blue vestments with fur trim, a long heavy looking sword hanging from a leather strap on his hip.

“So,” The dwarf began, turning around to face Bilbo. “This is the—“

He stopped, and a look of confusion overtook his previous expression of mocking derision. Thorin Oakenshield had deep blue eyes, a ruggedly handsome face, and a rough rasp of stubble on his chin and underneath his proud nose. His face had the lines and heaviness of one who had experienced much in a short amount of time, and he seemed regal, like a king, even as he looked upon Bilbo with a rather dumbfounded expression.

“I—you—“ He stopped and turned to look at Dwalin, shifting into Khuzdul. “The hobbit has a beard.”

“Aye” Dwalin replied with a raised eyebrow.

“A very nice one, at that,” Balin added with a nod.

“But…”

“He said he’s had it since he was little!” Ori piped up from the back, wanting to please their leader. “I asked him, I did.”

Dori placed a hand over his younger brother’s mouth with an embarrassed look on his face. Ori muttered petulantly from behind the hand.

“It’s very comely, to be sure. Those gold beads are in the shape of little flowers…” Dori said with a little longing in his voice. He felt the hobbit’s beard was very charming indeed, well kept and decorated nicely. Little flowers and suns…how sweet.

“I touched it real briefly. It’s really soft,” Kili added with a hushed and awed tone of voice, his cheeks turning pink at this brother’s and uncle’s looks.

“And it looks like running rivers of gold in the firelight…” An unknown dwarf murmured quietly from the back.

“It smells nice too, kind of like a mix of flowers and mountain air,” A gruff voice came from the back as well. Thorin suspected it might have been Gloin, but…

Thorin sent Balin a questioning look at this, who rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head.

“Hmmm…..Anyway,” He stepped forward again and felt a small bit of pleasure at the hobbit’s wary look. “ Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose at this. “What?”

“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?” He sneered quietly at the hobbit, attempting to ignore the hair falling from the hobbit’s small chin. It was a difficult thing, though. Thorin could grudgingly understand the apparent fascination of his company with Baggins’ beard, as it truly was a magnificent thing to behold. It was a respectable length, was an astounding hue of gold, and was well kept and soft looking. He would have to work hard to ignore that and focus on the hobbit aspect of this creature.

From what Thorin had gathered from Gandalf, hobbits were weak and fussy creatures, completely untried by war or strife, most of which having never seen battle for hundreds of years. They were concerned with food and family, Gandalf had said. In other words, they sat around all day eating and talking. Thorin found he resented hobbits for this lifestyle, as he and his people had suffered and toiled in the cities of men for a long time, working long and hard for just a few scraps of food. It did not make much sense, but he disdained the hobbits for this nonetheless.

“Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know,” Bilbo retorted, sensing the ridicule in Thorin’s tone and look. “But I fail to see why that’s relevant.” He finished a little less sure of himself.

“Thought as much,” Thorin smirked at his kin and smiled jeeringly at Bilbo. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The company laughed at this and followed Thorin into the dining hall. Gandalf had chuckled but upon seeing Bilbo’s confused and rather insulted expression, he had quieted quickly and had patted the disgruntled hobbit on the shoulder.

The dwarves all sat at the table, Thorin at the head eating a bowl of soup, and discussed things that Bilbo had never heard of before apart from his books and maps. He watched quietly as Gandalf revealed an aged map and an iron key, mystifying the dwarves and giving them hope for a chance to recover their homeland, Erebor, and discussing the dragon Smaug. Bilbo still wondered what they were doing in his house, as surely they could have had this conversation somewhere else, but he felt his soft heart reaching out for these dwarves, who seemed very desperate to reclaim their mountain. Soon, however, he gathered what Gandalf wanted from him exactly.

“The task that I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage.” He looked quickly at Bilbo when he said this, drawing a look of confusion from the hobbit. “But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar,” Ori piped up suddenly from the corner, looking at Bilbo with near adoration.

“Hmph. And a good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.” Bilbo agreed, not noticing that he was the subject of the company’s scrutiny.

“And are you?” Gloin asked with narrowed eyes, leaning forward in his seat.

Bilbo looked behind him, wondering if he were really asking someone else. “Am I what?”

“He said he’s an expert!” Oin shouted happily and giving a laugh.

“Me? No. No, no, no! I’m not a burglar! I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!” Bilbo replied indignantly.

“Well, I’m afraid I must agree with Mr. Baggins. He’s hardly burglar material.” Balin said with a pointed look at Thorin, who looked stoically back at him with a small nod.

“Aye, the wild is on place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” Dwalin agreed with his brother, and the dwarves began to discuss this, most agreeing that it was too unsafe for the hobbit.

“Plus, what about the beard? The dragon could really damage that if we sent the hobbit in,” Bofur added a little humorously, though there was seriousness to his suggestion.

“Aye,” The other dwarves nodded at that with grim faces. The younger dwarves began proclaiming that they would defeat the dragon, while the others argued amongst themselves loudly, until Gandalf suddenly loomed over the table, the light dimming and a shadow spreading over the ceiling as his voice boomed over the mayhem.

“Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is.” Gandalf huffed slightly at this but continued. “Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. They can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the scent of dwarf, the scent of hobbit will be all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”

Bilbo raised his hand and opened his mouth as though to interrupt, but Gandalf surged on relentlessly as he turned to Thorin. “You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself.” He added quietly, looking deep into Bilbo’s eyes before returning his own to Thorin Oakenshield.

“You must trust me on this,” He said rather ominously.

He and Thorin looked at each other searchingly for a long moment, before the dwarf murmured, “Very well.” He turned to Balin, and said, “Give him the contract.”

The events that followed, i.e. the fainting and such, were not Bilbo’s finest moments, he will willingly admit. But really, a small hobbit like him? Face down a dragon? No, no, that just wouldn’t do. He was a Baggins, regardless of what Gandalf said. And while he had certainly been adventurous as a young hobbitling, he was an adult now, and as proper a gentlehobbit as he could be, considering his oddities. And even though the song and deep voices of the dwarves followed him into his sleep and haunted his dreams that night, he would not be going on that adventure on the morrow.

Though it was definitely rather flattering to have so many appreciative of his beard, as he had come to realize was the source of their incessant questioning and stares. It had been rather obvious when he had headed for bed after making sure his uninvited but nonetheless welcome guests were settled for the night. He had wished them a good night, when Ori had suddenly stopped him with a call of his name.

“Well, good night, all” Bilbo headed toward his room, relieved at the sight of his warm and comfy bed and the prospect of a peaceful night’s sleep.

“Wait, Mr. Baggins!” A voice called out.

Bilbo turned back to find nearly the entire company watching him from their make shift beds in the living room. Ori shifted nervously in his spot by the banking fire, fiddling with his knitted scarf. He murmured something so quietly that Bilbo had to ask him to speak a little louder.

“Are you….going to unbraid your beard?” Ori’s face was bright red at this, and most of the other dwarves hurriedly went about their business, though Bilbo noticed a great many had large ears pointed in their direction.

Bilbo looked at them all with sleepy eyes, wondering if their sanity was failing. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“Maybe you could do it out here so we could…or maybe—could we watch?” the young dwarf squeaked.

“What? No, you can’t watch!” Bilbo huffed, looking at them all incredulously. “Goodness, the nerve of these dwarves! Watch me prepare for bed, why I oughtta--!”

He had stomped into his room, face aflame, completely missing all of the sighs of disappointment and the pitying pats on Ori’s shoulders as the dwarf looked rather crushed. They’d all wanted to see it at least once, since they’d probably never even come to the Shire again, and it seemed as if Bilbo would not be joining them on their quest. To the dwarves, the grooming of beards was a family event and usually private, but…an exception could be made for a beard like that.

Such a shame…

“I just wanted to see him brush it,” Ori whispered to his older brother, who gave him a consoling pat on his shoulder.

“I know, laddie,” Dori whispered back. “I think we all did. It is a nice beard, after all.”

So when morning came and the sun rose into the sky as they rode their ponies, nearly all of the dwarves were absolutely delighted to hear the loud shouts of a hobbit running after them, his eyes bright with excitement and his beard flying behind him in the wind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

By the third day of their journey, Bilbo was ready to pull his hair right out of his head. He wondered if there had ever been so frustrating an idea as traveling with a group of thirteen dwarves and a wizard, and he found himself cursing his Took heritage every day for compelling him upon this foolhardy adventure. Perhaps the journey would not be so horrible if the dwarves he traveled with acted anything like the ones he had met when he was a child running along the roads through the forest and bombarding the random travelers with questions of the outside world.

No, these dwarves acted very peculiarly, especially when Bilbo’s beard was concerned. From the very moment that he had caught up with them before leaving the Shire, they had been incredibly odd. Most would not even look at him apart from passing glances and never at his face! They didn’t seem to want to talk to him either, mumbling or grunting whenever he asked a question about the road or their personal lives.

Bilbo could not help but feel a little insulted and hurt by this. They were to be travel companions, possibly even fight together and protect each other! Surely it would not be so egregious a desire to get to know the dwarves he would be spending the next few months with. But Bilbo had to remind himself that he was acting with complete decency. It was the dwarves who were behaving without any sense of decorum or friendship.

As Bilbo discovered rather quickly, dwarves had no problem with physical contact, though the hobbit had certainly not expected to be a recipient of this until much later.

As he rode on that treacherous pony that first day, Bilbo had spent most of his time chatting with Gandalf about various little things and about the path set before him. The dwarves had not seemed to pay him any mind, but Bilbo began to notice a few odd things.

He would feel odd pats on his shoulders or arms, as though someone had placed a hand there. When he looked, however, nothing was there, and not a single dwarf was close enough that they could have done so. Or at least Bilbo thought that to be true. After the first couple of times, Bilbo had begun to suspect that maybe Gandalf was playing a little joke on him, but when the wizard rode ahead of him after a couple hours, it happened again.

After the sixth or seventh time it had happened, and oddly close to the small of his back too, Bilbo had had quite enough of that nonsense.

“Okay, joke’s over. It’s annoying now, so you can just stop it,” Bilbo scolded the dwarves riding behind them, which he noted with suspicion were the dwarven princes, Kili and Fili.

“Stop what, Mr. Baggins?” Fili asked him with an innocent expression that Bilbo did not buy for a moment.

“All that poking and touching nonsense. I know that you all are doing it. I’m not crazy,” Bilbo scolded, waving a raised finger at them. “Or at least, I thought I was not, before all this.” The hobbit continued with a small sigh, shooting a small glare at Gandalf’s back.

“What do you mean ‘before all this’? “ Kili asked curiously as both brothers pulled their horses up to ride on either side of the hobbit. “Is it so unusual for hobbits to leave?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo nodded his head emphatically. “It is most improper for an adult hobbit to do such a thing. Very improper.”

“But why?” Fili continued. “Surely it gets boring there, just sitting around in your holes and reading books and drinking tea all the time.”

“Well, those things seem boring to you, Master Dwarf,” Bilbo gave him a stern look that had the tops of his ears going pink. “We hobbits are very simple creatures, not fond of adventuring or fighting. We enjoy parties, family gatherings, and food. Large amounts of food. Most hobbits are very good at cooking. I myself am considered one of the best in Hobbiton.” At this, Bilbo puffed out his chest with pride and was rewarded by the eager nods of the brothers.

“Aye, the food did taste wonderful last night,” Fili agreed, reaching over and placing a hand upon Bilbo’s shoulder, hiding a smile as Bilbo frowned at it with confusion. “The ale was particularly good. Sweet like honey, but smoky too. Like firewood.”

“How did you manage to make it taste like that?” Kili leaned closer with a grin on his face.

“Well, that was the Took family’s personal brew,” Bilbo told them with a small smile. “And it’s a secret recipe at that, so I suppose you’ll never know exactly how I did it.”

“What?” Fili’s voice had the beginnings of a whine in it, and he gave Bilbo a wide blue-eyed plea. “But, Mr. Baggins! I’ve really taken a liking to your personal brew! How exactly am I suppose to attain more if you don’t let me in on the family secret?”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t missed the odd emphasis that Fili had put on ‘personal brew,’ nor had he not seen the quick heads turning in their direction. He looked up to see Dwalin staring at the dwarf prince with narrowed eyes. The burly dwarf saw that he had caught the hobbit’s attention and had quickly averted his eyes. Bilbo noticed with some surprise that the tips of Dwalin’s iron ringed ears had gone a little pink as well.

“Well, I suppose once this journey is through, you’ll need to come back and visit the Shire.”

“You never know what might happen with adventures like this, Mr. Baggins,” Fili gave him a sly grin. “You might just end up staying in Erebor with us, once we’ve slain the dragon and all. You could settle in the mountain, start up a business…find a good dwarf lass…” He watched Bilbo carefully at this. “…or dwarf lad.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at the sudden interest in that last statement from the dwarves around them. A curious stillness was now present amongst them, straightening their backs and turning their ears ever so slightly in Bilbo’s direction. The hobbit let out an exasperated huff.

“If there’s something you’re asking after, come out and say it.”

“We were just wondering if…it was a normal occurrence…for hobbits.” Kili mumbled quietly from Bilbo’s right. Bilbo turned to him.

“If what is?” Bilbo asked, pinching the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Two hobbit lads getting together?”

The brothers shared a quick glance and then nodded. Bilbo sighed, wondering what the big fuss was about.

“Quite normal, actually.” Bilbo told them with a quirk of his lips. “As I have said, hobbits are a peaceful bunch. If two hobbit lads, or hobbit lasses, of course, are in love, then it is completely acceptable. Now, if they are just fooling around, well, that’s another thing entirely.” Bilbo said with a derisive shake of his head. “Especially if something unexpected comes out of it, like a child.”

“And can that happen?” Fili asked rather urgently, leaning so far off his seat that Bilbo worried he would slide right off his pony. “Can two hobbit lads have children together?”

They were looking at him with very wide eyes, as though this were the most surprising or far-fetched idea that they had ever heard. Bilbo snorted at this and opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by a loud shout from the head of the line.

“Fili! Kili!” Thorin barked from the front. “Get up here. You’re going to scout ahead for awhile.”

“But—“ The brothers shouted, throwing fast looks at the hobbit.

“Now!”

Fili and Kili moved quickly at that, grumbling all the while about strict uncles and curious hobbits, throwing Thorin upset looks. He ignored them and turned back to the front, though his eyes did stop on the hobbit, staring blankly at Bilbo before he glared and turned around.

Bilbo frowned at that and ran a soothing hand along his beard, which was much less adorned than it had been before. It wouldn’t do to lose the tiny flower and sun ornaments that his mother had given him along the road. Now that he was away from home, he wouldn’t be able to care as diligently after his beard as he had been able to before. He usually washed once every two weeks or so, as he hardly ever worked up a sweat or became dirty during the day. He did have to wash and groom his feet a few nights a week, as hobbits did not need to wear shoes. The only benefit that Bilbo could see to riding the pony was that his feet were not quite as dirty as they might’ve been. The pony’s hair, though, did tickle his feet with every movement.

During the nights, after they had settled their camp and eaten food, Bilbo would settle next to the fire and groom his beard and feet. When he had first begun doing this, he had been decidedly nervous, as the dwarves had already demonstrated that they had a rather odd reaction to anything beard-related. But this was a habit that Bilbo had always had since he had first grown his beard as a tween hobbit lad and had been something he had shared with his mother, so he was loathe to abandon it now. It also brought him comfort, which he desperately needed as he was feeling increasingly homesick.

So he would plop himself down near his pack and reach into an inner pocket, pulling out a small cloth-wrapped package and carefully ignoring the scrutiny of the dwarves. His mother had always been a master with a knife and wood, a talent that was not very well known amongst the Shire. As a present for Bilbo’s thirty-fourth birthday, she had crafted a small wooden brush with thin bristles for him to brush his beard with, and he had ever since. He adored this brush, with its flowers and vines carved into the handle and the small letter ‘B’ inscribed along the neck, one of the last true reminders of his mother’s love.

After untying the leather thong, he would run his brush along the edges of his beard first, working out the kinks and tangles that had made a home there during the rough pony rides through the wilderness, and slowly make his way upward, unwinding all of the interwoven braids as he went. Since he was traveling amongst nature, Bilbo had used a more sturdy and resilient kind of braid, as opposed to the delicate and more intricate braids he used while at home. And though he knew that it was most certainly an unnecessary luxury, he had brought the scented oil that he liked to comb into his beard and hair. If there was one thing that he could most likely get away with being vain about in the company of thirteen dwarves, it was his beard.

And, by the grace of the Valar, was he ever right.

He doubted a group of dwarves had ever been so quiet for this long, as they watched with avid eyes as Bilbo groomed his beard lazily by the firelight. Some of the older dwarves attempted to appear busy with other things, drinking from mugs, messing in their packs, or talking amongst one another, but their eyes were eventually pulled back to the hobbit grooming a beard of flickering gold and humming softly in the night.

Whenever Bilbo tugged at a particularly strong tangle, a ripple would flow through the company, and those nearest would shift uncomfortably in their seats. After a while, the brush would run smoothly through the long length, and Bilbo would continue these gentle strokes mindlessly, his sleepy green eyes staring endlessly into the fire. A couple of the dwarves even fell asleep to the soothing rhythm and sweet humming of the hobbit, while others were kept awake from a decidedly different stirring in their blood.

When Bilbo began braiding his hair for the next day, he found that Kili and Fili had moved on either side of him and were watching closely. He chose to ignore them, not really feeling up to answering the endless questions of curious dwarf princes who had been even more inquisitive since they had discovered gender did not matter to hobbits when it came to picking life partners. They surprisingly refrained from talking as well, and Bilbo found that whenever he needed a spare hand to hold a strand of beard, Kili or Fili would eagerly offer up a hand, seeming both delighted and smug that they had gotten to touch the hobbit’s beard.

Only Fili noticed the glaring gaze of a few of the other dwarves such as Dwalin and Bofur, though he noticed that Nori as well was looking a little envious around the eyes. He smirked triumphantly at them, though that smugness fell quickly when he saw Dwalin’s grip on a war axe tighten and a nasty grin crossed the tattooed dwarf’s face. After that, Fili was a little more careful about taunting Dwalin. He didn’t relish losing a limb so early in his life.

Once Bilbo’s gorgeous beard was all braided up, the hobbit moved away from the brothers with a small grateful smile and retreated to his bed roll hopefully for a good night’s sleep. Kili and Fili pondered joining him and laying their bedrolls on either side but reconsidered it when they noticed the glares coming from the other dwarves by the fire.

This pattern continued for the next couple days, and though they could be annoying, the dwarf princes were becoming amusing travel companions to Bilbo. Bofur had also spent a lot of time by his side on the road, telling stories of his life and asking Bilbo about his own. Bilbo found he quite liked Bofur, with his dimpled grin, dark brown eyes, and cheerful attitude. Bilbo often woke up grumpy and dour from an uncomfortable sleep and no second breakfast or elevensies, but Bofur seemed to always be around with a helping hand and amusing tale to brighten the day.

Oblivious to Bilbo, a competition of sorts had begun between Bofur and the dwarf princes. A competition over Bilbo’s attention. It was rather unfair of the brothers as it was two against one, but Bofur’s brother and cousin came to his aid more often than not, tripping up their feet at camp, blocking their horses on the road to give Bofur more time with the hobbit. Thorin and the other older dwarves had noticed, but other than rolling their eyes with exasperation, they had done nothing to discourage it. If Kili and Fili were occupied with the hobbit, then they were less likely to run off the road and cause havoc.

Of course, Kili and Fili managed to cause havoc anyway. They just included the hobbit this time.

On the third night, when they made their camp in the dregs of an abandoned barn, Bilbo shuffled around the campsite, helping distribute food to dwarves and worrying over Gandalf’s disappearance. He had made a little niche for himself with the dwarves by now, but the hobbit felt much better when Gandalf was nearby.

As it was, Thorin was scowling at everything, in particular the hobbit flitting around camp, and in general being a very sour presence amongst the group. Dwalin sat nearby, sharpening his axes and talking in grunts and murmurs to the other dwarf. He too was watching the nervous movements of the hobbits, though with a different kind of heat.

Dwalin had not spoken to the hobbit beyond grunted commands since that night in the hobbit hole, which had led the hobbit to believe that the burly dwarf disliked him. One peak into his mind, however, and this proved to be far from the truth of things. Dwalin discovered that he held a reluctant desire for the small creature, and not all of that desire was simply for the glorious beard hanging from his small chin.

Dwalin found that the hobbit’s near constant dithering about, the stutters and sighs, the crinkling around the green eyes, the wringing of his small tender hands, all of it was –damn it all- was endearing to the warrior dwarf. As one who had grown up with the expectation of bearing arms, fighting for his king and people, one might think that the soft nature of Bilbo Baggins would put Dwalin off, that he would find the small being weak and unsavory. But after so many years of coming home after battles, fights, or training sessions to find an empty house, the prospect of finding a partner had become more and more appealing to Dwalin as the years passed. And he did not want some manly dwarf lass who would cut a dwarf’s balls off for suggesting that she make dinner every once and a while.

No…no, he wanted a partner that waited for him to return home with a smile, who would make delicious food for meals, that would help bandage his wounds. He wanted someone soft, someone who would worry for him, however needlessly that might be, when he was away defending his kingdom. He wanted a partner that would hither and dither about the house, fuss at him for treading mud on the carpets or leaving his axes lying about, and make biscuits every afternoon.

He did not know yet if he wanted Bilbo Baggins to be that partner, but…he knew he certainly wanted someone like the hobbit.

Said hobbit was now wavering around the pot of stew next to Bofur, looking about into the darkness with worried eyes.

“He’s been a long time,” He muttered to Bofur, still pacing nervously around.

“Who?” Bofur asked, ladling a helping of rabbit stew into two large bowls.

“Gandalf.”

“He’s a wizard! He does as he chooses,” Bofur smiled at him, sounding completely unconcerned. “Here, do us a favor. Take this to the lads.” He nodded toward the forest. Normally, Bofur would not give the brothers such a perfect opportunity with Bilbo, but they had been tasked with looking after the ponies, which was arguably the worst job possible on a quest. He felt a bit bad for them. Not to mention this would give Bilbo something else to focus on apart from the wizard’s absence.

Bilbo accepted the bowls, though a frown still marred his face and wrinkled his nose. He walked cautiously over the roots and rocks on the ground, making his way over to the little forested area that the ponies were resting in, ever conscious of the two full and steaming bowls of soup in his hands.

When he made his way over, he saw Kili and Fili through the darkness, standing still and fixed in place next to one another. Bilbo reached them, looking around warily. They were staring into the clearing with something near dismay on their handsome faces. Bilbo held out the soup to them, but the brothers still did not move.

“What’s the matter?” Bilbo asked quietly.

“We’re supposed to be looking after the ponies.”  Kili replied with a grimace.

“Only we’ve encountered a slight problem,” Fili continued, staring out into the pasture.

“We…had sixteen.”

“Now there’s fourteen.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened at this, and he stood on his tiptoes to attempt a head count of the horses. Fili and Kili swept through the field almost noiselessly, counting up the ponies with a soft touch to their heads and a whisper of their names. Bilbo trailed behind them, until they came upon a large upturned tree, its thick roots hanging from the thick trunk.

“Daisy and Bungo are missing.” Kili told them, looking very worried.

“Well, that’s not good,” Bilbo gave a nervous laugh and then caught sight of the fallen tree with horror. “And that is not good at all. Shouldn’t we tell Thorin?”

 He wasn’t really asking. Bilbo knew they should tell Thorin. But the brothers shook their heads quickly, and Bilbo noticed they grew a bit pale at the suggestion.

“Uh, no,” Fili said quickly. “Let’s not worry him. As our official burglar, we thought you might like to look in to it.”

He most certainly did not want to look into it! Bilbo might not have experienced much of the world, but he was not so blind that he could not see that something very large and very dangerous had passed through and taken their ponies. He told the brothers this, to which they agreed.

Looking around into the darkness of the night, Fili suddenly stiffened and crouched low, saying, “Hey, there’s a light!”

He threw a look back at Kili and Bilbo, before he began making his way towards it, motioning for them to follow. Kili did instantly, but Bilbo was much more reluctant. After all, seeing a fire in the forest not more than a few yards from where a large tree had been overturned as though it were a sapling did not seem like the safest place to head towards. But he followed anyway, becoming increasingly nervous.

“Stay down,” Kili whispered from ahead, reaching back and placing a firm hand on Bilbo’s back. If that hand was a little too far down, well, Bilbo was far too preoccupied with the grunting snorts and rough voices coming from up ahead.

“What is that?” Bilbo asked a little fearfully.

Both Fili and Kili narrowed their eyes. “Trolls.”

They stood up quickly and dashed around the fallen log, though not before Kili’s hand slid down too far.

“Kili!” Bilbo admonished sharply, but the dwarf only grinned back at him for a brief moment before following his brother.

Bilbo hastened to follow them, knowing the kind of trouble they could get themselves into, and tried not to jostle the bowls, though much to Bilbo’s irritation, a bit of soup did manage to splash onto this beard. He caught up with the brother in time to see a monstrous lumbering creature with pale rough skin and large thick limbs carrying to whinnying ponies in his arms with little difficulty.

Bilbo darted behind a tree quickly, glancing around the trunk to watch the giant. “He’s got Myrtle and Minty!” He whispered to the brothers worriedly. Bilbo hated having to ride on a pony, but he had grown to love Myrtle, who was a sweet pony with a friendly disposition who really loved apples.

Bilbo sighed at what he was about to say. Seriously, how did he keep getting into these messes? “I think they’re going to eat them. We’ve got to do something!”

Fili and Kili whipped their heads around to look at him and nodded eagerly at him.

“Yes, you should.” Kili agreed with wide brown eyes. He reached for one of the bowls in Bilbo’s hands and leaned against the tree that Bilbo had just occupied. “Mountain trolls are slow and stupid, and you’re so small, they’ll never see you.”

“What? Me? No, no--” Bilbo stuttered incredulously and tried to protest, but he was quickly interrupted.

“It’s perfectly safe. We’ll be right behind you.” Kili assured him, drinking a spoonful of stew.

“If you run into trouble,” Fili added, taking the other bowl out of the hobbit’s hands and giving him a firm push ahead. “Hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl.”

“Twice like a barn owl. No, twice like a brown owl—once like a—“ Bilbo stuttered, trying to quickly regain his equilibrium. “Like a—Are you sure this is a good idea?” He asked looking back worriedly.

He growled when he saw that both Kili and Fili were gone. He nearly followed, but he remembered Myrtle’s sweet face as she ate an apple he had been able to slip for her the night before and couldn’t leave her behind without trying to save her. So he headed for the light, inwardly cursing Kili and Fili, and swearing to have his revenge once this was all over. A little closer, Bilbo could make out the words being grunted by the trolls.

“Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrow.”

“Quit your griping. These ain’t cheap. These is fresh nags!”

Bilbo was close enough now that he could see the fire. Three humongous trolls lumbered around the site, one stirring at a large black cauldron over the fire, another sat on a rock and watched the third lift the ponies into a little fenced off area near the cliff side.

“Oh, I don’t like horse. Never have. Not enough fat on them,” whined the troll sitting down. This troll seemed a little less intelligent than the rest; at least that’s what Bilbo could gather from the dumb grin on his ugly face. It wiped its dripping nose with a disgusting squelch, and Bilbo felt a little of his dinner lurch into his throat at the sight.

“Well, it’s better than that leathery old farmer,” Grunted the troll stirring the pot. This one seemed to have seen more violence than the other two, as part of its face was bunched up and scarred, the eye on that side white and unseeing. “All skin and bones, he was. I’m still picking bits of him out of me teeth.”

Bilbo gave himself a moment to pity that poor farmer before he returned his attention to the trolls, moving swiftly through the underbrush and retreating behind a tree just on the outer ring of the clearing in which the trolls prepared dinner.

The second troll, the stupid looking one, let out a high shout and gave a great sneeze, snot flying from his nostrils and into the simmering pot. The cooking troll stood up at this and smacked the other over the head.

“Well, that’s lovely, that is. A floater.”

“Might improve the flavor,” said the last troll, who pulled a ragged knife from behind and began sharpening it against a rock.

The second troll smiled at this pronouncement and exclaimed, “Ah! Well, there’s more where that came from!” It pulled in air into its nose, the sound wet and nasty in the noiseless night, but the first troll reached out a quick meaty hand and grabbed ahold of the other troll’s nose.

“Oh, no, you don’t! Sit down!” It shouted, its voice gruff and angry sounding. The troll shoved the other away and took up his post in front of the pot again, stirring agitatedly.

By this time, Bilbo had reached a corner of the horses’ pin, and he tugged forcefully at the ropes, but they were incredibly thick, nearly as dense as Bilbo’s arms. He huffed frustrated, but quickly swiveled out of sight as the dumb troll stood to look at the ponies.

“Well, I hope you’re going to gut these nags. I don’t like the stinky parts.” The troll let out a sudden yelp as the cook smacked him in the head with a huge iron ladle and barked at him to sit down.

“I’m starving! Now are we having horse tonight, or what?” The third bellowed from his rock, waving the blunt knife around in the air.

“Shut your cakehole,” The cook growled menacingly. “You’ll eat what I give ya.”

Bilbo looked over at the trio of trolls nervously, wondering if they were going to begin fighting amongst each other, when he caught sight of the large make-shift sword hanging off the leather belt of the stupid troll. With a horrible realization, Bilbo knew that if he was going to free the ponies, he would need something sharp. And the stupid troll was less likely to notice his sword going missing.

“How come he’s the cook?” Whined the third troll as he inspected the grime and blood under his fingernails. “Everything tastes the same. Everything tastes like chicken.”

“Except the chicken,” The second troll snickered.

Bilbo crept toward that troll silently, wincing and shushing at the ponies that had begun to whinny a little at his presence.

“I’m just saying, a little appreciation would be nice,” The cooking troll muttered petulantly, before he stopped talking altogether and sniffed suspiciously.

Bilbo froze with fear at this, attempting to will himself invisible. But the troll just shrugged and continued complaining, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. He crawled forward on his hands, and noticed with a fierce surge of panic as a large hand began grasping at the air over him. He ducked even lower, allowing himself a brief grimace as his beard trailed in the dirt, before he scrambled forward into the shadow of the stupid troll, listening to them argue.

He crouched low behind the troll, and his hands began to flutter uselessly at the bindings of the swords, as he had no idea how he was going to take it off the leather belt. Another giant hand reached over him, and Bilbo skidded quickly back and watched in horror as the crude beast scratched at his arse like an animal.

“Oh, me guts are grumbling. I got to snaffle something.” The third troll rumbled. “Flesh, I need flesh!”

The troll that Bilbo stood behind began shaking for some reason, and Bilbo looked at it with confusion, until he heard, “Ah! Ah!” and this time, the hand did not pass over him.

Bilbo was lifted up into the air and was thusly covered in horrible, stinking troll snot. The troll gave a surprised cry, as did Bilbo upon the discovery that trolls were even uglier up close. He looked up at the stupid troll with a terrified expression and moved around his the giant hand, feeling nauseous at the disgusting slime that now clung to his clothes. And his beard! Oh, his beautiful beard was covered. For a moment, Bilbo thought he was going to cry at the thought.

“Blimey! Bert. Bert!” The troll shouted with surprise. “Look what’s come out of me hooter! It’s got arms and legs and everything!”

“What is it?” Said the troll called Bert, looking at Bilbo with wonder.

“I don’t know! But I don’t like they way it wriggles around!” The second troll shouted again and tossed Bilbo to the ground.

Bilbo landed hard on his side but stood quickly, ignoring the pain in his arms as he did so. He looked up at the trolls that loomed over him.

The third with the jagged knife took a step towards him. “What are you, then? Some kind of squirrel?”

Bilbo, bless him, gave an answer before he could stop himself. “I’m a burglar—Uh, hobbit!”

“A burglar hobbit?” The stupid troll repeated incredulously and a nasty grin formed on his face.

“Can we cook him?” The third troll asked, his knife swinging dangerously in the air.

“We can try!” The troll skirted around the cauldron and tried to grab the hobbit, but Bilbo darted away and tried to escape into the forest. Unfortunately, the cook troll had anticipated this, and Bilbo turned around quickly only to find the third troll’s blunt knife pointed at his chest.

“Perhaps there’s more burglar hobbits around these parts.” The troll growled hungrily. “Might be enough for a pie!” He shoved the hobbit back, and Bilbo jumped around the grasping hands.

“Grab him!”

“He’s too quick!”

“Come here, you little—“

And Bilbo was hoisted off the ground once more, dangling upside down by his feet. Bilbo floundered and waved his arms around, very disorientated and afraid. The troll that had him in its grasp pointed the knife precariously close to Bilbo’s face, and what little of the troll’s face that Bilbo could see through the matted curtain of his beard was a nasty suspicion in its face.

“Now, are there any more of you little fellas hiding where you shouldn’t?”

“No,” Bilbo answered quickly. If he was going to be eaten by trolls, then he would save his companions a similar fate. Even if it was Kili and Fili’s fault he was in this mess.

“He’s lying!” Hissed the second troll. Maybe it wasn’t as stupid as Bilbo had assumed.

“No I’m not!” Bilbo shouted, straining to catch his breath.

“Hold his toes over the fire! Make him squeal!”

Then the troll let out a shrieking cry of pain, and from the angle at which Bilbo dangled, he could see the flash of steel and dark haired figure with a wide smile on his face.

“Drop him!” Kili yelled at the troll holding Bilbo.

“You what?” The third troll stared at Kili in shock.

“I said, drop him!” Kili repeated, twisting his sword in a threatening manner and sneering at the beast.

Bilbo heard a horrible animalistic growl before he was thrown through the air at Kili, who hastily opened his arms to catch the flying hobbit. And then a battle cry was sounded through the clearing as the company of dwarves, led by Thorin Oakenshield dashed into the clearing and began to wage war against the trolls, shouting and swinging weapons fiercely.

Kili helped Bilbo off the ground hastily and then threw himself into the fray, a manic grin on his face as he joined his brother in slicing at the cooking troll. Bilbo stumbled against a tree and watched the battle with wide eyes. Though the dwarves seemed not even tall enough to reach the troll’s knees, they were holding their own against them. Bilbo saw one troll give a vicious kick, and Nori soared through the air, yelling and trying to keep ahold on his weapon. Bilbo seemed to move without conscious thought and threw himself under Nori before he could get seriously hurt, cushioning his landing with a breathless huff. Nori scrambled off him and gave him a quick word of thanks before he ran back into the battle.

The loud cries of the horses drew Bilbo’s attention next, and he darted his way through the battlefield to the horse pin, hefting up the second troll’s makeshift sword on his way. He saw out of the corner of his eye Oin falling onto the ground, his weapon flying out if his hands. A giant fist was about to come crashing down on him, and Bilbo clenched his eyes shut and swung the sword clumsily in that direction, hoping for at least a solid hit. The loud shriek of a troll alerted him that he had been successful, and he opened his eyes with relief, seeing Oin give him a thumb’s up.

He moved back towards the horse pen and sawed at the rope, which took nearly no time at all, and the horses broke free, running off into the dark forest. Bilbo turned back for just a second and caught a glimpse of Dwalin’s face, lighted by the fire. He was grimacing fiercely and swinging his axes with devastating effect, if the pained howl from the stupid troll was any indication. Bilbo, a little bit afraid but mostly in awe of the warrior dwarf, never even saw the troll looming over him furiously and the hand reaching for his back.

He was lifted into the air yet again and held one to gently by two of the trolls, who each held an arm and a leg apiece. He looked fearfully down at the company, most of which were gathered in front of them. Kili tried to lurch forward and swing his sword to save the hobbit, but his uncle held him back.

“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip his off!” The troll commanded, giving a vicious tug on Bilbo’s right arm. Bilbo cried out at that, pain sparking fiercely in his shoulder and his hands clenched uselessly in the air. He looked down at the company through clenched eyes, feeling ashamed that he had landed them in this predicament.

Thorin looked up at the pained hobbit, seeming so small trapped there in the grip of the trolls, and raged internally. Not even for a moment did he consider forfeiting the hobbit’s life, but he thought frantically for a moment about any other options, When he came up with none, Thorin threw his sword onto the ground, the company following his lead. Kili had looked incredulous at his uncle and infuriated with the trolls, but at his uncle’s glare, he threw his sword down too.

The trolls made quick work of putting all the dwarves into leather sacks and securing them tightly. After their stew had been ruined and the horses released, the trolls fixed a roaster up over the fire and tied nearly half of the company onto it, slowly turning them. The dwarves were all protesting, shouting insults or hollering alternatives, trying to free themselves from their bindings.

It was a horrible situation. Bilbo was trapped in a sack and lying next to Balin and Bombur, listening to the trolls.

“Don’t bother cooking them,” The second troll suggested, throwing a few new logs into the fire. Nori and a few others let out cries of alarm. “Let’s just sit on them, and squash them into jelly!”

“They should be sautéed and sprinkled with a bit of sage,” Murmured the cook troll, poking at the dwarves trapped on the rotating stick with a large finger to test their temperature.

“Oh,” The other troll moaned, “That does sound quite nice. “

“Never mind the seasoning!” The third troll grunted, turning the stick faster with anticipation. “We ain’t got all night. Dawn ain’t far away. Let’s get a move on. I don’t fancy being turned to stone.”

Turned to stone? Of course! Bilbo sat up quickly and shuffled himself to a standing position, calling out, “Wait! You are making a terrible mistake.”

“There’s no reasoning with them; they’re halfwits!” Dori shouted from the roasting pile.

“Halfwits! What’s that make us, then?” Bofur called back, still managing to be humorous in a bleak situation.

“I meant, about the—uh—the seasoning!” Bilbo continued, grasping for any little idea at stalling the trolls.

“What about the seasoning?” The cook growled, leaning down closer to the small hobbit.

“Well, have you smelt them?” Bilbo asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to need something a lot stronger than sage before you plate this lot up!” He hopped forward, nearly stumbling over Fili’s body and moving closer to the fire. He could see Dwalin’s red and sweating face in the heat of the fire and felt a shiver of fear slide down his spine.

“What do you know about cooking dwarf?” The third troll grunted, clearly wanting to ignore the silly little thing on the ground.

“Shut up!” The cooking troll hissed before turning back to Bilbo. “Let the, uh, flurgaburburhobbit talk.”

Bilbo pretended to give a thankful smile at this troll, before he began to flounder for an answer. “The secret to cooking dwarf is---is---“ He had to stop for a moment, the lunacy of that statement stalling his tongue, but he was prompted by the trolls to hurry up.

“Yes? Come on, tell us the secret!”

“Yes, yes, I’m telling you, the secret is…”Bilbo searched for something that would take a large amount of time and found an answer, though he winced at the reactions he knew he would receive from his companions. “…to skin them first!”

As he expected, all of the dwarves cried out in outrage, thrashing in their bonds and hollering things at him, promising revenge and the like. Bilbo tried to ignore these, as he knew that they would forgive him when their lives were saved from this, but it did still hurt Bilbo, for reasons he did not know, to hear Dwalin growling threateningly at him from the roaster.

“Tom, get me filleting knife.” The cook ordered.

“What a load of rubbish! I’ve eaten plenty of them with their skins on!” The third dwarf roared. “Scarf’em I say, boots and all!”

A quick shadow moved over the lip of the rocky cliff above, and Bilbo thought he saw Gandalf’s pointed hat in the lightening sky. Or at least he hoped it was Gandalf come to save them.

“He’s right,” The stupid troll drawled. “Nothing wrong with a bit raw dwarf!” The troll lurched forward, reaching a hand out for Bombur and pulling the dwarf up into the air. Bombur gave out a cry of alarm as he dangled over the troll’s mouth.

“Nice and crunchy!”

The troll lowered the dwarf to his mouth, ignoring Bilbo’s shouted protests, but surprisingly he let out a disgusted sound and tossed him back onto the heap.

“I just remember why I don’t like raw dwarf anymore!” The stupid troll whined. “The hair! So much hair, always gettin’ in the way and stopping up my throat and stuff!”

The dwarves all breathed a sigh of relief, as did Bilbo.

“Well, we all have plenty of hair,” Bilbo shouted helpfully. “There’s no escaping it, really. It’s everywhere. On the back, the chest, the legs, it’ll clog up your systems; very painful indigestion, I assure you. I wouldn’t risk it.”

“What would you have us do, then? Shave them all or something?” The third troll grunted out with suspicion in his beady eyes.

The dwarves gave an even bigger protest against this, seeming to much rather be eaten than have their beards shaved off! Bilbo gave them exasperated looks, but his attention was quickly elsewhere as that troll lumbered toward him, carrying his blunt knife in his hands.

“Let’s have you first, then, little ferret! And then, I’ll eat ya raw meself!” His empty hand reached out and grabbed Bilbo’s poor beard quite painfully, causing the hobbit to let out a yell. The dwarves all froze for a moment, realizing that the most perfect gold beard in the world was about to be brutally hacked off by some stupid beast.

“Don’t you dare, you thrice bedamned son of an orc—“

“I’ll kill you, swear to Mahal! Get your hands off me hobbit!”

“Don’t do it! Please, not the beard! Anything but the—“

But the troll’s arm had already swung back, and he brought the knife down ferociously upon Bilbo’s beard. The hobbit was terrified that he would miss, that this was the moment that he would die, skewered on the end of a troll knife, but thankfully the troll’s aim was spot on.

The knife hit squarely on the length of Bilbo’s gold beard, but instead of slicing through, it was repelled back, throwing its wielder off balance and sending him crashing back onto the ground. The dwarves had all cried out in shock and now stared in awe as Bilbo slumped to the ground, frightened but otherwise unharmed. And his beard! It was still intact and as beautiful as ever, if a little worse for wear.

“Curse it!” The troll had recovered very quickly and was again standing over Bilbo with his knife pointed at his head. “What trickery is this! That’s not hair! That’s gotta be rock or stone! This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“The dawn will take you all!” A voice boomed throughout the clearing, and in a glorious burst of light, Gandalf shattered the cliff’s rock wall and showered the company in the light of the morning sun.

The trolls gave a few feeble bellows of pain, fighting against the light and cowering away, their bodies stilling and greying until they were immobile rock giants, never to eat dwarves or hobbits ever again!

The company instantly rejoiced, calling out praise to the wizard and yelling in triumph. Gandalf quickly freed the relieved dwarves on the ground, and they moved to free their brethren from the roasting stick. He personally freed the hobbit, giving him a private smile and a wink, before he moved on. Bilbo had smiled back and had freed Fili and Kili, who hugged him between them with loud laughter. They released him after a moment and swept through the campsite, meeting their uncle with relieved grins. Thorin grabbed them firmly on the shoulders, smiling back at them softly, before he ventured off to question Gandalf, leaving the rest of the company to question the hobbit, as they all suddenly remembered what had happened right before Gandalf had burst in.

“How on this earth were you able to repel that knife?!” Nori asked incredulously, looking at Bilbo’s beard with no small amount of wonder.

“What’s it really made of? Is it really made of gold? Mithril?” Kili questioned with wide eyes, leaning forward to inspect the beard.

“No, no, it’s made of hair, I assure you.” Bilbo raised his hands defensively, not used to being the subject of so many stares and questions. “You can see for yourself, if you’d like!”

He instantly regretted offering this, as nearly all the dwarves surged forward at this tempting suggestion, and there were at least a dozen hands running through poor beard. It was not that they were hurting him, because they were surprisingly gentle, but the shock of it all and the light tugging sensation from all around had Bilbo taking a couple hurried steps back from the huddle. They all seemed ready to follow, even taking a few steps forward here and there, but a sudden growl erupted from the right, and everyone turned to see Dwalin standing there, his face a thunderous forbidding scowl. No one moved a muscle.

Bilbo shifted awkwardly, throwing a grateful look at Dwalin, whose expression lightened somewhat at that. “My beard…my beard can’t be cut or burned off. I don’t know why that is, or what makes it that way, but it has been like that since my coming of age. Before that, it grew back at an incredibly fast rate, but now it thankfully doesn’t grow past what it is now.” He motioned to the tip of his beard where it touched the middle of his chest.

“Wow,” Kili and Fili said in hushed tones, looking on with keen interest.

“Wait,” Bofur began, sounding a little confused, “It grew back at a fast rate? Does that mean that you would…cut it?” He ended this question looking a little green.

Bilbo looked at him with a little surprise. “Actually, yes, I did. Or my father did, really.”

The dwarves all gave gasps of horror at this, many of their faces becoming horribly pale. Ori, Kili, and Fili looked about to be violently sick. Bilbo looked at them with alarm. He knew that beards were very important to dwarves, but surely this reaction was a little extreme!

“Company! Grab your things! We’re moving on. Now!” Thorin commanded, his voice loud and crashing like thunder in the silence of the clearing. The dwarves jumped to attention, moving instantly for their belongings and packing things away, though most everyone still shot horrified glances at the hobbit.

Bilbo shuffled uncomfortably at these, moving out of the clearing with his pack and following Gandalf into the woods. He lifted his head at the caress of a wandering breeze and heard the light trickling sound of a creek nearby. He sent a glance at the wizard, but seeing only a smile upon the wizened face, Bilbo moved off to find this river, wanting desperately to clean off the troll snot and dirt from his person. He also wanted to give his beard a thorough inspection, as it had been horribly mistreated all night long.  

And if Thorin wished to scold him for this, well, he could just add another item to the list of things he disapproved of! Right under bearded hobbits, which must be at least in the top ten. 

Chapter Text

Thorin did not scold him. Or rather, the dwarf prince was far too concerned with marshaling the dwarves and moving them onward through the forest, pausing only briefly to cast an annoyed look in the hobbit’s direction. Well, that suited Bilbo just fine. He’d had just enough time to get the largest mess of troll stink off his clothes before he heard the clamor of metal and the shuffling of cloth that signified the company was on the move. He hurried to catch up, sweeping his nearby bag onto his shoulder and darting away from the small stream.

The company was making its way up a path along the mountain’s side, Gandalf’s grey hat bobbing at the head of the entourage. Bilbo found himself near the end of the procession, Bofur having waited for him before marching along behind him up the steep incline.

“Where are we headed?” Bilbo asked curiously.

“The wizard’s found somethin’ up ahead. Thinks it might be worth lookin’ into,” Bofur shrugged, still grinning with relief. “Do ye want me to help ye with that?” He gestured toward Bilbo’s pack.

“No, I can carry it just fine. I’ll be glad to take a bath somewhere soon, though. I feel dreadfully dirty, it’s just awful.” The hobbit sighed miserably, casting a longing glance back at the river, before turning to give Bofur a small smile. “But thank you, for offering. That’s very kind of you.”

Bofur’s ears went pink again, and a pleased smile formed under his thick moustache. “Sure, sure, whatever I can do for ye…just ask, ye know?” His fingers twisted along the edge of his tunic, and the dwarf looked away bashfully for a moment before turning back to the hobbit, determination in his dark eyes.

“Bilbo, I was wonderin’ if ye-“

“Bilbo!”

They had reached the stone outcropping where the rest of the company was camped around, and both Fili and Kili hurried over to them as Bilbo and Bofur came into sight. A large cave delved into the face of the mountain, and most of the dwarves stationed there cave the opening a wide berth. As they came closer, Bilbo discovered why. There was an odor coming from within that was so foul that the hobbit ‘s eyes watered, and he felt instantly nauseous. Flies buzzed around the heaps of dirt and grime near the mouth of the cave, and Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what else was in that cave that had attracted so many of the flying pests.

“We were wondering about what you said earlier,” Kili asked rather hesitantly, and Bilbo gratefully turned his head away from the cave to look at the dwarf prince’s squirming stance a little behind his brother. “About…you know… your beard and….”

“You mean how my father would help me trim my beard?” Bilbo finished for him and watched curiously as Fili, Kili, and Bofur all flinched.

“Yeah, that,” Fili continued. “What on Middle Earth did you mean? Why would you ever need to cut your beard?”

Bilbo shuffled over to a rock nearby, far enough away from the cave that he could stand the diluted smell without vomiting, and sat down with a small sigh. The curious dwarves followed behind him without any prompting and plopped themselves on the ground around him. Bilbo was vaguely reminded of the times in the Shire where he would read some of his father’s stories to the little hobbitlings before dinner, and he smiled wistfully at the memory.

The dwarves seemed to become a little paler at the smile, wondering if these memories of shaving his beard were happy ones to the hobbit. They wondered if they would be able to stomach these stories if Bilbo showed a fondness for them.

“Sorry, lost in thought. Anyway, back to your question. When you were traveling through the Shire, did you notice any sign of facial hair on the other hobbits there?” He began, reaching up a hand to brush over his own beard.

“No, I don’t believe so…” Fili answered distractedly, watching the slender hand trail through golden curls. Kili and Bofur nodded along with that statement, also quite distracted.

“Well, it is quite unusual for hobbits to have facial hair. An alarming and rather unwelcome thing, to be sure. It’s not exactly a characteristic that a proper gentlehobbit is supposed to have. My father in particular believed this,” Bilbo spoke softly, though he gave a small smile as Balin and Ori drifted over to listen as well.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of at all!” Kili interrupted loudly, frowning earnestly at the hobbit perched above them on the stone and reaching a hand to his own face to palm forlornly at his short stubble. Fili patted him on the shoulder silently, and the other dwarves nodded in agreement.

“ Thank you, Kili. My mother quite agreed with you. She, of course, thought it was a delightful thing, my beard,” Bilbo gave a small grin at this. “She saw no reason for me to be ashamed of it, though my father managed to have his way for a little while there, during my younger years. Both morning and night, he would take a blade to my chin and upper lip, as the hair grew back rather quickly over time.”

“Every day?” Fili looked sickened. “Your own father? That’s just…terrible, that is.”

“Oh, he did not mean it maliciously!” Bilbo cut in hastily, seeing that there were looks of protective fury on their faces at the thought. “In his own way, my father was trying to look out for me. You see, amongst hobbits, it is very hard to be liked if you were…different in some way. My own mother was considered an oddity amongst the hobbits for her adventuring ways. The Took family in general is looked at with suspicion and distaste.”

He shrugged his shoulders rather helplessly at this, his normally bright green eyes downturned with resignation. “They all expected me to be odd as well, and they were right. I was an adventurous hobbit in my youth, always going off into the forests to search for elves and the like. After a few years of this, I grew tired of having to cow down to the desires of others over things that were decidedly not their business to begin with! So I would skip shaving some days, letting my chin and lip become fuzzy before my father would get a hold of me. And then one day, as you all saw earlier, my hair became impossible to cut. My father tried everything to remove the little curls, but to no avail.”

Bilbo looked down fondly at his gold length and grinned mischievously at the wide-eyed amazement of the gathered dwarves in his presence. 

“And ye have no idea what caused it to become so, then?” Balin questioned curiously, his bushy white eyebrows lowering in speculation.

“Not at all,” Bilbo replied with amusement, and he stood up when Gandalf’s tall form appeared from the darkness of the cave. He waved the hobbit over to him.

“Excuse me for a bit. I believe Gandalf wants to see me.” And with that, Bilbo trotted away from the huddled group.

“He just gets more interesting with every new discovery, doesn’t he?” Fili commented as he watched the hobbit bound away from the, his blue eyes lingering on Bilbo’s backside for just a bit too long.

Balin cuffed him with a measuring hand, giving him a censuring look. “That he is, but ye need to stop staring at him so obviously and acting like a bunch of dwarflings just coming in to their dwarfhood. It’s embarrassing, really.”

Seeing that they were suitably chastised, Balin hefted his belt further up onto his hips and walked away to talk with his brother, who had just surfaced from within the troll’s cave.

Dwalin grimaced at the expression on his brother’s face. One eyebrow raised in amused derision, his mouth curved and thin, it was the face Balin always made when he was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. Dwalin considered for a moment going back into the troll hoard to escape his meddling brother but decided against it. Nothing that Balin could say would be more abhorrent than the stench of troll and animal carcasses.

“The princes have taken a particular interest in our burglar.”

Dwalin quickly looked around to make sure none of the others were listening in on their conversation before grunting and looking away.

“Bofur, as well. As I’m sure ye’ve noticed.”

“Yer point?” Dwalin growled quietly and ignoring the knowing look he received in return.

“Ye know exactly what I’m after, brother. If ye don’t make some attempt to befriend the hobbit, ye’ll have no chance whatsoever. Bofur’s already made quite a bit of headway, and the princes are not far behind.”

“Fili and Kili are not serious about the hobbit. He’s just another distraction from the road.”

Balin gave him an unimpressed look. “For now, that may be. But he’s a very comely creature, friendly and intelligent. His beard alone would receive due consideration from any dwarf worth his metal. He’s a damn good cook as well. It’s quite obvious, his appeal, even from a few moments spent with him on the road.”

“Why don’t you court him then, if he’s so ‘very comely’” Dwalin glowered at his brother, his jealousy rearing from within his breast like a burning flame. This was his brother talking, and yet he could not help but react to the effusive praise of the hobbit he was growing more and more attracted to. All of Balin’s compliments about Bilbo were even things that Dwalin himself had thought, though he had quite a few to add, the principles of which being his tight little rump and large curly-haired feet. The reminders that others were interested in the hobbit as well were also a hard notion to withstand. He wanted to slice things with his axes at the very thought of it.

Balin simply gave him a disgusted look and sauntered away, leaving Dwalin attempting to resist looking at the hobbit. This was made significantly easier when a large group of birds suddenly took flight a little ways away from their position.

“Something’s coming!” He shouted into the group, his hands instantly drawing his axes Gasper and Keeper with relish. He could feel the siren call of battle in his blood, and he grinned with anticipation.

Quickly locating his prince, Dwalin charged through the forest, prepared to fight alongside him as they positioned for oncoming attack. He felt a warm presence at his side and looked down to see the very hobbit that had been tormenting his thoughts for the past few days, a small elven sword quivering slightly in his hand. The dwarf stepped forward a bit to place himself defensively in front of Bilbo and growled as the sounds of rustling trees and bushes grew quickly nearer. A group of rabbits shot out of the greenery, followed by a wooden sled carrying a figure cloaked in brown wears and bearing an odd winged hat.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!” The man shouted, his face wild and dirty, what looked like bird droppings dripping from under the lip of his hat. He had a matted brown beard whose wispy ends trailed past his waist and looked as though he hadn’t bathed in years. Dwalin thought he saw a panicked squirrel crawl out from under his robe.

“Radagast!” Gandalf called, sounding relieved. “Radagast the Brown!”

The company lowered their weapons as Gandalf stepped forward to speak with the other wizard, relieved and slightly repelled at the odd wizard’s entrance. Bilbo shuffled forward to stand next to Dwalin and Bofur, whom the warrior dwarf had just noticed stood on the other side of the hobbit. He felt a flame of irritation spark inside of his chest and gave the toymaker a veiled glare. He received a defiant look in return and watched as Bofur placed a hand on Bilbo’s arm to ask if he was all right. Bilbo nodded in affirmation, but they were all distracted again by the wizards’ conversation.

“What on Middle-earth are you doing here?” Gandalf questioned the other, his face looking rather dubious.

“I was looking for you, Gandalf! Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.” Radagast spoke quickly, his hands moving anxiously.

“Yes?” Gandalf questioned. “What is it?”

Radagast seemed to struggle for a moment, his mouth opening and closing uselessly for a moment before he gave a huff of frustration.

“Just give me a minute! Oh!..... oh, I had a thought, but now I’ve lost it. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue-Oh!” He gave a start, and the company looked on with growing alarm. “Oh! It’s not a thought at all! It’s just a little—“ his mouth opened then, and a small green bug could be seen perched there. “—stick insect!”

Gandalf reached forward to pluck the bug from its perch and hand it back to Radagast, ignoring the vaguely repulsed faces of the dwarves standing around. Dwalin reached a large hand out to pull Bilbo back behind him, wary of the other bugs that must be living on the filthy wizard being within flying distance of the hobbit. Bilbo gave him a surprised and rather disgruntled look but did not say anything about it.

“So…How are you, Mister Dwalin?” He asked rather nervously.

Dwalin looked down at him from the corner of his eye and gave a grunt as a response.

Bilbo wavered for a moment at that before giving a small huff. “I’ll take that as sign that you’re doing well.” He dithered for another moment, looking as though he had something else to say.

Dwalin waited, if for no other reason than he had none to move away. It certainly was not because this was the second conversation that he’d ever had with the admittedly attractive hobbit or because he was close enough that he could smell the soft flowery scent of the hobbit’s beard oil over the lingering troll smell.

“I was wondering if—I know we barely know each other, but I was hoping that maybe you’d be willing to teach me how to use this,” He gestured to the short sword on his hip, and Dwalin noticed his cheeks were flushing. “I—the others have said that you’re the best warrior in our little company, and Kili and Fili mentioned that you trained them in swordsmanship when they were younger, so I figured you’d be a good teacher.”

He was rambling away, his cheeks becoming more red with every word and his hands gesturing about, but damn it all if it wasn’t endearing to Dwalin. He could see Bofur over Bilbo’s shoulder, his mouth gaping open and looking as though he’d offer himself as a teacher if he knew anything at all about swordsmanship. Dwalin felt a vicious spike of smugness at that and at the words that had come out of the hobbit’s pretty mouth. Best warrior, aye?

He looked at Bilbo for another moment, noting the slim figure and smooth unblemished hands, before acknowledging that someone needed to teach the little hobbit how to defend himself, regardless of possible ulterior motives.

“Aye,” He grunted quietly, forcing Bilbo to stop his nervous chatter.

“I’m sorry, what? I didn’t quite understand you,” He leaned in closer to Dwalin, and the older dwarf forced himself to look away from the tempting sight of Bilbo’s upturned face, hopeful and sweet.

“Aye, I’ll teach ye to use yer sword,” He looked again at the sword, before continuing, “Well, it’s more of a knife or dagger, but it’ll do.”

“Oh, well, great. That’s—thank you, Mister Dwalin.” Bilbo bowed his head, smiling gratefully up at the taller dwarf.

“Just ‘Dwalin’ is fine.”

“Oh. Alright…Thank you, then…Dwalin.”

If Bilbo’s face had been red before, it was positively glowing now. All Bofur could do was stand there looking on, dumbfounded and incredibly jealous seeming, as Bilbo dithered next to Dwalin for a bit, smiling shyly and blushing. Dwalin wanted to grin smugly over at the toymaker, but he found he did not want to remove his eyes from the pleased emerald of the hobbit’s. Perhaps his chances with the hobbit were a good deal better than Balin had believed.

Before he could find some way to rub the hobbit’s obvious attraction in the other dwarf’s face, a terrifying growl sounded through the clearing. Dwalin turned instantly toward the sound, Grasper and Keeper once again at the ready.

A warg appeared from over the hill, its mouth open and foaming, red eyes glaring out from matted black fur. It leaped down into their camp and snapped its teeth at Ori, but Thorin cut it down with one stroke of his long silver blade. Another beast leaped down the opposite bank and lunged at Thorin’s back, but before it could reach its mark an arrow shot by Kili sent it off course with a yelp of pain. The second it was in range, Dwalin swung his axes down onto the scruff of its neck, digging deep and severing its head.

“Warg scouts!” Thorin shouted, looking around at the gathered company. “Which means an Orc pack is not far behind.”

Bilbo looked at him with horror. “Orc pack?” He shuffled closer to Dwalin at this, which, given better circumstances, would have made the dwarf want to preen.

“Who did you tell about your quest beyond your kin?” Gandalf demanded, striding toward Thorin.

“No one, I swear. What in Durin’s name is going on?” Thorin asked.

“You are being hunted. “ Gandalf replied ominously, casting a suspicious gaze around the perimeter of the woods.

“We have to get out of here.” Dwalin said, sharing a grim look with his prince.

“We can’t! We’ve got no ponies. They bolted!”

They all turned to see Ori and Bifur as they stumbled through the bushes on the upper bank. Nearly all of the company blanched at this; their fastest means of escape had run away in fear.

“I’ll draw them off,” Radagast stepped forward with a determined look in his eyes. What sounded like quite a few birds chirped from under his hat in agreement.

“These are Gundabad wargs. They’ll outrun you.” Gandalf said shortly, casting a dubious look back at the other wizard.

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits. I’d like to see them try,” he grinned with pride and mischief, as well as enough surety that Gandalf agreed with a hesitant nod.

“Let’s go teach these wargs a thing or two about speed, shall we?” Radagast cackled merrily before hopping onto his rabbit-pulled sled and taking off into the fields ahead, shouting and creating a loud racket to attract the attention of the larger pack.

“This way!” Gandalf ordered in a hush.

The grey wizard led them in a winding and perilous path through the fields and around the occasional rock, attempting to navigate them safely out of the sight of the Orc pack. Bilbo’s breath came harshly from within his lungs, unused to so much sprinting and fear for his life. Dwalin was a constant presence at his back, the burly warrior dwarf managing to keep the hobbit in front of him in the company’s mad dash across the hilly field. The dwarves were surprisingly quick on their feet, but then, Bilbo supposed, fear for your life would certainly give reason to push ahead as best you can.

He nearly ran into the back of Bofur when the company suddenly jerked to a stop under a large rock. Desperately trying to catch his breath, Bilbo looked around, wondering why they had stopped. He opened his mouth to ask, when a large hand covered in metal knuckle-dusters stopped him short. He turned to look up at Dwalin, more than a little offended, when he saw the dwarf watching something above intently.

Bilbo looked.

A large russet warg prowled on top of the rock about the company’s heads, his rider, an ugly, distorted figure with dirty grey skin and straps of leather for clothing, holding tightly to its reigns. Bilbo blanched at the sight, turning wide and rather fearful eyes onto the dwarf next to him. Dwalin patted him quietly on the shoulder, before pulling both of his hands back onto Grasper and Keeper.

At Thorin’s command, Kili shot at the warg, hoping to kill it with one shot but missing its face by mere inches. The warg and its rider fell onto the ground next to the company, and though many shot forward to bring their weapons down upon the enemy, the warg still managed to howl and alert the others to the attack.

The responding howls echoed through the open air, and the company froze in horror and dread.

“Run!” Gandalf shouted at them.

They took off across the fields, death literally on their heels. Gandalf seemed to be frantically searching for something, though Bilbo could barely spare him a thought. He had never been so afraid in his life, and in those heart-pounding moments of desperation, he truly wished he had never come on this damn journey. He had known there would be danger; they aimed to rid the Lonely Mountain of the dragon, after all.  But he had greatly underestimated the dangers they would face on the road. First trolls, now an Orc pack! What was next, hordes of goblins?

Up ahead, Thorin skidded to a halt. A group of the orc riders had circled around, preventing the company’s advancement forward. They now stood a little ways away from a large rock jutting from the ground, and though Bilbo’s eyes found every other member of the company, Gandalf seemed to have disappeared.

He could hear Thorin yelling out orders to them all, his magnificent silver blade glowing blue and at the ready. Dwalin stood only a short distance away from his prince and a few yards in front of Bilbo, who drew his small sword and sent up a prayer.  He could hear Kili shooting at the oncoming Orc pack, the sickening cry of the orcs and wargs who were pierced by the arrows. He could hear his own ragged breath over the ferocious growls surrounding them. And though he was scared, Bilbo swore to himself that if this was the end, he would go down fighting alongside these dwarves, many of which had become his friends.

“This way, you fools!”

They all turned shocked at the sound of Gandalf’s voice, and there the wizard stood with his staff held high in the air. He motioned for them to follow and then disappeared under the large rock, which must have a small cave at its base.

“Come on! Move!” Thorin shouted at them all, directing them all one by one into the cave behind Gandalf. He sliced at the wargs that came too close, until finally they were all ensconced under the rock, weapons at the ready.

A horn sounded from above, and Bilbo could hear the stampeding feet of horses on the ground above them. Small and sharp noises rent through the air, arrows flying with incredible speed, and from the grunts and yelps of the orcs, they were finding their marks. Suddenly, a body tumbled into the cave’s opening and rolled down, Gandalf’s sword hovering over the orc’s throat when it stilled. But the creature did not stir, and Thorin stepped forward to yank the arrow out of its neck.

“Elves.” The prince hissed with disdain. He threw the arrow onto the ground and looked up at Gandalf with suspicion.

“I cannot see where the pathway leads. Do we follow it or no?” Dwalin called from the right, and Bilbo turned to see him peering cautiously around the corner of the stone pathway.

“Follow it, of course!” Bofur shouted from within the group of dwarves, striding forward and quickly passing Dwalin to head further into the passage. The other dwarves trailed after him in agreement.

“That would be wise,” Gandalf muttered under his breath, and Bilbo, who had heard, turned to raise an eyebrow at that. Thorin, who had also heard, gave the wizard an irritated look before catching up with Dwalin and continuing onward.

After giving a small sigh, Bilbo followed as well. He personally didn’t care where the pathway led so long as there were not orcs at the end of it. His eyes drooped with exhaustion, and all he wanted to do was find a nice, cozy bed somewhere and sleep for a few days. And he still wanted a bath. Desperately.

 When they reached the end of the tunnel, it was apparent that Bilbo might just get his wish.

He stood in awe at the sight before him. He had always wanted to see the Hidden Valley; he had dreamed of traveling the Great East Road and visiting the city of elves, Rivendell, when he was a young hobbitling listening to wild tales at his mother’s knee. Imladris was just as beautiful as he had imagined. Long veins of glistening clear water fell from dips and cracks in the valley’s rocky sides, streaming in pools and rivers through the white stone and curved archways of the city itself. Trees and greenery grew on the outskirts of the Last Homely House; pockets of that same green could be seen amongst the buildings and houses as well.

Bilbo was entirely too enraptured by the beauty of Rivendell to see the glowers on the faces of the dwarves around him, though Thorin’s rough and accusatory voice caught his attention.

“This was your plan all along,” The dwarf prince growled at Gandalf, his dark blue eyes baleful. “To seek refuge with our enemy.”

Gandalf gave him an exasperated look. “You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield. The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.”

Thorin seemed a bit disgruntled at that, and Bilbo had to cough into his hand to keep himself from snorting.

“You think the elves will give our quest their blessing?” Thorin countered, looking indignant. “They will try to stop us.”

“Of course they will.” Gandalf answered, seeming fed up with the prince’s prejudice. “But we have questions that need to be answered.”

Perhaps it was the near fatal experience they had all just survived through, or that Gandalf’s logic was too strong and sound to overcome, but Thorin seemed to deflate a bit at that, and he conceded with a short nod.

Gandalf then proceeded to lead the way down the rocky path along the valley side and to the large white walkway leading into the elven city. Bilbo and a few of the other dwarves looked around with wonder; it seemed impossible to not be impressed by the sheer beauty of the waters running under and around them, let alone the rest of Rivendell.

They arrived at the large entrance courtyard, where two elven sentries stood guard. Another elf could be seen descending from the stairs above, a male wearing long robes of burgundy and possessing of flowing hair of a similar color.

“Mithrandir,” he called out to the group, and Gandalf stepped forward in answer.

“Ah, Lindir,” he greeted convivially. The wizard held out his hand to shake with that of the elf named Lindir, before they began to converse in the elven tongue.

Bilbo stood a little ways away, talking with Bofur absentmindedly, so he was able to hear Thorin whisper, “Stay sharp” to Dwalin, who stood at his right. The dwarf in question nodded and looked over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Bilbo’s. The hobbit’s lips automatically formed into a small smile, and the dwarf nodded at him quietly before a horn rent the peaceful murmurs of the dwarves around.

The company all turned in unison to look at the entrance and saw an oncoming group of warrior elves traveling by horseback. Bilbo heard Thorin shout something in Khuzdul, and the company suddenly closed ranks, a large knuckle-dusted hand reaching out and yanking him into the middle of the group.

The elf riders trotted around them curiously, before slowing to a stop.

“Gandalf!” The lead rider called out in welcome, and again the wizard stepped forth.

“Lord Elrond!” He said a few more words in Sindarin, before they embraced.

Bilbo watched with some interest as the tall, dark-haired elf, Lord Elrond, conversed with Gandalf, seeming to ignore the small group of dwarves and hobbit nearby, before he turned to introduce himself to Thorin. There was a moment where Bilbo held his breath, sure that Thorin had just been rather rude to the elf lord, but Lord Elrond seemed unoffended and welcomed the company into his halls.

They were led to a section of rooms where they were given leave to lay down their gear and have a change of clothes if they wished. Bilbo gladly took this opportunity, secretly hoping that they would be given permission to bathe as well. He had heard that the baths of Rivendell were unbelievably soothing to the travel-weary and careworn.

They were not given much time to talk amongst themselves either, as a pair of elves knocked on their chamber door a short time later to inform them that dinner was nearly prepared and to head to the dining hall. Thorin was only able to give them a brief warning to stay on guard before they were led down to the dining hall.

The dining hall turned out to be more like an open balcony where sets of elegant chairs and tables had been arranged. Lovely elf women and men stood nearby, playing soft wooden instruments or carrying platters of food gracefully. Bilbo was placed a little ways down the table from the head, where Elrond sat principally, Gandalf to his right and Thorin to his left. Balin sat to Bilbo’s right and Dwalin to his left, both of which were picking sparingly at their food.

Bilbo heard Dwalin mutter, “Where’s the meat?” before he became interested by the conversation taking place a few feet away. Lord Elrond was talking about the two swords that they had found in the troll hoard: Orcrist and Glamdring, famous blades forged in Gondolin. Bilbo looked curiously down at his own sword.

“I wouldn’t bother, laddie,” Balin said quietly, noticing Bilbo’s interest. “Swords are named for the great deeds they do in battle.”

“What are you saying, that my sword hasn’t seen battle?” Bilbo asked, a bit disappointed. He heard Dwalin snort from his left and remembered what the warrior dwarf had said about the little sword earlier that day.

“I’m not actually sure it is a sword.  More of a letter opener, really,” Balin patted him on the shoulder sympathetically at the hobbit’s somewhat downtrodden face.

Bilbo was planning on continuing the rest of dinner in relative silence, feeling tired and a bit unsociable. But then he heard the question that Lord Elrond posed to Gandalf.

“And what exactly were you doing on the Great East road with fourteen dwarves, Gandalf?” the elf lord asked, amused.

“Fourteen dwarv—I’m not a dwarf!” Bilbo piped up indignantly.

Everyone at the table turned to look at him; Lord Elrond seemed a bit taken aback.

“Forgive me if I have offended you, friend,” he spoke softly, sounding curious.

“Ah, the fault lies with me,” Gandalf said with a smile. “Lord Elrond, I’d like you to meet Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins,” Lord Elrond greeted him warmly and with a smile. “I apologize again for my presumption. I have only had a few occasions to meet with the Shirefolk, so I did not recognize you with your kin.” His blue eyes drifted down curiously to the mass of gold curls hanging from his chin, causing Bilbo to run a hand over it self-consciously.

“Oh, please—I’m sorry for my outburst. Dreadfully rude of me, really.” Bilbo flushed with some embarrassment. “It is an honor to meet you, Lord Elrond. I have long since wished to travel to Rivendell, so it is truly a pleasure.”

The elf lord gave a regal nod at this. “I hope you do not mind my asking, Master Baggins; I have already offended once this evening, I would hate to do so again. But the few of your kin that I have met in the past did not have such a wealth of hair on their person, except for that which was on their head and feet. Is it a regularity amongst your people to be smooth skinned or the opposite? I ask, for I would hate to make the same assumption in the future.”

“Oh, well, my people are usually without any form of facial hair. There are a few exceptions; I had a great uncle who had very prominent sideburns. But I am a bit of an oddity amongst hobbits for my beard.” Bilbo explained simply, allowing himself a long drink of wine to give him more courage. Next to him, Dwalin seemed as rigid as a statue, his eyes watching the elf lord with suspicion.

“Interesting,” Lord Elrond murmured, looking at Bilbo with speculation. “I would like very much to talk about this subject at a later time with you, if you are willing, Master Baggins?”

“I’d be delighted!” Bilbo responded cheerfully. “Though if you’re going to be looking at my beard closely, I would dearly love to wash it first. Had a bit of unpleasantness with trolls, so I’m not at my best at the moment.”

“Of course,” Lord Elrond smiled. “We offer the use of our bathing halls to all of our guests, as part of our hospitality. Feel free to make use of it as often as you wish.”

The dwarves grumbled at this, wondering if they should be insulted at the insinuation that they needed to bath, but Bilbo was absolutely thrilled. He squirmed in his seat with anticipation; Oh, how he couldn’t wait to be clean again!

Dinner passed rather quickly after that, and though Bilbo was offered a spot in the private meeting that Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Thorin, and Balin seemed headed for, he chose to proceed to the bath halls with the rest of the company instead. Despite their earlier complaints, the dwarves look amazed at the expansive bathing halls in the bottom of Rivendell, beautifully decorated rooms with large steaming baths and various other amenities placed within.

The dwarves decided that they would all need to bathe in the same large bathroom for safety reasons, though Bilbo had attempted to protest. Now that the immediate danger was over with, and they were in relatively safe territory, the dwarves had resumed with their earlier fascination of Bilbo’s beard (not that they told him this). The hobbit conceded without much fight and began to peel away the sticky layers of his clothing along with the others, though he was considerably more modest about doing so. Most of the others simply shucked their clothes to the ground and dived in, Kili and Fili racing in their haste.

Dwalin rid himself of his clothing and armor as quickly as he could, hoping to get a glimpse of the hobbit’s smooth skin and to see if there was more curly golden hair in other places on his body. He was disappointed to find that by the time he had turned around, Bilbo was already within the steaming water, everything but his head completely submerged.

The blissed look on his face was surely enough of a treat for the dwarves, though. Bilbo had already proceeded to lather his hair, face, and beard with soap, and when he rose out of the water after rinsing, his skin glowed with health, his cheeks pink from heat or pleasure. Dwalin could not help but wonder if this was how Bilbo might look in the height of pleasure: cheeks red from exertion and passion, skin glistening with sweat, golden beard sticking thickly to his chin and neck, small mouth opened to release his cries into the air….

Dwalin hurried into the water as these thoughts started to have an effect on him. Heat surged in his loins, and he forced himself to turn away from the tempting sight, lest he embarrass himself like a prepubescent dwarfling. The sight his eyes found was enough to have him gritting his teeth with jealousy and no little amount of anger. The other dwarves had become entranced by the same delicious sight that he had, but they continued to watch with hunger. Bofur looked about ready to burst, his teeth biting into his lip in restraint.

Bilbo began to open his eyes, and the dwarves began to wash themselves energetically to cover any sign of them watching the hobbit. Dwalin snorted at their antics, before grabbing a bar of soap for himself and settling down to wash.

Bilbo, from the other side of the bathing hall, attempted to force himself not to watch the mountain of a dwarf as his large hands ran sweeping strokes of soap over his broad back and shoulders, but when this failed he at least attempted to do so subtly.

He had never thought he would be so attracted to the incredibly large and muscled body of the warrior dwarf. In the Shire, the most muscle to be found on any hobbit were those on the farmers that tilled the fields during the summer time. Bilbo was certainly not ignorant of attraction and lust, but he was relatively innocent. He had been too odd a bedmate for the hobbits his age in the Shire, but he knew the gist of what went on between the sheets or behind the haystacks of the barns.

He had been attracted to some such hobbits for a little while in his early years of adulthood, but his preliminary offerings had always been rejected, and so he had given up on having a relationship until he was older.

But Bilbo had never been as attracted to those farmers as he was to Dwalin.

The dwarf was all incredible muscle, of astounding breadth and height, tattooed and hardened by battle. As he peeked from the very corner of his eyes, Bilbo could see the multitude of scars all over the dwarf’s wide back, a testament for his strength. He wanted to run his hands along the dwarf’s skin, maybe rub and sooth the knots and tensions in his shoulders and neck. His hands itched to run their fingers through his hair and beard, to wash them thoroughly with soap and slick them with oils to make them soft upon drying. He wondered what it would feel like to slide his hands down Dwalin’s front, to meet his lips with the dwarf’s, to brush his fingers against the little brown nubs of his chest, to drag his nails lightly along the hard ridges of muscle on his belly, to continue further downward…. Would Dwalin sigh with pleasure? Grunt with impatience? Growl at him with anticipation?

Bilbo became suddenly aware of how hard he was beneath the water, and he flushed deeply in mortification. He had never been so lustful of another being before in his entire life! Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was possible for his particular type to be war-hardened dwarf, but it would certainly explain quite a bit about himself and why the hobbit lads had quickly stopped attracting his attention. There was something so inherently masculine about Dwalin that made the blood in Bilbo’s veins run hot like dragon fire. He was a bit ashamed with himself over his mental slavering of the dwarf, who was for all the world still a bit of a stranger to him.

What he had seen so far of the dwarf at the heart of Dwalin was certainly worth getting to know him better. He had agreed to help Bilbo learn swordsmanship, had even tried to protect and help him during their mad escape over the plains. He commanded the respect of every dwarf in the company, including Thorin and Balin. He had all the signs of being something particularly special. And Bilbo was interested in discovering that for himself.

They settled into their quarters an hour or so after soaking in the baths. It had taken quite a bit of time to be able to leave, as most of the dwarves and a certain hobbit had developed a rather inconvenient problem. Bilbo had been brave enough to decide to leave the baths first, and he was able to masterfully wrap a nearby linen around his body to preserve his modesty and to dry off with.

He hadn’t been completely successful at this, however, as dwarf had caught a glimpse. And as Dwalin laid awake that night, he couldn’t decide if it was an incredible gift or a tortuous curse to have caught a peek at one of the glowing, golden-skinned globes of Bilbo’s delicious little behind. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Bilbo awoke to the heavenly sensations of a fluffy down mattress, soft linen blankets, and a large pillow cushioning his travel-weary head. He was quite clean from his bath the night before and coupled with the sweetest and most comfortable sleep he had had in a long time, it was no wonder that the hobbit had no intention of hopping out of bed any time soon. He had been given a room to himself for their stay in Rivendell and so had not been kept awake by the loud snoring of Bombur or the occasional shout of Khuzdul from Bifur as he fought some dream adversary in the early hours of the morning. That is not to say that he had not become used to these interruptions; had he not, Bilbo reckoned he would have hardly gotten any sleep at all. Still, there was something to be said of the peaceful stillness of the morning, a quiet only enhanced by the faintest trilling of birds outside.

His stomach gave a sudden loud rumble of hunger, as it was wont to do of late, and Bilbo resigned himself to leaving the blissful cocoon of warm sheets to find some food. He slid from the covers, giving only the smallest of shivers at the slight chill of the morning, and walked over to his pack to find a change of clothes. He found one of his nicer vests, an autumn brown outfit with small gold leaves threaded delicately into its cloth, and a slightly care-worn white dress shirt to adorn under the vest. He also found a suitable pair of trousers that had not yet seen the road, for which he was very thankful. Bilbo had wondered if he would get to meet any elves on this trip across Middle Earth and applauded his foresight in bringing one of his better ensembles to make a good impression.

After donning the day’s attire, Bilbo set to brushing through the golden curls on his head, chin, and feet; he had felt entirely too uncouth the day before in the presence of the immaculate elves. He checked his reflection in the mirror, still brushing his hands through his beard. They wouldn’t be traveling again for at least a couple days, so he could let his beard breathe for a bit.

Though it was a bit vain of him, Bilbo decided to dress his beard up a bit like he would at home. He had brought along the beads his mother had given him, ensconced safely in an inner pocket of his pack. He had debated over doing so in those quick moments after he decided to come along on the journey to Erebor, but he eventually decided he could use the comfort of having them while far away from home. Not to mention that he could very well die along the way or be gobbled up by a dragon at the end.

At the reminder of his purpose on the quest, Bilbo felt his stomach tighten with fear, so he sat down for a moment on his bed, his fingers mindlessly weaving his golden length into the braids he knew by heart. He had left his home on a spur of the moment to go on an adventure with these strange dwarves, too excited to really think it through. He was going to have to sneak past a bloody dragon at the end of this, with no idea on how to do so. He was scared. Terribly so, when he allowed himself to think on it.

In the beginning, all he’d wanted was to see the world beyond the Shire, to see the places in his books and maps come to life before him, to meet the mysterious and beautiful elves he had heard so much about. After nearly being eaten by trolls and gnawed on by wargs and orcs, Bilbo was forced to see the journey for the perilous and life-threatening venture it was. Apart of him wished he could simply not go on, that he could stay with the elves for a few weeks before returning to the Shire, whole and entirely un-incinerated. But he had signed a contract, and a Baggins’ word is as strong and dependable as oak.

Not that all parts of his journey were bad, though. Bilbo had found that, while oddly obsessed with his beard, the dwarves made very nice companions. When they set their mind to it, of course. Bofur, Fili, and Kili were steadily becoming closer and closer friends to Bilbo, despite his exasperation with the brothers. And though Thorin still seemed to dislike him, the rest of the company was friendly towards him. Even Dwalin, who had agreed to teach him to use his sword….

Dwalin was certainly becoming a larger reason to stay along on the quest. Though he thought himself rather foolish for doing so, Bilbo could feel his attraction to the warrior dwarf growing, despite not having shared much more than a couple conversations. He hoped that he would get to know him better during their lessons.

He was not so romantic that he fancied himself in love with the dwarf; they barely knew each other. But Bilbo could recognize the potential there. Just the sight of the muscular dwarf’s naked back the night before had set Bilbo’s body on fire, as though someone had poured tea fresh from the kettle into his veins.

Of course, he had no way of knowing if the attraction was mutual. For all Bilbo knew, Dwalin could be teaching him swordplay to rid himself of the hassle of having to protect the hobbit. He was certainly not any hobbit’s dream mate; he’d been told so to his face by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins over tea a few months hence. But surely a dwarf would not be averse to a hobbit with a beard. Judging from the acceptance and odd fascination of the Company, it was more likely to help him attract a dwarf than to harm his chances.

But dwarves were also rather insular with their marriage proclivities. He’d never heard of a story where a dwarf had married outside their race, and though they seemed open and accepting of Bilbo on their quest (for the most part), that did not necessarily mean they’d be open to marrying him, even if they liked him enough. Dwalin was a warrior dwarf and most likely of higher birth, if Balin had once been a lord before Erebor’s fall. If they are successful in reclaiming Erebor, he would probably be given even higher status…He’d have plenty of suitors, too, noble dwarfs and dwarrodams, all properly raised and understanding of his culture and race…what would he want with a hobbit of the Shire?

Bilbo stood up at that and gave himself a sharp tug on his beard in reprimand. What was he thinking? They’d barely spoken to each other, let alone begun courting or something. Bilbo was getting too far ahead of himself. Maybe if their relationship really did deepen, he could return to these thoughts, but even that was a big ‘if.’ For now, he’d focus on the road ahead, instead of daydreaming like some tween hobbit lass with a crush.

He briefly checked himself over one more time, before marching out of his quarters and traversing the hallways he barely remembered from the night before. He hoped to find the kitchens and prepare a more hobbit-styled breakfast, as he dearly missed having a large kitchen and plentiful ingredients to work with.

Rivendell was even more beautiful in the light of the early morning sun, the white stone of the buildings shining brightly and the courtyards and gardens flushing with healthy green shades. Birds could be heard singing in the branches of trees and flitting about overhead, the sweet song a light melody to the soothing rush of the waters flowing in small rivers and streams through the elven bastion. As Bilbo made his merry way along these paths, he walked past a couple of elves heading in the direction from which he came.

“Good morning to you!” Bilbo called out congenially, offering them a wide smile.

But they simply walked passed, offering no such greeting themselves, and when the hobbit turned to watch them leave, he swore he could hear them snigger to each other.

Feeling disgruntled and offended, Bilbo continued to make his way toward the kitchens, though with noticeably less cheer. He felt a bit of his admiration for elves souring like milk left on the stoop for too long. It was not that he had never been laughed at or judged behind his back; he had received plenty of that in the Shire for his oddities.

Rather, it was that elves were doing so. He had been raised to believe that elves were the wisest and fairest of the races of Middle Earth, that they were kind and hospitable. It was a bit of a let down to realize that, at least in this, elves were no less shallow than Lobelia and all the other hobbits that had made fun of him behind his back.

But surely they were not all like this, Bilbo corrected himself. Lord Elrond, though he had mistaken him for a dwarf, had been quite…Oh!

Bilbo stopped and looked back toward the direction that the two elves had taken. Perhaps, due to his beard, they had mistaken him for a dwarf. The rivalry and dislike between elves and dwarves was legendary, even amongst the isolated hamlets of the Shire. If the elves had mistaken him for a dwarf, it was no wonder that they had not replied and had even mocked him. Not that that excused them. It was still quite rude to ignore a kind greeting, and Bilbo would have expected better of beings that had surely spent quite a long time on this earth.

He began his journey anew, and as he rounded the corner he spotted Dori making his way along the hall, the dwarf’s face pinched and stony.

“Dori!” he called, feeling a bit better at the smile that broke over the dwarf when he spotted the oncoming hobbit. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you as well, Bilbo,” Dori replied. The older dwarf looked much sharper and dapper, his grey hair and beard carefully braided and tidy. He still wore most of his traveling attire, though his heavy outer cloak and pack did not weigh down his shoulders. “Where are you headed, if I may ask?”

“The kitchens. I’m hoping to whip up a hardy breakfast while I can. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d be delighted, if you’ll have me,” Dori answered politely.

“I don’t suppose you know where they are, do you?” Bilbo asked hopefully.

“Ah, well, no, I don’t.”

They both sighed a bit at this, their stomachs growling hungrily, before starting off down the corridor again. They passed another small group of elves after a few moments, but Bilbo felt too aware of their quiet mockery to gather up the courage to ask for directions. Dori simple gave a small sniff of derision and turned his nose up at the elves.

“Well, how did you sleep?” Bilbo asked, hoping to diffuse the tense atmosphere created by the contention between elf and dwarf.

“I slept well, though I got a bit of a late start on it. Ori was keen on looking into the library before retiring and wouldn’t hear a word against it. Took me a bit to convince him he’d have plenty of time to look today. And Nori went off, goodness only knows where. But thank you for asking, Bilbo. How about you?”

“Oh, I slept very well. I would still be there, if not for breakfast.” Bilbo patted his stomach wistfully at this. “Actually, I was also hoping to look into Rivendell’s library later today, so I would be glad to accompany Ori. I’m quite interested in seeing some of their older texts on—“

“Yes, I’m sure Ori would enjoy that very much, Bilbo,” Dori interrupted smoothly, sounding indulgent.

Bilbo wondered if he should be a bit offended by the seemingly parental tone.

Dori seemed to notice the look on his face, for he continued, “Forgive me. Books and texts have never been a particular interest of mine.”

“What are your interests, if you don’t mind me asking?”

They turned another corner and could smell the faint trace of herbs and honey on the air.

“Well, since the fall of Erebor, my interests have been primarily on providing for Ori and keeping Nori out of trouble. But before that, I enjoyed the occasional cup of wine with a bit of proper dinner conversation. I believe propriety and manners to be of the utmost importance, despite our rather meager circumstances since. I’ve tried to instill this in Ori as well. Nori’s never cared much for it, though.” Dori said all of this with the utmost pride, which made Bilbo wonder if he’d been made light of for his interests in the past. He could certainly see how many of the dwarves in the current company looked down on such things. He’d even experienced it himself!

“I quite agree with you,” Bilbo nodded emphatically. “It’s a very important ideal that we hobbits are sure to teach to our children as well. It is always important to understand a situation and react accordingly, with the proper respect and duty.”

Despite the fact that his own reputation was most likely being skewered like a roast pig back in the Shire, Bilbo still found such things to be of high importance. His father had raised him to be a gentlehobbit, which he had been dutifully until this rather Tookish turn of events. He was gratified to see Dori’s face light up with happiness at having found another likeminded individual to share their opinions with.

Having followed the fragrant smell of herbs on the air, Bilbo and Dori finally discovered the kitchens, where a few elves were eating a small meal. Bilbo gave them a hesitant smile but only received blank looks in return.

“Is it all right if we make use of the kitchen as well?” Bilbo asked the group, not wanting to offend their hosts.

They gave him a long look, before the one closest to Bilbo, a dark haired youth with light blue eyes, gave a small nod before turning back to his meal. The elves ate quickly and silently in their presence before leaving without a word.

Dori huffed with agitation but said nothing, choosing to inspect the ingredients. “I’ll start up a pot of tea, shall I?”

“That sounds lovely,” Bilbo murmured, attempting to ignore that feeling of being trapped in a place where he was not wanted. He had never realized the extent to which elves and dwarves apparently disliked one another, but as an unworthy recipient of such, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel extremely awkward and indignant.

“They’ve got plenty of meat in here. I wonder why they didn’t serve any last night,” Bilbo commented absently, picking up various ingredients to make a few pastries and biscuits. The storage had a great wealth of fruits and vegetables, along with baskets of smoked venison and salted pork. He resolved to start whipping up the dough first before slicing some fruit.

“I’ll tell you why, Bilbo,” Dori muttered with some annoyance, his hands working to quickly grind the herbs into a good powder. “They knew of dwarven dislike for many of the greener vegetables. Just another way to mock us and make us more uncomfortable than we already are.”

“Oh…” Before arriving in Rivendell, Bilbo would have been adamant that such behavior was too juvenile for elves, but having experienced a bit of this himself, Bilbo was more inclined to agree with Dori.

They continued their baking, sometimes in companionable silence, other times talking about themselves and their lives before the journey to Erebor. Bilbo learned that Dori had been a successful businessman before Erebor’s fall, dealing in clothing and vestments. Their family had struggled for a while in the cities of men before following Thorin to the Blue Mountains, where Dori was able to start up a smaller but fairly lucrative business there. Nori had become something of an outlaw during their struggles, and Dori hoped that with the gold they would receive after taking back Erebor, Nori would no longer need to thieve to get by. Bilbo had smiled at that, thinking the dwarf sweet for desiring a better life for his family.

Lost in his thoughts and their conversations, Bilbo did not realize until he’d begun to pull them out of the oven hat he had cooked at least three times as many pastries and biscuits as he had intended. The heavenly smell filled the air as the breakfast foods cooled, and more than once Bilbo had spotted the silken haired head of a curious elf peaking around the corner of the door.

“And what about you, Bilbo?” Dori questioned.

“Oh, sorry. Got a bit lost in my thoughts for a moment. What about me?”

“What do you plan to do after the quest?”

This question startled Bilbo. He had not given any thought to what he would do after they reclaimed the mountain. He’d really come along for the journey itself, not the treasure at the end.

“I suppose I’ll return to the Shire….” He said softly.

“Oh, but you must stay for a little while, Bilbo! After journeying so long and sneaking passed a dragon, you’ll deserve a good respite. It’ll be a long while before Erebor’s back to the glory it once was, but I think you should experience good dwarven hospitality. At the very least, you’re going to want to peruse the library.” He added with a sly smile.

“I suppose I could be convinced to stay for a few months,” Bilbo returned the smile over the lid of his teacup. “You could use an extra pair of hands to rebuild, I imagine.”

“Bilbo! Should’ve known you’d be at the end of that delicious smell!”

They turned to see Fili and Kili entering the kitchen, their eyes immediately latching on to the pans of toasted golden pastries. Fili suddenly swung his elbow back, landing a solid blow to Kili’s throat. As his brother bent over and choked for air, Fili darted forward to scoop five hot pastries into his hand, his other already stuffing an entire pastry into his mouth.

“Fili!” Bilbo gasped, quickly skirting the counter to hover worriedly over Kili. “What on earth is—you could have seriously hurt your brother!”

“Ah, he’s fine,” growled a figure in the doorway.

Dwalin appeared, lifting a massive paw to slap enthusiastically against Kili’s back and baring his teeth in a rakish grin.

“I trained him to take on near half a dozen orcs at once. A blow to the throat should be nothin’. Really, he should have dodged it. Don’t let your guard down next time, lad,” Dwalin gave him a chastising look, which caused Kili to flush scarlet with mortification and lung forward to wrestle with his brother, intent on regaining some of his lost pride.

The burly dwarf moved over to the pan full of breakfast, grabbed a plate from a nearby cupboard, and took nearly a fourth of the pastries on that pan, making Bilbo glad that they had baked many more.  Dwalin slouched down onto a chair at the nearby table and set about devouring his breakfast, paying no attention to the quarreling of the brothers going on at his elbow.

“Well, how are you this morning, Dwalin?” Bilbo asked, looking exasperatedly at the brother dwarfs and giving a sigh. Well, lads will be lads. “And if you’re going to do that, leave the kitchens before you burn yourselves or knock something over!” he shouted at Kili and Fili over the sounds of their tussling.

They reluctantly broke apart, Fili taking the seat next to Dwalin with a smug smile while Kili gathered some pies from the pans with a mutinous scowl. Dwalin rolled his eyes at them, before turning to look at the hobbit, an unreadable look on his face.

“The sooner we’re out of this tree-shagging place, the better,” he grumbled, shooting an angry and defensive look toward the door way to the kitchens, as if expecting elves to run in and start a fight.

“Yes, it has been a bit awkward, hasn’t it?” Bilbo piled a few pastries on his place and plopped down next to Kili, his disappointment obvious in his tone.

“Well, what did you expect? Dwarves and elves have never got along. Especially after Erebor, when the elves of the Woodland realm betrayed us. I thought you knew of this, Bilbo,” Dori gave him a questioning look as he poured some honey into his tea.

“I knew about the rivalry between elves and dwarves, of course. And Balin told me of what happened after Smaug took the mountain. Still, I had not really anticipated that it would be so…obvious, I guess is the word. Uncomfortable.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And Rivendell is known for being very welcoming to travelers. Even a few men from Bree had been to visit here.”

“It is certainly a lot better here,” Dori interposed with a nod of his head. “Elves do not often venture out of their forests, but when they do and when they run into a dwarf, the results are usually quite violent. Especially if the dwarf in question is of Durin’s folk. Time has not healed the wound left by that betrayal, nor do I expect it ever shall.”

The room became silent at this rather somber statement. Bilbo could see the evidence of Dori’s words in the elder dwarves of the company. He could see it in the icy determination of Thorin’s eyes whenever they marched on the road. He could hear it in the quiet sorrow of Balin’s voice as he told stories of Erebor to Bilbo and the younger dwarves of the group. He could see it again in the furious scowl and grinding teeth of Dwalin as he sat there across him and gripped the side of the table hard enough to splinter the wood beneath his hands.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo muttered when he saw some blood run along the veins of the wood. He shot up from his seat and grabbed a small section of cloth from one of the kitchen drawers. He wet it with some water before moving to Dwalin’s side, looking with some hesitation at the dwarf’s sour expression.

The hobbit reached out a cautious hand to tug at the thick metal bands of his knuckle-dusters, which he had kept on despite being in relatively safe territory. The warrior dwarf gave a lone grunt before releasing the sides of the table. Bilbo winced upon seeing the splintered edge and hoped the dwarf had not gotten pieces of wood in his hands. He turned the large hands over, marveling at how small his own seemed by comparison, and began to dab at the blood smeared over the rough skin of the dwarf’s hand.

Dwalin said nothing as Bilbo worked tenderly along his hand, though the dwarf wondered why he was letting him do so. He had been in more battles and brawls than he could count or even remember, and after every one of these, he had always taken care of his own injuries. Even before Erebor’s fall, Dwalin had trusted none but Balin or himself to look after his injuries.

But it felt very nice, he conceded, to have the small hobbit’s hands smooth away the small tingles of pain in his hand from the cuts made by the splintered table. They were incredibly small hands to Dwalin, clean and soft, unhardened from long hours holding a weapon or miner’s pick. He could smell Bilbo from how close they were, the delicious scent of baked bread and fresh fruit mixing with the clean smell of Bilbo’s skin and the flowery fragrance of his groomed beard.

A hot churning began in Dwalin’s lower belly, and he casted his eyes up to Bilbo’s face as he worked. He could see a small flush of color as it worked its way up the side hobbit’s neck and cheeks where his golden beard did not lay, and his green eyes darted up shyly to meet the dwarf’s, before quickly looking back to his work. His pointed ears were becoming redder and redder.

The other dwarves in the room shifted uncomfortably, Fili and Kili both looking like they wanted to interrupt but hesitant to invite Dwalin’s ire. Dori tried to keep from gawking at the odd intimacy of the event; he was a bit surprised at the chemistry there, what with Dwalin being the epitome of a warrior dwarf and Bilbo being…well, Bilbo. All baking, cuddly-seeming, and completely not dwarf-like at all. Well, to each his own, Dori supposed.

Meanwhile, Bilbo had managed to wipe away all of the blood from Dwalin’s hands, noting with surprised relief that no splinters had lodged themselves in the dwarf’s skin.

“Not a single splinter. That’s good, though a bit surprising. You were gripping the table very…hard,” Bilbo finished rather lamely, his face flaming once more.

“Tough skin,” Dwalin murmured lowly. “Hard to penetrate.”

Kili began a loud and wet sounding coughing fit, his brother slamming his hand down on his back. Fili seemed to be struggling not to grin. Bilbo looked at them suspiciously, before turning away under the pretense of pouring more tea into his cup.

Dwalin shot the brothers a piercing and thinly veiled threat through his glaring eyes once the hobbit had turned away, and Kili stopped coughing instantly, choosing to make himself a cup of tea and carefully not looking at the warrior dwarf.

“Anyway,” Fili began, grinning at Bilbo as the hobbit’s face slowly became its normal cream color again. “You mentioned feeling uncomfortably by the tension between dwarves and elves here. But you’re a hobbit, so why would you feel uncomfortable here?”

“Oh, well,” Bilbo fumbled for an answer for a moment, remembering his encounter this morning. “I passed a couple of elves on my way here earlier this morning. I called out a greeting to them, wishing them a good morning, but…they ignore me. I suppose it’s possible they didn’t hear me….” He trailed off, looking a bit downtrodden.

The dwarves in the room scowled angrily.

“Anyway, I think they might have mistaken me for a dwarf, what with my beard and all.” Bilbo gave a small smile and stroked his beard. “Lord Elrond did as well, so that’s probably going to happen a lot here. It’s not a big deal,” Bilbo added when he saw the indignant faces of Kili and Fili.

“That’s no excuse to be rude to you, Bilbo,” Dori argued, seeming to forget that he himself had snubbed a few elves earlier that day.

Bilbo gave him a small smile. “We’ll not be here for much longer, at any rate. I appreciate your anger on my behalf, but I’d rather get through these couple of days without any fuss. Plus, it’s not as if I’m not use to being looked at oddly for my appearance. I’m a grown hobbit,” he said, giving a stern look at Fili and Kili, who still seemed intent on retaliating. “I do not need you to defend me; I’m quite capable of doing so myself, thank you.”

“Still…”Fili mumbled petulantly, sharing a look with his brother. Kili gave him a small nod, a gleam in his dark eyes.

Bilbo frowned. “I’m serious. The last thing the company needs is for the two of you to cause trouble in Rivendell. Thorin’s still furious about the troll incident.”

Fili and Kili both winced at that. Dwalin gave a small huff of amusement, smirking at the brothers, who in turn looked rather sheepish.

“Alright, Bilbo, we’ll be good.” Kili agreed, nodding his head and affecting an innocent smile. Fili did the same, though his was a bit messy due to the pastry crammed into his mouth.

Bilbo looked at them with some skepticism but decided to let it go. He engaged Dori in another discussion on the different tea blends most favored by the dwarves, not noticing the sly look shared between the brothers.

Dwalin did notice, however, and he gave them a measuring look. While he would certainly love to give the stuffy elves some hardship, the warrior dwarf knew that Thorin needed the knowledge that the elf Lord could impart about the map of Erebor. Fili and Kili’s particular brand of trouble could jeopardize their getting that.

Fili raised an eyebrow at him imperiously, which caused Dwalin’s fist to twitch.

“Is there something the matter, Dwalin?” Fili asked quietly, his eyes brightening with amusement.

“Do your hands still hurt? Want us to call for Oin? Or maybe we can talk to Bilbo for you, get him to kiss them better?” Kili teased next to him.

“We’d hate for you to be permanently scarred, after all. Such terrible wounds.”

Dwalin stared at them with an unreadable expression before vaulting out of his chair with his muscled arms outstretched, his hands reaching to throttle the brothers. Fili and Kili sprinted out of the room, their laughter ringing raucously through the hallway, Dwalin hot on their heels.

Bilbo and Dori sat dumbfounded at their exit, neither having heard the conversation that had sent the warrior dwarf hurtling mutinously after them.

“Wow…” Bilbo muttered, turning to look at Dori. “What do you think that was about?”

“No idea,” Dori answered, looking dubious. “Why don’t we see if Ori’d be interested in going to the library with you now?”

“Sure,” Bilbo muttered, and they left the room, bundling up the rest of the pastries to take to the rest of the company and starting up their conversation about teas again, though Bilbo still seemed perplexed.

Bilbo headed back to his rooms with a smile on his face and a hop in his step later that afternoon.

Ori had been quite pleased to go to the library with him, especially after eating a large amount of biscuits. They had spent a few hours there, pouring over the books and documents avidly and sharing the ones they found particularly interesting. Bilbo had not spent so pleasant an afternoon in quite some time, and it seemed as though he and Ori had become fast friends over their love of books.

Away from his brother Dori, Ori was talkative and outspoken, especially after he discovered a fellow scholar in Bilbo. Though he still blushed and stammered upon occasion, Ori was very intelligent and eager to learn all that he could about the world through his books and studies. And even though he still had a penchant for staring at Bilbo’s beard with an odd look in his eyes, Ori had all the potential of becoming a really great friend to the hobbit.

As Bilbo reminisced about all the interesting books on elven history, he was not paying attention to his surroundings and collided with another person walking in the opposite direction.

“Oof!” Bilbo landed on the floor with a small huff, his behind smarting.

“My apologies, master dwarf,” a voice drawled above him, and Bilbo looked up to see two tall, dark-haired elves, nearly identical in appearance, jeering down at him. “With your small stature, you are far out of my line of sight. I nearly stepped on you as well…again, my apologies.”

He did not sound at all sincere about his apology, and Bilbo had become quite fed up with these rude elves and their sneering mockery. He ignored the hand the elf had proffered and straightened himself up. After making sure his clothing was in order, he turned to the elves with an indignant look in his green eyes.

“Perhaps your sight is not as sharp as you value it to be, master elf.” Bilbo replied tersely and met their astonished eyes without hesitation. If they wanted to play these games, he would accommodate them. He had not taken it from Lobelia and the other hobbits lying down, and he certainly would not do so from the elves.

“Your knowledge of other races could do with some polishing as well,” Bilbo continued shortly, “for despite my beard, I am not a dwarf.”

He gave them a moment for that to sink in and allowed himself to feel some smug amusement for their stunned faces. Bilbo would bet that most of the other dwarves had not retaliated to the elves’ subtle antagonizing in deference to Thorin, so these two had clearly not expected to be taken to task for their rudeness.

“I am a hobbit of the Shire. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I would have you treat me with respect. You know nothing about my character or my life. Who are you to look down on me as if I am beneath you?” Bilbo finished this small rant with a few fast breaths, feeling his cheeks heating up with emotion.

“You are quite right, Master Baggins.”

Lord Elrond appeared from around the corner up ahead, his tall and elegant form clothed in robes of light green and silver. His long auburn hair trailed over his shoulders and down his back, and a silver leaf circlet sat around his temples, making him seem regal and ageless.

Bilbo’s face heated up even hotter. He hoped he had not offended Lord Elrond by chastising these elves, but he stood by what he had said. If this behavior, both in the elves and the dwarves, was not addressed and fixed, it would likely continue on for many more ages to come, and that would be just ridiculous. Not that Bilbo expected his retort would have much impact on so vast a conflict, but at the very least these two elves might be a bit more careful in the future.

“Elladan, Elrohir. The dwarven company, including Master Baggins here, are our guests.” He fixed a level look upon the two, who turned their eyes down in shame. “I thought I had taught you better than to hold these prejudices. I see that I was wrong.”

The elves, Bilbo was surprised to see, looked suitably chastened by this. The elf who had bumped into him knelt down to his level and fixed the hobbit with a serious face. 

“Master Baggins, you have my most humble apologies,” the elf said quietly, his grey eyes sincere. “It was impolite and presumptuous of me to say such things. You are right; I do not know anything about you. But if it would not offend you, I would like to know you better.” He sent a quick look to Lord Elrond at this and relaxed when he saw the approval in his eyes.

The other elf stepped forward as well and knelt down next to the other. “I offer my apologies as well. Despite that I did not speak the words, I condoned and agreed with them in my silence, and that was wrong of me. I would also like to know more about you, Master Baggins, if it would please you.”

“That sounds lovely,” Bilbo accepted gracefully, thankful that his composure had not been lost upon Lord Elrond’s appearance. He was still a bit wary of the two elves, but he resolved to find out more about them as well. They had apologized for their rudeness, after all; it would be poor behavior of Bilbo to not accept and begin anew.

“Now, I believe introductions are in order.” Bilbo smiled at the elves expectantly, to which they gave small smiles back.

“You did not introduce yourselves?” Lord Elrond said lowly. His voice sounded carefully neutral, but his eyes looked quite angry.

They winced at this, before offering turning back to Bilbo. The young man who he had collided with offered his hand first and said, “I am Elladan, son of Elrond. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

“And I am Elrohir, son of Elrond. I welcome you to Rivendell and hope that your stay here will be pleasurably remembered.” Followed the other.

Bilbo shook their hands firmly, though his face had flushed anew. Lord Elrond’s sons? He had just reprimanded Lord Elrond’s sons?! Oh dear, this could have ended very unfortunately indeed. If Lord Elrond had taken offense to his scolding of his sons, Bilbo could have gotten the company kicked out of Erebor. He didn’t even have Kili or Fili to share the blame either.

Oh well, Bilbo gave a mental sigh. Everything worked out in the end. Thorin would have to find another reason to disapprove of Bilbo, now that that opportunity had passed by.

“Bilbo, would you like to join us for a bit of afternoon tea?” Lord Elrond asked, drawing the hobbit out of his musings. Elladan and Elrohir did not seem to excited by this prospect but accepted nonetheless.

“I would be honored, Lord Elrond,” Bilbo replied with a broad smile.

The elf lord led the way to his private study, all the while asking polite but interested questions about hobbits and their culture. Bilbo answered these and those of the elven brothers gladly, and the rest of the afternoon went on in peaceful conversation. Bilbo related a lot of information about hobbits in general and cautiously answered some of the more personal question about his beard and his family. He also learned much about the elves of Rivendell and about Elladan and Elrohir as well, so that by the time he left the comfortable study before dinner Bilbo felt much better about elves as a whole.

The dwarves were already partaking in a small feast by the time Bilbo reached the company’s quarters. Most of the dwarves looked up at his entrance but continued eating voraciously. He spotted an empty space by Bofur and trotted over to him, humming merrily along the way.

“Bilbo!” Bofur grinned broadly at him and patted the seat next to him. “Haven’t seen ye all day! Where’d ye run off to after breakfast this mornin’?”

Bilbo took the seat with a smile and began to pile food upon his plate quickly. He knew about how fast and all consuming the dwarves were about eating their dinner; if he didn’t grab some now, there’d be none left later.

“Ori and I went to the Rivendell library. They have an incredible collection of histories and tales, from all races of Middle Earth. Not enough about hobbits, though. In the afternoon, I had tea with Lord Elrond and his two sons, and I told them much about my race. They were very interested. I learned a lot about them as well.” Bilbo related quickly, spearing a few carrots onto his fork and popping them into his mouth with a small sigh of satisfaction.

“Ye had tea with the elf Lord and his sons?” Bofur asked incredulously. Blessed Mahal, was he going to have to compete with elves now for Bilbo’s affections as well as the other dwarves?

Bofur’s rather loud question had drawn the attention of a few other dwarves, in particular Fili, Kili, and Dwalin who sat on the other side of the table from Bilbo, though separated by Balin. Fili and Kili both had a few bruises on their faces and quite possibly a few more beneath their clothes as a result of whatever they’d done to enrage Dwalin. Bilbo made a mental note to ask them about that later.

 “Yes. Well, there was a small incident involving his sons that had to be resolved, so he invited me to have tea with them.” Bilbo shrugged, hoping that he was being vague enough to not draw their attention to “the incident.” By the darkening looks on their faces, he had not been successful in that.

“What incident?” Kili pressed, leaning forward over his plate with a frown. “Similar to what happened this morning?”

“It’s nothing, really, Kili,” Bilbo assured him. “Elladan, Elrohir, and I got off on the wrong foot, but they apologized, and we became fast friends. Everything is fine now.”

“What did they do?” Fili scowled from across the table, pausing in his displeasure to guzzle from his mug of ale.

“Can we just forget I mentioned it?” Bilbo asked exasperatedly. When the surrounding dwarves shook their heads, he huffed and rolled his eyes. “They might have run into me and said a few rude things. That’s it. It was certainly not something to make a fuss about.”

Bilbo then set about finishing his meal, ignoring the looks the dwarves passed amongst each other. The hobbit found it quite silly, how these dwarves seemed to want to mother hen him. He was a grown hobbit! Quite capable of handling his own affairs.

“That’s the signal!” Thorin’s voice suddenly roared through the room. “Company, move!”

There was instant movement away from the table, dwarves running hither and dither, grabbing packs and provisions. Bilbo stumbled to do the same, sprinting to his room to grab his things, which he had thankfully kept inside his pack.  He was completely unprepared to leave Rivendell so early and wished they’d been able to stay longer. He’d wanted to talk more with Lord Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir, and he and Ori had planned to explore another level of the library the next day. But there was no hope for it.

It was time to move on, Erebor on the horizon.

Chapter Text

Leaving the comfort and safety of Rivendell was much harder than Bilbo had expected. Barely two days of luxurious bedding and bathing had most certainly not been enough for this tired and sore hobbit, and it made hopping back into their steadfast march on the Great East Road that much more difficult.

Though the beauty of that march was certainly enough to keep his eyes occupied. The incredibly vast plains and steep mountains along the road were a wonder to Bilbo, whose own beloved hills and fields seemed very small in comparison. He could see trees so high that they rivaled some of the smaller mountains for their proximity to the sky. Occasionally, a small band of deer would dart about the forests, one unlucky doe becoming the company’s dinner for a few nights (though the stew that followed was very good).

On one such night, as they settled down for the night, Dwalin took Bilbo a little ways away from the camp.

“I reckon now’s as good a time as any to give ye a few lessons on using yer sword, aye?” Dwalin asked, giving him a searching look as he checked his daggers along his waist.

Bilbo, who was not nearly as tired from a day’s journey as he had been in the beginning, was still a bit fatigued, and his poor feet were hurting from so much wear. But he gathered his determination and gave Dwalin a firm nod, pulling out his sword with a small flourish.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Bilbo remarked, looking wary but resolute.

Dwalin only grunted before stepping close to the hobbit. “These’ll be the very basics, all right? Just what yer going to need to survive this quest. There won’t be any fancy footwork or flashy sword wavin’, ye hear?”

“I hadn’t expected to,” Bilbo muttered, feeling a bit insulted.

“That’s what the lads would always ask for, anyway,” Dwalin mumbled, casting an irritated look at the dwarf princes in question, who had swiped two apples and were watching interestedly from the edge of the small clearing.

“Well, I’m not a lad, now am I?” the hobbit retorted with a small snort, though he felt a bit more nervous now that they had an audience.

“No, that yer not,” Dwalin replied lowly, a rather warm tone in his voice. He shifted his substantially larger body around the hobbit, his large arms reaching around to mold Bilbo’s hands on the hilt of the dagger into the proper grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the hobbit’s ears flush scarlet.

“Now, here’s the best way to position yer hands if ye intend on using them both. Ye’ll have a steadier grip that way, but ye’ll lose the versatility of having a free hand in battle. It might be best to train ye with a dagger in each hand farther down the road, but for now this’ll do.” Dwalin’s hands covered Bilbo’s on the hilt, trying his best to ignore the surge of heat at the touch of Bilbo’s soft skin. He couldn’t help but breathe in the sweet smell of the hobbit, though. Briefly, the dwarf wondered if he could get away with brushing his hand through the hobbit’s beard by pretending he was shifting him into a better position.

“Okay,” Bilbo agreed, and if he was a might bit breathless, Dwalin did not mention it. “That could be a good idea, if I had any idea what to do with one sword.” After all, it is a sword. It’s just smaller than most but perfect for his size. Smaller, but still a sword, and Bilbo wouldn’t hear a word against it.

The warrior dwarf gave him an unimpressed look, before continuing on with his lesson. “Now, ye don’t have much strength in yer arms yet, so yer best defense will be strategic placement. Yer pretty fast on yer feet, so that will work to yer advantage too. If ye can knock’em out at the knees—“

“Their height won’t be worth a tree shagger’s ass!” the brothers chorused from the side before breaking out into raucous peals of laughter. Bilbo felt Dwalin’s huff of exasperation against his back.

“I remember these lessons! From our dwarfling days in the Blue Mountains!” Fili shouted with glee. “Aww, now those were the days, weren’t they, Kili. Fighting lessons with Uncle and Mister Dwalin. We’d come home with all kinds of bruises and scrapes, and Mother would—“

“If yer going to be a distraction, I’ll find somethin’ else for ye to do. We’ve only got a bit of daylight left to do this,” growled Dwalin, still holding Bilbo in his arms.

Not that the hobbit was weary of this. Quite the contrary, Bilbo would have been happy to stay there for a while; dwarves must have bodies as hot as a forge, for night was indeed descending, and Bilbo was not even the least bit chilled. When he breathed in, his back would press tighter against Dwalin’s chest, and he could smell the musky combination of worn leather, crisp stone, and fresh sweat.

“No, we want to stay and watch!” Kili whined, throwing the barren core of his apple into a nearby bush. “This is much more interesting than hearing Dori complain about the dirt in his beard or listening to Uncle Thorin go over and over the books and plans with Balin. Besides, this should be amusing. It’s like Bilbo’s an honorary dwarfling or something, learning his little basic swings and footsteps.”

“Dwarfling?!” Bilbo spluttered indignantly.

“Ye know what?” Dwalin said, stepping away from Bilbo and gesturing for the boys to come forward. He had a moment to lament the small chill that snuck into his armor after he’d moved away from the hobbit, before he turned to Fili and Kili, who had eagerly jogged over. “Why don’t ye stand just so,” he said as he moved Kili to stand a few steps away from Bilbo, “and ye can be our model.”

At that, Kili grinned and ran a hand through his hair, spreading his legs into a wider stance and flashing a winsome smile at the bearded hobbit. “Well? How’s this for you?”

“A great way to lose yer balls, if ye don’t start actin’ with some sense,” Dwalin growled and placed a large hand against Bilbo’s back to move him a bit closer. “Now, Bilbo, when yer faced with an armed and more experienced opponent, the quickest way to put ye on even ground is to prevent them from using their weapon. Draw yer sword, Kili.”

Still grinning, the dark haired brother did as commanded, holding it in front of him and leveling it at Bilbo.

“Alright, here’s a technique that’s easy to remember. Yer going to fake to the left, then quickly dodge forward and to the right, like this.” He stepped in front of Kili, moving slowly so that Bilbo could track his movements. Dwalin feinted to the left, before darting to the right, seeming surprisingly quick for all his large muscles and shoulders.

“When yer passing by, cut quickly at his arms, like this. If ye cut deep enough, ye’ll prevent him from attacking any more. Even if ye get just a shallow cut, ye can seriously weaken an opponent.” He tapped a thick finger at the juncture of Kili’s arms. “Slice him here with the proper force, and ye’ll prevent him from ever using a weapon again.”

He stepped back in front of Kili and performed the technique again, this time adding a spin after the cut. “Once ye’ve cut him, follow the force of yer swing and plant yer feet with care. If ye can do this quick enough, ye can injure yer opponent and place yerself at an optimum position at his back. If it’s a life or death situation, do not hesitate. Do ye understand, Bilbo?” Dwalin looked at the slightly green hobbit with grim command. “Ye’ll find no mercy comin’ yer way. ‘Specially not if we’re facin’ orcs or goblins. So strike fast while ye’ve got the chance.”

Bilbo nodded, though he felt much less confident. His breath was coming inordinately fast, and he felt a bit weak in the knees.

Seeing the hobbit wavering, Dwalin shuffled forward to place a supporting hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. He gave a small sigh and looked at him from under his heavy brow with a gruff kindness. “With any luck, ye’ll never have to fight alone, Bilbo. But there will never be a guarantee of that, and ye’ll need to know how to defend yerself when that time comes.”

Bilbo looked into his eyes for a moment, taking strength from the surprisingly gentle support there, before breathing in deeply and nodding. “You’re right, of course you are. I’ve just…never had to fight before. I’m a bit frightened. More than that, really. But thank you, Dwalin. For agreeing to teach me and for…for being kind about it. Many would have made fun of my somewhat feeble attempts.”

The brothers cleared their throats, looking embarrassed and sheepish when Dwalin shot them a pointed look.

“It is always a wise thing, to know how to protect yerself and yer kin from harm. Everyone must begin somewhere, and no one is born a swordsman. Even these two, for all their cockiness and skill, were fumblin’ little fools with wooden toy swords at one point.” Dwalin remarked, giving the brothers a knowing look. “And that point was not too far in the past, as I recall.”

“We’re sorry, Bilbo,” apologized Kili, Fili nodding behind him. “You’re right; it’s mean of us to poke fun at you. Hypocritical, too. I can remember a time when Fili couldn’t swing his sword without catching himself on the back of the head every time.”

“Oi! What about you and your arrows?” sneered Fili. “I remember a time when you couldn’t hit a target no more than ten feet away from you! Blind as a bloody—“

“Shut up, the both of ye!” Dwalin shouted, intervening before the inevitable fight broke out amongst the brothers. “This trainin’ is for Bilbo, not so the two of ye can have some kind of pissin’ contest. Now,” he turned to said hobbit and gave a half smile at the crinkled nose and narrowed eyes there; he had evidently not appreciated the crude language. “Yer welcome, Bilbo. I’ve taught many dwarves in my time; nearly all of which went on to be great warriors. Ye know a few of them here, in the company.”

Kili and Fili both flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mister Dwalin,” Fili said happily, slapping a daring hand onto the taller dwarf’s shoulder. “It was a pleasure to be your student too.”

“Whoever said I was talkin’ about you two,” the warrior dwarf growled, knocking the hand off his shoulder with a fake sneer. “Now, let’s see ye perform the technique a few times. With enough repetition, it should be as natural as breathin’ to ye.”

Bilbo was able to practice said technique a number of times before the setting sun put an end to their training. He was even more tired before, as Dwalin had also showed him a few maneuvers to improve his arm strength on the way back to the camp, but he could remember the technique very well. Towards the end, Bilbo had been able to do it without thinking about it at all, which had earned him an approving pat on the head by Dwalin.

They arrived back in the camp right as Bombur began serving dinner: vegetable stew with pieces of deer meat within. So fatigued was he, Bilbo had trouble staying awake for long enough to finish his stew (which is very telling indeed for a hobbit) and soon fell onto his bed roll, sleepy and sore but also quite satisfied with the day.

The next day began like any other they’d had while on the road. The company awoke and had a quick breakfast at first light and then began their journey once more. Bofur liked to start up a song after being on the road for a little while, and the company usually joined in quite merrily. Then they’d take turns telling stories and tales, some real, some decidedly not. And following that, there were times they’d talk in little groups, Bilbo usually walking next to Bofur, Fili, or Kili.

It wasn’t until they’d reached the mountain pass that their journey took a nasty turn. They’d made a bit of headway along the treacherous path when dark and heavy clouds formed overhead. Rain began to pelt down upon their heads, and flashes of light lit up the sky with terrifying cracks and explosions in the dark.

Bilbo stayed huddled behind Bofur as they trudged wearily along the path carved into the mountainside, taking comfort in the strong hand he could feel on his back. Dwalin had opted to walk behind him to make sure he did not do something dangerous and foolish like taking a wrong step and slipping over the side (something that Bilbo would have taken great offence to, if he were not so relieved at his being there).

Bilbo was just wondering with great exasperation when Thorin was going to have them take shelter out of this madness when Dwalin ‘s shout boomed from behind him.

“Look out!” he bellowed in warning, reaching forward to grab Bilbo and plaster him against the mountain face.

Bilbo had just enough time to see a giant mass fly through the air before the ground began shaking under him, and he let out a yell of fright. Rocks shattered and fell down onto their heads, sharper and harder than the rain, and they all held on for dear life as the mountain began to settle again.

“This is not a natural storm, Thorin!” shouted Balin from the rear. “This is a thunder battle! Look!”

Part of the opposite mountain suddenly broke away from the rest of the mold, a giant stone figure in the shape of an immensely large being but made of rock and ice. It took a staggering step forward before pulling a chunk of mountain into his hand and lobbing it toward the mountain they cowered on.

“I’ve heard of these in legends! Legends, Bilbo!” Bofur crowed next to him, seeming entirely too excited for being in a life-threatening situation. “Giants made of stone, guarding the mountain pass! Stone giants, Bilbo!”

“Would you take cover, you blasted—“

Bilbo’s words were lost in the loud crash above as projectile met target, and the next few moments passed by in a dark, fearful blur. Bilbo saw a hectic glance of a massive stone head moving above, and suddenly the stone separated and pulled the company in twain. He could hear the frantic shouts of Kili and Fili and the barking orders of Thorin, barely audible over the wrath of the storm. Behind him, Dwalin muttered a dark curse and hooked his arm around his waist, holding him safely against the rock wall.

Bilbo tucked his head next to Bofur and gripped Dwalin’s arm with a white-knuckled hand, closing his eyes against the whirlwind of movement and the lashing of the rain on his skin. Shouts echoed out into the night, a loud crunch of stone on stone rang in his ears, and the world seemed to shift forward, as if the giant they had unfortunately found themselves on was falling forward.

A second later, Bilbo realized that was indeed the case as they all fell forward, tumbling off their perch and landing hard onto rocky path in the mountain. Dwalin’s arm was forced to let him go in the fall, and Bilbo landed badly on the stone. His hands scrabbled to grab onto the edge as his body slipped off, and he heard the company’s shouts of relief as they were reunited as if from a great distance away.

“Where’s Bilbo?” he heard Bofur shout. “Bilbo! Bilbo!”

“There!” Dwalin shouted fiercely. “Grab him!”

He had a moment’s relief at hearing Dwalin’s voice so close, before his hand slipped on the wet edge of the path, and panic seized him once more. He heard the other dwarves yelling at him to hang on, to not let go, when a strong hand grabbed the back of his coat. He turned to see Thorin’s fierce blue eyes and gritted teeth before he was propelled safely back onto the pathway.

“Thorin!”

Bilbo turned at Dwalin’s shout to see the warrior dwarf’s body half over the edge. Dwalin let out a strained roar and heaved Thorin back onto the stone path and into safety. They all rested against the mountain face for a moment, panting quickly and sighing in relief before Dwalin said, *“I thought we’d lost our burglar!”

He reached forward to grasp the hobbit on the shoulder to help steady him (and maybe to make sure he was whole and hardy) when Thorin interrupted him.

*“He’s been lost ever since he left home. He never should have come,” he growled scornfully. *“He has no place amongst us.” With that, he stormed off, leaving the company rather shell-shocked and a very hurt hobbit in his wake.

Dwalin himself was stunned at Thorin’s words, thinking them unnecessary, a bit cruel, and most certainly not true. Bilbo was not a warrior nor was he a dwarf, but he was an earnest worker, a patient listener, and truly a loyal friend. Perhaps Dwalin’s thoughts on the hobbit were a bit biased, as he was rather attracted to the comely creature, but they were not so muddled that he could not see this clearly: Bilbo was undeserving of Thorin’s contempt.

He turned to Bilbo to say something to that effect when Thorin barked his name near a crevice in the mountainside. He closed his mouth with a snap and glared at his leader, before turning to meet Bilbo’s watery eyes. He placed a large hand on his shoulder and tried to convey his opinion on the matter through his own eyes. Dwalin had no idea if the message got through as intended, but the corner of Bilbo’s mouth did tilt up a bit in a small, rather helpless smile. He squeezed the hobbit’s small shoulder before following his king into the hole in the mountain.

After making sure the area was clear of enemies, the company sat down to a cold dinner of bread and some salted meat before curling up on their bedrolls. Throughout all of this, Bilbo had said no more than a word or two to anyone and had been the first to retreat to his bedroll once he was done eating. Dwalin made sure to set his own bedroll near the hobbit’s, and though he was not usually one to question the orders of his king, he glared sourly at Thorin before retiring to bed as well.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel rather satisfied upon seeing the dwarf’s guilty grimace in return.

 Bilbo was having a bit of trouble sleeping that night. It’d been a terrible day, what with nearly dying and having Thorin basically call him ‘worthless’ in front of the whole company, so really he should have been tired enough to fall asleep. But he found no solace from his churning thoughts.

To be perfectly honest, he felt very hurt by Thorin’s words and rather angry as well. Sure, he was not the best warrior in the company or really a warrior at all, but neither was Ori! The lad was very sweet and earnest, of course, but he wields a slingshot, for goodness’ sakes! And yes, he had not handled that situation with the trolls very well, but Kili and Fili were the ones to muck around and lose track of nearly half the ponies to begin with! Honestly, what on earth were they doing, anyway, that would have distracted them enough that they did not hear a giant troll stomping nearby and stealing two ponies!

And when they had been trapped and half the company almost eaten, it had been Bilbo that had stalled the trolls long enough for Gandalf to arrive, not one of the dwarves! Not Thorin!

The only real reason Bilbo could think of that separated him enough from the rest of the company that Thorin would scorn him for was that Bilbo was a hobbit, not a dwarf. And if that was the case, then Thorin would likely make a terrible king if he would mock and disdain another being, who for all his clumsy and sometimes foolhardy mistakes was just trying to help, simply for being of a different race than himself! Bilbo even had a beard, like the other dwarves! A magnificent beard too, if he could say so himself (and the rest of the company would likely agree). One of the greatest and wisest elven kings, Lord Elrond, had even mistaken him for a dwarf because of it!

Oh, it steamed Bilbo’s vegetables, that it did! He was of half a mind to wake that blasted dwarf right now and give him a talking to that would rival any the dwarf had surely been given by his unfortunate mother and show him what for!

He flipped onto his other side with an aggravated huff and shot a vicious glare at the dwarf leader he could see sleeping against the wall a dozen feet away. He might have done just that if he hadn’t noticed the hulking mass of dwarf sleeping less than a couple feet away from him.

Dwalin, at least, had disagreed with Thorin. Or Bilbo assumed that that was what that gaze had meant, after Thorin had lambasted him on that forsaken path. He was nearly sure that he had not misinterpreted the dwarf, but Thorin was his king, after all. He didn’t think he had ever seen Dwalin openly disagree with Thorin at any point on their journey, so perhaps he was wrong…but he had also never seen him glare at the dwarf prince, and that he had most definitely done after that scene.

Bilbo hadn’t been interacting much with the rest of the company at dinner, but he had noticed the marked absence of Dwalin at the prince’s side. Instead, he had sat next to Bilbo and Bofur and, though he had not said much either, it had been clear that the move was telling.

There had been other members of the company that had tried to show their support as well. Bofur had done his best to make him talk and laugh during dinner, his large brown eyes looking sympathetic, but he had been unsuccessful. Fili and Kili had both caught his eye as well during dinner, and the solemnity and earnestness in their eyes had warmed Bilbo’s heart. Even Bifur, who had patted him on the head as he had helped Bombur pass around dinner, and Bombur, who had given him an extra clump of bread with his meat, had tried to make him feel better. That alone should have proved to Thorin that Bilbo was indeed a part of the company, that he was appreciated and liked here!

For all this support, though, it was Dwalin’s that had touched him the most. Dwalin, who commanded the respect of every member of the company including his brother and prince. Dwalin, who had never showed any sign of disagreement or anger with Thorin before this latest event. Dwalin, who Bilbo had formed a bit of a hopeless crush on for a while now. That this stubborn, unwaveringly loyal, and fierce dwarf would find worth in this rather hapless hobbit over the judgment of his prince and longtime friend convinced Bilbo more than anything else that he had to stay and prove Thorin wrong.

He wouldn’t let the hurt that had been carved into his heart by Thorin’s words make that false judgment a reality. He knew the dwarf probably expected him to turn back at any moment, to run back to the safety and comfort of Rivendell and onward to his hobbit hole like the coward he obviously thought the hobbit was. But Gandalf had been right at the journey’s beginning when he had said that Bilbo had a lot more to offer than any of these dwarves knew! He didn’t know how he would do it or even when, but by the time this journey was over, he would make Thorin Oakenshield eat his own words.

Bilbo huffed into his elbow where it was curved under his head and looked at Dwalin. While he was sleeping, the warrior dwarf seemed much less frightening, though a small scowl still remained on his face. It was a silly thing to think, but Bilbo found it endearing that even in his sleep, Dwalin still had a frown that could rival any bear with a thorn in its paw. He wondered if it would be horribly impolite of him to reach across the space between them and touch Dwalin’s face and beard, to test the softness of the bushy brown mane. Maybe brush his finger down the bridge of his nose….

What on earth?

Bilbo turned his head, noticing an odd light coming from near his pack. He sat up slowly, not wanting to disturb any of the sleeping dwarves around him. He pulled his sack toward him and reached his hand around to search when a whisper interrupted him.

“Bilbo? Is something the matter?” Bofur whispered loudly from his seat near the entrance. He’d been picked for the first watch that night.

“No, I don’t think so,” Bilbo replied quietly, turning back to his pack. “It’s just that…oh. Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Bofur called, sounding concerned, and Bilbo absently thought he heard one of the dwarves shifting on his bedroll nearby.

He picked up his sword from beside his pack, turning around to face Bofur. Bright, blue light was shining in a thin line around the cross guard of his sword. He drew the sword quietly, though he saw Thorin against the opposite wall sit up quickly. Bilbo’s entire sword was lit up in the night, which could only mean one thing.

Suddenly, he could hear the shifting of sand, the soft groaning of moving stone, and his eyes met Thorin’s in a moment of panicked alarm.

“Wake up!” Thorin shouted in the small cave. “Wake up, now!”

But it was much too late. The other dwarves had barely a moment of drowsy confusion before the floor gave way under them. They were tumbling through the darkness, buffeted and scraped by the crude stone slide they fell down. Bilbo was able to see quick glimpses of the walls and his fellow companions during the fall before the slide abruptly ended. They fell on top of each other into a cage made of wooden planks and sharpened bones, Bilbo luckily being the last to fall in and therefore was not crushed by Bombur.

They’d fallen into an underground cavern, lit by scattered torches. Bilbo tried to right himself, a task made difficult by the squirming dwarves underneath, all trying to do the exact same thing. He could hear an unpleasant murmur growing closer and closer, and he looked up in time to see a mob of goblins sprinting toward them.

“Look out!” he shouted and was echoed by Nori and Bofur when they caught sight of them as well.

They were upon them before any of the dwarves or Bilbo had recovered, their sharp nails and bony hands biting into the skin where they grabbed at their new captives. Bilbo cried out in fear and alarm as two of the goblins seized his arms and dragged him from atop the heap, digging in their claws when Bilbo tried to fight them. Another goblin scurried over to help push Bilbo ahead, but the moment he got within range, Bilbo kicked as hard as he could at the goblin and knocked it right over the edge. He was given a hard cuff on the head for that, but he couldn’t help a small smirk of triumph.

“Bilbo!” he heard Bofur shout, and he could see the dwarf in question wriggling determinedly against three of the goblins but to no avail.

“Get off! Get off me, ye thrice-bedamned bastards!” Dwalin shouted from where he was fighting against six goblins, his iron knuckle-dusters flashing in the firelight as he punched the goblins soundly in the face.

Thorin too was struggling valiantly against five assailants, throwing a goblin clear off the side when it pulled at his hair, but they were all eventually overcome and dragged off, deeper into the goblin’s lair.

As they were pushed and shoved along, Bilbo felt a new wash of horror go down his spine. The number of goblins in this place seemed endless; wooden paths and roped bridges were everywhere and scuttling around upon them were legions of goblins, all screeching and shouting as they passed by. The pathway was growing wider and the torches more frequent, meaning that wherever these goblins were taking them, they were probably getting very close.

Bilbo gave a particularly harsh shove into the side of the goblin on his right, which sent it tumbling over the edge. Now two for two, Bilbo was feeling a bit more warrior-esque than he’d ever felt in his life. Though his shout of pain when more goblins surged forward and one gave him a particularly hard punch in the stomach certainly lessened the experience. Still, Gandalf would be proud of him, no doubt.

The murmuring grew louder and louder, and Bilbo began to hear the beating of drums, the crashing of cymbals, and the bleating of clumsily made horns in a cacophony of sound. They had arrived at a large, gaping cavern in the mountain and what must be the center of the goblins’ stronghold. Hundreds of ramshackle tents and pathways, made of wood and rope, lined the rough stonewalls. Thousands of lanterns and torches flickered among them, casting small shadows onto the jeering faces of the seemingly millions of goblins occupying the space. A few large pieces of the mountain, sharp and jagged, jutted out from the side of the cavern, and ringed around them were lanterns, animal skins, and…severed heads, Bilbo realized with horrified disgust.

He turned away, all feelings of bravado gone in a wave of nausea, and allowed himself to be pushed along until they reached a large stage showcasing one of the ugliest beings Bilbo had ever seen.

A goblin, at least five times the size of his minions, danced upon the stage, singing in a reedy, high pitched voice. His belly, large enough to hold any manner of things inside, jiggled grotesquely at his motions, and Bilbo shared a revolted look with Nori, who had been shoved into place on his left. In his massive hand, the goblin clutched a tall spear, decorated with an animal skull and hanging beads. He was covered in boils and blemishes, and his chin hung in a fleshy sack down onto his chest. A crown made of bones and leather had been squeezed onto his bulbous head.

Once he had finished his last verse of ‘Goblin Town,’ the goblin king turned a suspicious eye onto his captives *“Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Thieves? Assassins?”

*“Dwarves, your Malevolence,” answered one of the goblins obediently. *“Found them on the front porch.”

*“Dwarves? Well, don’t just stand there! Search them! Every crack! Every crevice!” the goblin king roared, cackling with glee.

Grimy little goblin hands began to invade all of their clothing, causing the dwarves to struggle and splutter. Bilbo felt dirty just at having them touch him; he’d never wanted a bath so badly in his life! One filthy hand tried to sneak under his waistcoat, and Bilbo fought and scratched at it like a mountain cat when he remembered he had placed his treasured brush and beads in there.

One goblin dumped out some of the company’s bags, and they were all a bit shocked when silverware and decorative candlesticks fell out. Bilbo recognized them, having admired those same silver spoons and knives back in Rivendell. He heard Dori give a scandalized gasp and saw him whip around to pin his brother with a scathing look. He heard Nori mumble, “just some keepsakes,” before the goblin king threw all of the items dismissively into the chasm below.

Goodness gracious, they’d never be allowed in Rivendell again! Well, at least the dwarves won’t be, Bilbo corrected himself. Lord Elrond would know I had nothing to do with it. Still, what a poor way to repay the elves’ hospitality! He’d have to give Nori a lecture about proper manners, though he’d probably have to get in line behind Dori. Assuming they got out of this alive, anyway.

“What are dwarves doing, traveling the mountain path? Speak!” commanded the goblin king.

Thorin made to come forward, but Bofur stepped quickly in front. “Well, ye see, we’ve been traveling for a while now. Well, more than a while. More than a fortnight, anyway. Actually, a great deal more than a fortnight, to be honest.”

Bilbo looked worriedly at Bofur as he rambled on nervously, then darted a look to the goblin king, whose eyes were narrowing with agitation.

“We’re on our way to visit some relatives in Dunland,” Dori interjected helpfully.

“And we’ve arrived in yer kingdom—“

“And what an impressive kingdom it is, if I may say so,” Bilbo jumped in, with an encouraging look at Bofur. He’d successfully stalled the trolls until Gandalf had arrived; with any luck, he could do the same to the goblin king. Bilbo prayed that Gandalf was on his way; they really needed a wizard-induced miracle right now.

The goblin king turned to look at him, raising an imperious eyebrow. “You may.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, oh great and terrible King, may I ask how you have constructed these massive wooden fortresses? They’re quite terrifying to the captive eye,” Bilbo gave a small bow and a smile, hoping to appear interested and appreciative instead of as sweaty and nervous as he actually was.

“Well, aren’t you a well-mannered guest!” The goblin king beamed at him. Easily flattered, he gestured toward all of the wooden contraptions, the sagging skin of his arms knocking a couple of his minions off the platform. “They’re of my own design, you see. Tied with leather cord and supported with wood and bones of all kinds. Took quite a bit of dead minions to build these in such a cavern, but the effect is magnificent, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Bilbo eagerly.

“I do, I do agree!” Bilbo nodded quickly. “And the scattering of the torches throughout the cavern is lovely as well. The light reflects really well off of the—the dried blood and skulls you’ve decorated with. Quite horrifying, indeed!”

“I thought so too! One of my advisors dared to say it was too much! Off into the darkness, I tossed him, and good riddance, too.” He gave a loud cackle of laughter, before turning back to Bilbo with an appreciative eye. “You’re very complimentary, for a dwarf. And a rather pretty one, too.”

Bilbo choked down on last night’s dinner that had tried valiantly to make a reappearance before bowing his head in pretend modesty. “I am undeserving of your praise, oh grandest of Goblin Kings.” He felt a bit better when the dwarves at his side and back crowded closer as the goblin king’s attention focused on him.

“Your beard is a very peculiar color,” he murmured speculatively, “As if it was spun from gold thread. I don’t see much gold these days; not many travelers pass through these parts anymore.”

Good gracious, not this again! What was with this odd fascination with his beard? The dwarves he could understand, but now a goblin? It’s ridiculous! And frightening. Bilbo wondered why he couldn’t seem to catch a break.

“Are you, by chance, a female?” the goblin king asked curiously. “Pardon my frankness; I’m sure that was not very polite of me at all.”

“No, no, not a female,” Bilbo stuttered quickly, hoping to dissuade whatever direction this creepy line of questioning seemed to be leading to.

The goblin king looked at him intently for a few moments, before bringing a fat-fingered hand to his neck and brushing the yellow skin there thoughtfully.

“I think…it would look very lovely around my neck,” he leered. “A golden necklace, braided into a chain.”

Bilbo went sheet white with fear and could not say another word. Bofur pushed him back into the center of the group, Fili and Kili both placing a protective hand on each of his shoulders, as the goblin king lurched from out of his throne toward him.

“Bring me my favorite axe,” the goblin commanded, sending his minions scattering. “And come into the light, little dwarf.”

“Wait!”

Bilbo let out a small whimper of relief as Thorin stepped boldly forward, moving fluidly through his company until he shielded Bilbo entirely from the sight of the Goblin King. The hobbit wondered for a moment if he had done so purposefully but was too grateful and shaken to think on it for long.

“Well, well, well! What have we here! Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror!” The goblin king gave a mocking bow, seeming to forget all about the dwarf (hobbit) he had been terrorizing a moment before. *“King under the Mountain. Oh! But I’m forgetting you don’t have a mountain, and you’re not a king. Which makes you nobody, really.” He gave Thorin a pitying look, though his mouth was smirking.

Thorin stood proud and dauntless, unafraid of the goblin at least three times his height and double that his girth. The dwarf prince gave him a glare so cutting and frigid; it rightfully should have struck the goblin king dead.

However, the goblin king simply gurgled in amusement and looked at Thorin with calculating, bloodshot eyes. “There’s quite a bounty on that head of yours. Just your head, you see; the rest is up to the finder’s discretion.” A wheezy laugh escaped from his throat. “He’ll be sure to pay handsomely, I imagine. After all, he’s been searching for this prize for quite some time now. You must know of whom I speak, of course,” he smiled maliciously, baring his yellow and rotted teeth. *“The Pale Orc, astride a white warg.”

From Bilbo’s place safely behind Thorin, he could see the minute stiffening in his back and the clenching of his hands at his side. *“Azog the Defiler was slain; that filth died of his wounds long ago.”

*”So you think his defiling days are done, do you?” The goblin wheeled around with a seedy grin. He wobbled over to an extremely small goblin sitting in a hanging basket, holding a small pad of paper in his hands. “Send word to the Defiler; tell him I’ve found his prey for slaughter.”

Bilbo looked over at Dwalin at this, catching his gaze before looking pointedly at Thorin’s back. Dwalin’s expression was as hard as stone, though his eyes softened a bit upon meeting Bilbo’s. The hobbit could see that this news had disturbed the warrior as it had disturbed his leader, but he refused to show any weakness while surrounded by their enemies. He gave Bilbo the tiniest of nods, which really shouldn’t have made him feel better, but it did.

A screech suddenly rent the air, the sharp clatter of metal following it quickly. They turned to see one of the goblins cowering away from Orcrist where it laid on the grand, as though fearful it would spring up of its own accord and slice the goblin’s throat.

A ripple ran through the crowd of goblins as they recognized the sword, the goblin king jumping onto his throne in fear of it. *“I know that sword! It is the Goblin Cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks!”

Bilbo ducked and twisted, attempting to dodge the whips the goblins were slashing into the dwarven group. A lash caught him across the cheek, and he fell to the ground, hissing at the sharp pain on the right side of his face. Another whip came toward him, and Bilbo grabbed hold of it, jerking the goblin forward and landing a solid punch to his face. He would have been rather astounded with himself, had he not begun hopping on his feet and shaking his hand, spluttering at the pain there. How on earth did Dwalin do this so easily?! It hurt so bloody much!

From out of the chaos, another goblin hurtled toward him and tackled him to the ground, wrapping his fingers around Bilbo’s throat. Wrestling with the goblin on top of him, Bilbo thought he could hear the goblin king shouting, order for their heads to roll, when light suddenly burst throughout the cavern.

The goblins were thrown backward and off of them, as if a northern wind had whipped through the darkness. Bilbo felt an oppressive weight on his chest for a heartbeat before it went away, and he could breathe easier. He struggled to sit upright, one hand reaching toward his throbbing right cheek. His fingers came away red with his blood.

His dwarf companions were moving slowly as well, groaning with effort. He could see Thorin and Dwalin to his left, Fili and Kili to his right, all seeming bruised and sore but alive.

A tall shadow appeared from out of the sudden darkness, a long sword glowing blue in the low light. “Take up arms,” the figure rasped. “Fight! FIGHT!”

Bilbo’s heart gave a leap the second he recognized Gandalf before he lurched forward, dragging his small sword from the weapons pile and tossing Grasper and Keeper to Dwalin. He threw Orcrist to Thorin with the same alacrity, and for a moment their eyes met. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, he might have thought he saw gratitude in Thorin’s hard gaze.

Best to think on that later, Bilbo, the hobbit thought quickly. He threw weapon after weapon into the air, trusting the dwarves to catch them. Bofur appeared at his side to do the same, as well as defend him from the mob. He’d only had one lesson from Dwalin, and they’d not talked about what to do when fighting multiple opponents at once, so Bilbo followed Bofur’s lead and slashed at the oncoming goblins as quickly as he could.

“This way! Quickly!” Gandalf shouted over the battle, and the company took off after the wizard, fighting for their lives.

 In the scuffle, Bilbo had somehow managed to get behind Dwalin, who was wielding his axes in a deadly whirlwind. He blessed his luck at having that fortune and gave Dwalin a hurried smile when the dwarf glanced over his shoulder, before slashing his sword at a goblin clinging to the rock face, trying to pull the dwarves and hobbit over the edge.

There was no time to ask him for any advice in this hectic battle, though Bilbo swore he had seen an approving look in the dwarf’s eyes as he fought off enemies. They could cover it in training later; now they had to fight their way out of Goblin Town!

Chapter Text

The rush out of Goblin Town was the most hectic, frightening, and exciting event that had happened to Bilbo yet. Much more exciting than that time as a hobbitling in the Shire when he’d stolen some of his Aunt’s cookies straight out of the jar and right under her nose, to be sure. The screeches of the goblins as they clamored after the sprinting party rung in his ears like forks scraping against fine pottery, loud and reedy and painful to hear. They poured over the bridges and pathways like rivers, waving sharpened stones and bones and scrabbling to grab a hold of their escaping captives.

Bilbo was lost in the whirlwind of activity, slashing his sword here and there, letting out a startled cry when a goblin hand grabbed at his ankles or tugged at his arms. He tried to focus on Dwalin’s back as they sprinted through, praying he didn’t trip over a stray rock or slant of wood, but inevitably he had to focus elsewhere. Up ahead he could see Gandalf leading the company, parting the sea of goblins with the slashing blue light of Glamdring.

Another blue light flashed through the air: Orcrist, slicing through goblins like a hot knife through butter, wielded by the furious and grim faced Thorin Oakenshield. He cut through the ranks falling on them with expert skill, his battle cry sounding from his lips like the roar of a great beast. He moved with the fluidity and ferocity that Bilbo imagined the warrior kings of old would have, and though he barely caught more than a glimpse or two, the hobbit found himself a bit in awe.

Dwalin was no less fierce than Thorin, though he lacked the regal bearing that the dwarf king carried even in battle. The warrior was truly frightening to behold, a bear of a dwarf snarling and slashing with his gleaming axes. He was power in physical form, his brow furrowed and his teeth bared, and Bilbo had never been more thankful to be fighting at his side in the goblins’ den.

The fighting continued for quite a long while as they jumped over gaps in the bridges that made Bilbo’s heart leap into his throat and sprinted through the darkness. He could hear the rest of the company fighting around him, Bombur and Bofur at his back, Dwalin and Thorin at his front. He wished he could look around, make sure everyone was safe and charging forward, but no time could be spared for that. When Gandalf blasted part of the mountainside off the wall and used it to knock all the goblins off the path ahead, Bilbo saw a light shining from above. The exit!

They reached the bridge leading to the exit when the Goblin king, his jowls shaking and his grin wide, broke through the opposite side of the bridge, blocking their path. He gave a high-pitched gurgle, looking at Gandalf, who stood at the front of the company, with malicious glee.

“And where do you think you’re going? Trying to escape?” His voice boomed loudly in the cavern, and he swung his staff at Gandalf threateningly. The wizard dodged and fell back, looking aggravated at the goblin. “This is my kingdom, wizard. It’ll take a lot more than your little pig sticker to get past me!”

“We shall see,” Gandalf muttered, before quickly slicing through the wobbling chin of the Goblin King, who let out a squeal of pain. The wizard brought his long sword back again, splitting the goblin’s large stomach open with ease.

Bilbo felt his dinner boil in his stomach and fought not to vomit. He must have made some sort of song for heard Dwalin’s rumble at his back, and the cool kiss of metal knuckledusters grazed his bare wrist. He had a moment to feel comforted when the bridge they were standing on gave a loud groan under the giant goblin’s slack weight as he fell forward. Bilbo heard the loud cracks of wood breaking and rope tearing, and suddenly they were all plummeting into the darkness, crying out in alarm.

Bilbo hung on to the rope and wood at his feet, his eyes squeezed shut and his heart hammering madly in his chest. He’d never imagined that he could die this way, by being flattened out like a pancake on the ground in the bottom of a goblins’ lair. Goodness, it seemed like this entire journey they’d gone from one life-threatening scenario to another!

The wooden bridge battered against the sides of the cavern before getting caught in the narrowing stone sides. The now battered and broken configuration of wood sagged against the ground, a bit confining but certainly not crushing.

He opened his eyes and saw Gandalf removing himself from under the wood and brushing the dust off his hat. With a groan, Bilbo rolled off the top, sliding down the hard cavern face and wincing at the small bites of pain where the jagged wood scratched at him like needles. He reached the ground just in time to avoid being crushed by the Goblin King’s corpse, which fell like a large sack of potatoes on the woodpile.

“Come on, come on,” he said quietly, ushering Dori and Ori out from under the wood. They accepted his helping hand with grateful smiles and moved to help the others as well. Bilbo looked around for Dwalin and found him at the bottom of the woodpile, groaning and cursing up a storm.

“Here,” he said, moving to pull the wooden planks off the dwarf’s back. He winced upon seeing the large, bleeding scratch on Dwalin’s head and leaned forward to get a closer look. “Oh dear, that looks pretty bad, Dwalin.”

“It’ll be fine. Just a scratch, is all,” he grunted, getting himself upright and rubbing a hand down his face. He turned a measuring eye to the small hobbit next to him, looking concerned. “What about you? Anything broken?”

“No, I think I’m—“

“Quick!” Gandalf shouted. “We must get out of the mountain. Only daylight can save us now!” He pulled Bofur and Kili from the wreckage and pushed them toward the path, looking with no little amount of panic up at the waves of goblins descending down the cavern’s faces.

“Oh dear.” Bilbo said rather shocked. He was given a hearty push by Dwalin and turned around to give him an indignant look when Bofur ran to him.

“Come on, you two! Let’s go!” the mustached dwarf shouted, grabbing Bilbo’s hand and pulling him in the direction Gandalf was running.

“Ah! But—“ the hobbit shouted, looking over his shoulder worriedly. He tried tugging against Bofur’s hand, wanting to go back and make sure everyone was up on their feet and running as well. He could see Dwalin, where he was pulling Thorin to his feet and giving him a harsh shove in their direction, before they turned a corner.

As they sprinted through the rock tunnel, Bilbo tried to count the dwarves ahead of him. He could see Bombur’s lumbering form, oddly agile for his size, as well as Kili’s and Fili’s heads behind Gandalf at the lead. Bifur was running in front of Bofur and prodding a heavily panting Ori to keep moving. He could hear one of the dwarves panting behind him, though he did not dare turn around and see.

The light in the tunnel was growing brighter and brighter, and soon they could see the afternoon sunlight through a large opening in the wall. Only with their salvation in sight did Bilbo look over his shoulder, and with relief he saw the rest of the company behind him, Dwalin and Thorin at the end of the line.

They broke through the doorway, feeling the sun’s warmth wash over them and breathing in the clear air. They kept jogging down the hill, momentum and residual fear keeping their feet moving quickly. Far enough away from the hole to be safe from the goblins, the company stopped to rest, many bent over and gasping for breath.

Bilbo leaned against a nearby tree, shaking off the tension one gets from running for dear life and giving a relieved smile to Bombur, who had plopped onto the ground next to him.

“That was quite something, wasn’t it?” he asked breathily, placing a hand on his chest to still his galloping heart.

Bombur gave a long wheeze and fell onto his back, his eyes closing and sweat dribbling down his face. Bilbo took that to mean ‘yes, it was harrowing’ and moved away from the relaxing dwarf to check on his friends.

Kili and Fili had already caught their breath and were looking around at the rocky mountainside with curiosity, both grinning when Bilbo approached them. “Everything all right, you two?” he asked with concern.

“Oh, yeah,” Fili shrugged casually. “It’d take more than a few goblins to do us in.”

“Yeah, that was nothing,” agreed Kili, leaning against his brother and giving the hobbit a winsome smile.

“Nothing, huh?” Bilbo looked at them dubiously, one hand stroking down his tangled beard. “Then that’s not blood creeping down your neck, Fili? And I guess neither is that soaking your right pant’s leg, Kili?”

The blond dwarf reached up a hand to feel the side of his neck gingerly, his mouth tightening in a grimace. His brother had taken one look down at himself, muttered “Well, how about that,” and had straightened up again, giving the worried hobbit a hapless shrug.

“It happens,” Kili said, nodding with acceptance of the situation.

“No, it does not just happen!” Bilbo cried, feeling familiar exasperation well up in his chest. “Look, we’ll need to have Oin—“

“Company, gather round!” Thorin said loudly, casting a look at where Bilbo, Fili, and Kili stood talking. Bilbo grumbled at the interruption, sending the brothers a look that clearly said ‘this is not finished!’ before joining the circle. He caught sight of Dwalin standing stalwart next to his prince, looking hole and hearty except for the red dash on his head. He gave Bilbo a small nod before focusing again on Thorin.

“We need to make an inventory of everything that we managed to keep. Food, water, weapons, packs: everything.” He commanded roughly. The company immediately complied, digging through their pockets, belts, and packs, murmuring with delight and sometimes grumbling with agitation. “Once we have an idea of our supplies, then we’ll get off this forsaken mountain. We have to reach a good distance before nightfall, or else they’ll catch us once the moon’s high in the sky,” he continued, reaching into his own equipment.

Bilbo took the time to look through his pack quickly, luckily having managed to keep a hold of it in the scuffle. He still had most of his food packs and a water skin or two, his spare clothes and buttons. He nearly crowed with delight when he found his mother’s beads, still safe and sound in their small pouch.

“Bofur! Master Baggins!”

Bilbo looked up at the call of his name, instantly recognizing the voice. Thorin looked between them, seeming both reluctant and chagrined, before fixing them with an intense look.

“Your stalling tactic was…good thinking, if poorly executed. Next time, however, do not do such a thing. As we nearly saw with Master Baggins, it’ll only get you maimed or killed.” Thorin finished gruffly and turned away to talk lowly with Gandalf.

Bilbo shared a look with Bofur, not knowing whether to be pleased or insulted by the dwarf prince’s words. He still chafed around the collar at all the things Thorin had said before this goblin debacle, so he was rather inclined to be insulted by this as well. The toymaker simply shrugged and grinned, obviously choosing to take it as a compliment. He gave the hobbit an encouraging pat.

“Well, that could have been a lot worse,” he said jovially. “Ye’re not hurt, are ye? My beard got all tangled up in that mess on the bridge, so ye must’ve felt something similar.” His dark eyes darted down to the hobbit’s beard.

“Yes, I think there are some splinters tangled up in it,” Bilbo sighed. “Most of it can wait, but there’s this one sharp piece of wood that pressing right against my chin.” His fingers struggled to carefully work the sliver out of his beard without much success, and the hobbit gave a small grunt of irritation.

“Would…would ye like me to help with that?” Bofur asked hushed, reaching a hopeful hand forward.

Bilbo nearly welcomed him to it, before the howls rent through the air. He turned to stare at Thorin and Gandalf, panicked and face pale. Next to him, he heard Bofur mutter, ‘just can’t catch a break at all,’ before Gandalf was shouting at all of them to run.

They started their sprint again, though their muscles were crying out for mercy, but they quickly discovered that there was nowhere to run. At the end of their path, a jagged outcropping, like a stone fang, sat before them, one tall tree standing on its curve. Bilbo could hear the thumping of wolf paws against the earth, the snarling growls rumbling through the air growing closer and closer.

“Up into the trees! Quick!” Gandalf shouted from his perch at the top of the farthest tree, and Bilbo had a moment to marvel at the wizard’s speed before he climbed agilely into the nearest tree. He’d known how to scale trees since his hobbitling days, so it was no problem for him, though it was obvious the dwarves struggled a bit. Bombur particularly so, as his weight and bulging belly gave him some trouble.

He looked down to see young Ori jumping frantically, trying to grip the nearest tree branch but having no luck. Quickly, Bilbo slid down to the branch above the lowest and reached a hand down to the dwarf, grabbing and pulling with all his might. He thought he felt a few muscles in his arm burn with fierce pain, but the hobbit concentrated on yanking Ori into the tree. Despite Bilbo’s lack of real upper body strength, he was able to get the dwarf onto the lowest branch, just in time to escape the open jaws of a warg below.

They scuttled up higher in the tree, Bilbo muffling a small whimper at the pain in his arm before turning his attention back to the trees. Everyone had gotten into a tree safely, though Bombur was still frighteningly low on his branch in the tree across from Bilbo’s. He saw Bifur and Dori reach down to help hoist the large dwarf higher up, though it was a struggle.

Looking around at the others, Bilbo had missed most of the stilted conversation between the orcs and Thorin’s gasp of disbelief, but he certainly did not miss when the wargs began battering themselves against the trees, scratching and jumping along the tree trunks and snapping their teeth hungrily.

The dwarves and hobbit all shouted in alarm as the trees began to tip over one by one, causing a terrifying need to leap amongst the falling branches from tree to tree. Miraculously, they all managed to make it to Gandalf’s tree whole and not warg food, but their situation could not have been more dire. The wargs had now formed a ring around the base of the tree, and from a small distance away, Bilbo could hear the jeering laughter of the pale orc on his warg.

Gandalf’s idea of using the pinecones as small torches was a brilliant one, setting the ground ablaze and driving off the wargs for the moment. They had whimpered and whined under the licking flames, dashing back to hide behind their master, who was no longer grinning with triumph. For a wondrous moment, it seemed like they would find a way out of this colossal mess.

But, of course, then the tree they were all on tipped backward under their weight, and they were held over the side of the mountain, the ground hundreds of feet below. Bilbo gripped his branch tightly, thankful for having found a very thick branch indeed. He was comparatively lighter than the rest of the dwarves, so he had the least trouble hanging on to the lopsided tree. The dwarves were struggling, their heavy armor and weapons weighing them down.

“Mister Gandalf! Help!” Ori shouted, and his grip slipped.

Quick as a lightning’s flash, Gandalf had thrust his staff downward, giving something for Ori to hold on to. The small dwarf dangled there, his face scrunched with effort and his eyes wide with panic. His brothers called out for him to hang on, and Nori began to inch his way onto the tree’s trunk to get closer to Gandalf.

Bilbo pulled himself up as well, thinking frantically of ways to help Ori when he heard Dwalin’s cry. The hobbit’s heart sank when he saw the warrior dwarf grasping tightly to the tree trunk, struggling to pull himself over. Bilbo turned to follow the stricken look in his eyes and his heart plummeted even further in his stomach, and a cold sweat begun under his shirt.

Thorin was being held in the jaws of the enormous white warg, his face twisted in pain. The pale orc, Azog, was smiling widely, holding his arms out as if to show all present of his victory. He was a horrible creature, impossibly large and muscled, riddled with thick scars and dried blood. His left limb, white and gruesome, ended in a barbed black hook. In his other arm, he held a large axe, grisly with grime and gore.

Thorin brought his sword hilt down upon the warg’s muzzle, causing it to toss the dwarf into the air. He landed hard on a nearby ledge, Orcrist falling from his hand. He laid there feebly, struggling to draw in breath from the damage the warg must have visited upon his chest.

Bilbo watched this, his hand gripping the small hilt of his sword and his heart beating madly in his chest. He took a couple deep breaths, reaching down into himself for his courage. As the orc soldier sauntered over to the fallen dwarf prince, Bilbo sprinted forward, throwing caution and care to the wind. Right as the orc drew his crude blade back, Bilbo threw himself at the vile creature, frantically stabbing with his sword when the orc tried to grab his neck.

When he felt the orc stop moving under his blade, he jerked back, swallowing against the nausea that welled up inside at the realization that he’d really just killed something. He could hear Dwalin’s voice in his head, the lessons he’d taught Bilbo days ago: “Ye’ll find no mercy comin’ yer way. So strike fast while ye’ve got the chance.”

Positioning himself in front of Thorin, Bilbo stood between the large pack of wargs and orcs, now furious that he’d just taken out one of their soldiers. He knew this would probably be the end of this hobbit, standing fearful but strong against this group of monsters, but he could not bring himself to regret the decisions that had led him there. He was proud to have been amongst the company, to have traveled and fought along side them, regardless of whether he’d been wanted or not by some.

Though if he did have one regret, it was that he’d not taken the chance to kiss Dwalin within an inch of his life while he still had the opportunity. If they did somehow manage to make it out of this alive, Bilbo swore that would be the first thing he would do.

He saw the pale orc’s nostrils flare, the orc glaring furiously at the hobbit. He called out something in the black speech, and the wargs began to close in on the lone hobbit. Bilbo flashed his sword threateningly, but the orcs only sneered at him, drawing their rough iron weapons from their belts.

Just when a warg was close enough to take a bite at him, battle cries sounded from his right. He turned with shock to see Fili, Kili, and Dwalin charging into the clearing, swords and axes flashing in the firelight. They collided with the warg riders, fighting with all their strength. Kili quickly sliced into the neck of his opponent, sending the warg crashing onto the ground and its rider to drag itself out from under the wolf’s corpse. Fili was parrying one of the warg’s snapping jaws and the orc soldier’s sword, clearly in need of a second weapon but fighting well all the same.

Bilbo even managed to get a glimpse of Dwalin smashing one of his axes into a warg’s mouth, scattering its teeth with the ease of breaking icicles, before he was forced into his own battle. An orc had dismounted from his warg and walked purposefully toward him, his sword brandished. Bilbo faced him and darted forward, watching the blade rise up in defense and darting around his arm, cutting hard at the elbow just as Dwalin had taught him. The orc yelped in pain, dropping his sword and grasping his nearly severed limb.

Bilbo knew that this was the time to strike again, that he should end the orc now before he had a chance to turn the tables. But as he watched, for a moment, as the orc writhed and howled on the ground, Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to finish the strike.

He began to step away, to move back to stand in front of Thorin’s defenseless form, when large white paw slammed into his side, sending him tumbling onto the ground many feet away. Bilbo gasped, white-hot pain searing his chest and stomach while his back protested the harsh landing. He struggled to upright himself, one arm curled protectively around his aching torso while the other grasped his sword tightly. Two stripes were forming on his shirt and through his waistcoat, thin and bright red.  The cloth was split open and frayed on the edges, and through the gaps he could see his skin swelling and bleeding in small rivets, as though the tips of the warg’s claws had only just managed to catch his skin. He could barely struggle to breathe, so he knew that the beast had at the very least bruised his ribs, if not broken them entirely.

Another growl, closer than he’d realized, forced him to look up at said warg and its terrible master, though Bilbo’s vision swam a bit. He’d never felt as small as he did then, laying on the ground in front of the largest, cruelest wolf like an injured deer about to be prey.

At that thought, Bilbo forced his arm to move away from his injured chest and grasp his sword again, holding it in front of him though his grip trembled with effort. After all he’d been through and how much he had faced, the hobbit refused to die like that, like prey hunted down for slaughter. Perhaps he’d only be able to give the giant warg a toothache, but he’d go down fighting, and that would be the end of that!

As if he saw the resolve in the hobbit’s eyes and was amused by it, Azog grinned ferociously, mouth opening to showcase teeth as thin and sharp as needles. He leaned forward, guiding his warg to slink closer and drawing his axe up from where it lazed against the side of the wolf.

A sudden cry rent through the air, piercing and high as a bird’s. Which, Bilbo soon realized, it was in fact as birds’, as giant eagles began to circle around the rock outcropping. Before the hobbit had a chance to wonder if the situation had become much better or much worse, one of said eagles swooped down onto the scene and grabbed a warg and its rider in massive, black-nailed talons and promptly tossed it off the edge of the mountain.

Bilbo gave a shout of surprise and stark relief as the orcs and wargs were forced to retreat, Azog’s bellow of rage lost into the strong wind created by large, tawny wings. The hobbit felt a sort of savage pleasure at the orc’s fury, fiercely satisfied that the orc had lost once again.

Azog turned to look in the hobbit’s direction again, perhaps trying to catch sight of the dwarf prince that he’d failed at killing for the second time, when he saw the hobbit’s expression. His face immediately darkened, his lip curling in fury, a black promise in his eyes.

Bilbo felt a shiver of fear run down his spine, a reminder from his Baggins side about self-preservation since his Took courage had left once the eagles had arrived. But then an eagle was soaring right for him, and he shook his head as if to plead with the bird not to throw him off the cliff side, but indeed, that’s what it did.  

He’d tumbled through the air for a heart-stopping moment before he landed hard on a warm, downy bed of feathers. The eagle under him gave a small snort, as if angry with the hobbit for falling so hard onto its back.

“Sorry,” he muttered, giving the feathery back a few pats and wondering if he’d hit his head during his fight with the white warg. Apologizing to a giant bird that had just saved him from certain skewering by orc and warg: what has his life come to?

The other members of the company were flying on the backs of eagles as well, which made Bilbo sigh in relief. He saw Ori being mothered fiercely by Dori on an eagle nearby, the younger dwarf seeming surprisingly willing to sit through it. Bilbo supposed dangling over a few hundred feet drop had changed Ori’s priorities in that regard.

A few of the other dwarves appeared to be nursing minor wounds on their hands or arms, while others had their faces pressed into the bird’s back; sleeping or unconscious, Bilbo did not know. Fili and Kili were watching their uncle, held in the curved talons of a large light brown eagle, with anxious and concerned eyes.

They flew like this for an hour or so, traveling over impossibly beautiful mountains and forests down below, basking in the golden light of the rising dawn. The sky was a gentle mix of light pink, yellow, and purest blue, accompanied by the puffy cotton plumes of the clouds above. However, most of the company did not have eyes for the gorgeous landscape around, as their leader was still unresponsive.

When they finally reached their destination (according to the eagles), they were gently placed upon a large rock, like a miniature mountain, over looking the surrounding trees and left to their own devices. The company hastened to circle around Thorin as Gandalf stepped forward and placed his hand upon the dwarf’s forehead, muttering a string of low phrases that Bilbo suspected to be a form of elvish.

Thorin’s eyes blinked open, looking tired and hazy, but he asked roughly, ”The hobbit?”

Gandalf gave him a lopsided smile, turning to look at the hobbit standing nearby. “It’s alright. Bilbo is here, and he is quite safe now as are the rest of the company.”

At this, Thorin began to struggle to his feet, reluctantly accepting help from Dwalin and Kili before turning to face the hobbit with a thunderous look on his face. “You! What did you think you were doing? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. What on earth had he done now? For goodness sakes, he’d saved the bloody stubborn dwarf! And now he was being scolded for it like some errant child!

“Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would never survive out here in the wild? That you had no place amongst us.” The dwarf growled fiercely.

Bilbo had no idea what to say, his heart squeezing tightly with that familiar hurt. It ached worse than it had the night before, after the thunder battle in the mountains. All he’d ever done on this journey was try to be helpful, and friendly, and be a lot braver than any hobbit had ever been or had any cause to—

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin suddenly said, his face breaking out into a radiant smile that stupefied the poor hobbit. The dwarf stepped forward and wrapped the hobbit in his arms, embracing him as he would a shield brother. “I am sorry I doubted you. I—Master Baggins!”

Bilbo had fallen onto one of his knees, his uninjured arm holding his chest. While he’d appreciated the hug and the hard-won acceptance that it stood for, Thorin had perhaps not restrained his strength in deference to Bilbo’s smaller stature or the wounds on his chest. Which, to be fair, the dwarf had no way of knowing about. He focused on taking as deep a breath as he could bear for a moment, before opening his eyes again and giving the dwarf a week smile.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a bit of bruising, that’s all.” He patted the dwarf prince’s arm gratefully and smiled when Dwalin appeared at his side and helped him stand, handling his arm very gently.

“This does not seem like simple bruising,” Thorin said lowly, reaching a hand forward to trace a finger along one of the slashes in Bilbo’s clothes. Blood had pooled into the edges of the cloth, though the scratches had thankfully stopped bleeding at some point along their flight here. “Oin! Come look at this.”

“Oh, really, now,” Bilbo huffed in exasperation, batting Thorin’s finger away lightly. “It can’t be any worse than your injuries. If he’s going to have a look at any of us, it should be you! It’s not as if the warg bit me like he did you.”

“But you did encounter the white warg?” Thorin questioned, his expression growing dark. Next to him, Dwalin shifted closer to Bilbo, his large hand curling protectively around the hobbit’s small elbow.

“Well, yes, it might have…pushed me around a little bit, but your injuries must be much more—“

“’Pushed you around a little bit’?! Dwalin suddenly cried indignantly. “Bilbo, it practically slammed ye out of its path! Ye were sent flyin’ out of the way!”

“Now, that’s a bit over dramatic. Yes, it did knock me around a bit, but look, its claws barely broke skin! There’s not even a lot of blood, so really—“

“Not even—just barely broke—are ye mad, hobbit?! It’s soaked the front of yer—yer whatever ye call the fancy little coat ye wear! Ye could have scars there!”

“It’s a waistcoat, thank you very much. And mine was made of a particularly fine material, so it’s really no wonder that it was cut through so easily.”

“Oin!”

“Would ye all just shut yer traps for a bleedin’ moment, why don’t ye! I don’t have me trumpet anymore, thanks to those goblins, so I can hardly hear what yer sayin’.” Oin huffed as he walked stiffly over, pulling his medicinal bag out from his bag and looking at the three intensely. “Now, who is it that needs seein’ to?”

“The hobbit should be seen to first,” Thorin said immediately, ignoring Bilbo’s squawk of outrage.

“No, no, it’s Thorin that needs to be seen first! And Dwalin after him. You see, he’s got this really nasty gash on his head from the fall in Goblin town.”

“This is nothin’ I can’t handle,” growled Dwalin, giving Oin a pointed look. “He’s the one who was thrown about this way and that by a warg and without any armor on him, as well.”

Oin surveyed them as they broke out into a fussy argument again, sharing an exasperated look with the wizard watching amusedly nearby.

“Perhaps we should all get down from this rock and take stock of everything by the river. I can hear one running down below; it’s not too far a walk for any of us that might be injured,” Gandalf suggested smoothly, raising an eyebrow at the trio.

“Yes, that would probably be best,” Oin agreed, packing his medicinal bag away in his pack again. “That way we can wash the wounds and clothing and such. Aye, let’s do that.” He nodded and set off toward the stone steps nearby, oblivious to the calls behind him in objection.

“Well, that settled that then,” Bofur said cheerily, picking up his pack and Bilbo’s.

“Bofur, I can carry my own pack! Thank you, though. I mean, it’s very nice of you but unnecessary,” Bilbo stuttered, stepping forward to take it back from the dimpled dwarf.

“Sorry, I can’t hear what yer sayin’, Bilbo. Must’ve been that flight through the sky; it’s bogged up me ears or somethin’.” Bofur grinned cheekily and trotted away, following Oin, Bombur, and Bifur as they followed Gandalf down the steps.

Bilbo huffed and then winced as the motion put pressure on his ribs. When he noticed how both Thorin and Dwalin had turned to look at him worriedly, the hobbit rolled his eyes and followed behind Balin down the stone steps, ignoring the two dwarves that hastily followed after him.

It went against everything Dwalin stood for and believed of himself to admit that he was scared. He’d been raised to fight and protect the throne of Erebor, to protect his family, his comrades, and his king. He had always walked into battle thinking only of the fight and why it was important that he succeed, never about the possible death that awaited him at the end of an enemy’s sword. Once he’d drawn his axes and found his target, he charged without fear of death or pain, only the fight for family, brothers-in-arms, and the fatherland.

When he’d seen that lowly orc piece of shite draw his crude, iron mess of a sword on his prince, his king, Dwalin had been afraid that he would lose his brother, his friend, and his prince in one fell swing, while he dangled from a tree branch, useless and shamed. And then Bilbo, the courageous foolhardy little hobbit, had thrown himself into the line of fire, defeating the orc soldier and protecting the dwarf prince. And Dwalin had been frightened beyond what he’d ever known before.

Bilbo’s small body, without armor and soft, in front of the Pale Orc, the most reviled denizen of Gundabad the dwarven race had ever known, with nothing but a sword to protect himself…. Mahal, it would haunt his dreams.

When he’d charged into battle a moment later, he’d not been thinking much about Erebor, or his shield-brothers, or even his prince. He’d been worried about that brave little hobbit that had protected Thorin from a dishonorable death even after the dwarf had been such an arse to him all this time. He’d not had enough time to really teach Bilbo how to defend himself, how to face a warg rider and its warg at the same time. But damn it all, if Dwalin hadn’t been so proud of him when he’d easily disarmed that orc soldier in one go! Perfectly executed, but Bilbo had not finished the move. He’d pitied the orc on the ground, and though he knew Bilbo had a compassionate heart, his hesitation was partly to blame for what had happened next.

That scene would give him nightmares as well. The giant white warg lifting a huge paw and slamming it into Bilbo’s turned back, catching the hobbit unawares and sending him spinning onto the ground several feet away. It had been so easy for the damned creature, like a cat playing with a little mouse, and at that moment, Dwalin swore that he would slice that warg’s throat the first chance he got. It was clearly as evil as its master.

Dwalin was pulled from these dark reminiscences by the loud and boisterous splashing of Kili and Fili across the small river from him, their shouts and laughter lightening his mood despite his forbidding glower.

Oin had forced all those with even the smallest injury to strip and take a few moments to wash in the river, leaving Gandalf to stay on guard for trouble. Dwalin had tried to get out of doing so, leveling a stony look at Oin and stating that the only wound he had on him was the cut on his head, and he didn’t need to be naked for that to be treated. However, the old healer had had his way, and so the warrior dwarf now sat in the shallow section of the river, glaring mutinously into the water.

Despite the various protests, Oin had chosen to look over the dwarves with minor injuries first, stating that his larger patients would need more time and that he could help more people more quickly this way. Dwalin and Thorin had both tried to protest that, or at least put Bilbo at the head of the line, but the hobbit had agreed wholeheartedly with the logic of Oin’s statement and had even offered to help. Oin had simply told him to go ahead and wash in the river instead, so that he would be ready when the healer got around to him. Bilbo had looked like he wanted to argue with that but had conceded to the healer’s demand.

With a flushed face and bright red ears, Bilbo had undressed, obviously trying to hide how gingerly he was treating the movements and the occasional winces that they caused without much success. When he was finally undressed, Dwalin had looked away to preserve his modesty (the hobbit’s modesty, not Dwalin’s; he’d take a good eyeful and then some, if he thought he could get away with it) until he was deep enough in the water that none of his privates showed.

Dwalin and Thorin had both made small intakes of breath when they’d caught sight of the hobbit’s torso. Large bruises, purpled and angry, formed around the long scratches made from the warg’s claws and around Bilbo’s side, marring Bilbo’s otherwise creamy and smooth skin. The scratches themselves did not seem very deep, as far as Dwalin could tell, but who knows what could have been on the beast’s claws? Oin would have to cleanse it pretty thoroughly. Seeing the hobbit as he was now, peaceful but covered with bruises and achingly vulnerable, idly de-tangling his magnificent golden beard, made it hard to reconcile the image with the bold and determined hobbit that had stood between Thorin and the Defiler. 

Thorin himself had gotten away with much less injury than he’d expected. The finely crafted brigandine that the dwarf wore must have shielded him from most of the warg’s deadly bite, leaving not much more than bruising from what Dwalin could tell. He had a few scratches here and there from the escapades in Goblin town but was otherwise relatively unharmed. Unlike the hobbit, who was quite harmed for his smaller stature.

“All right, my lad, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Dwalin heard Oin say as he approached said hobbit, who had by then successfully untangled his beard and could run his fingers through the wet length as he pleased. Dwalin felt a stir of lust awaken in his body at the sight, wishing he had the right to braid Bilbo’s beard for him, but that was a task given only to close family and spouses. Plus, he wasn’t even really sure the hobbit liked him enough to allow him that. He’d been getting mightily close with Bofur these past few weeks on the trip, so it was quite possible that he favored the toymaker more than he favored Dwalin.

Not to say that he would give up on forming a relationship with the hobbit, by any definition of the phrase. He was as determined as ever to find out more about Bilbo and become closer with the hobbit, who had shown he was much more than any of them had known or expected. He’d realized his attraction at their first meeting in Bag End, with his lustrous beard and phenomenal cooking ability. Now, though…now he’d proven his courage and strength, his wittiness and his wiles, managing to save and protect the company a few times, not to mention his most recent protection of Thorin!

He admired the hobbit for all of these traits and was quickly becoming rather enamored with Bilbo Baggins.

“Oooh, this is not good at all,” Gloin murmured, bringing Dwalin back to reality with a resounding snap. “Ye might have a few cracked ribs, Master Baggins. These cuts are definitely going to need watching over the next few days as well, lest they become infected. “

Bilbo finally seemed to become a bit concerned about his condition. “What should I do to help them heal, Master Oin? Oh, and could you look at my arm? I think I might have strained it a bit too much.”

“Hmmmm…. Yes, I believe yer right. Well, it’d be best if ye could get some bed rest, but… that’s not likely to happen very soon, unless that blasted wizard is up to something. Which is likely, I’ll admit,” Oin nodded with flat look on his face, turning to his medicinal bag and pulling out a small pot. “This is one of my special pastes that’ll help heal yer ribs and alleviate yer lungs a bit.” He spread the light green colored medicine over Bilbo’s skin, taking care to be gentle around the scratches.

Dwalin looked down into the water again lest he be tempted to follow the path of those fingers with his own or offer up his services as a medicinal spreader.

“And this should help with the scratches, prevent them from becoming infected if we can—what on earth was that?!” Oin shouted.

A loud, booming roar had echoed through the forest, frighteningly close to their temporary camp by the river. Dwalin and Thorin both surged out of the water, grabbing their nearby weapons and facing out into the wild, completely unashamed of their nakedness and battle-ready. Bilbo on the other hand had tried to move back, to grab his clothes on his body in case they had to move out rather quickly, but his wounds and the solidifying paste made his movements slow or else very painful.

The rest of the company had mimicked Thorin and Dwalin, grabbing their weapons even whilst stark naked, leaving Bilbo to wonder if this was a dwarf nuance.

“That sounded like a bear,” Fili whispered, his sharp eyes watching the forest line warily, his sword grasped in his hands in front of him.

“Or another warg,” Ori said equally as hushed, though his face grew pale at the thought.

“You’re close, Prince Fili, but not entirely correct,” Gandalf spoke clearly from behind them all, startling the dwarves. “He’s sometimes a massive bear that guards the neighboring lands with incredibly ferocity. He’s also sometimes a very tall man that enjoys spending time in the garden with the flowers and rabbits.”

Dwalin wondered if perhaps the wizard had smoked some very strange weed during his watch. He’d have to ask about it later, if for nothing else than to avoid it in the future.

“What is he?” Bilbo asked, sounding both curious and wary.

Gandalf gave him a smile and patted him on the shoulder, not noticing when the hobbit winced under the force or when Dwalin and Oin both glared at him for it. “He, my dear Bilbo, is our host for a bit.”

Chapter Text

The walk from the river to the large cottage in the dip of the valley was lined with trees and fields of flowers, creating a very peaceful atmosphere for the company if not for the occasional roars of a monstrous bear at their backs.

Bilbo walked gingerly behind Thorin and Gandalf, trying to hold back a wince whenever they had to step over an unruly tree root or if he stumbled upon a stone. The washing and new dressing of his wounds, while inspiring some relief, had also made the wounds feel raw and burn unpleasantly, though the hobbit struggled not to let his discomfort show. Nearly everyone in the company was injured and continuing on admirably; Thorin and Dwalin were even leading the charge to this funny Beorn character’s house, not a single hiccup in their step. It wouldn’t do for Bilbo to complain, not after the recent respect he had received from the rest of the company and Thorin especially.

Despite the mothering from both dwarves, he could see the new look in their eyes when they turned to him, as if he were finally a true member of the group, rather than a fussy nuisance. Well, Dwalin had stopped looking at him like that several days before, but still. The rest of the company seemed to change their tunes as well, asking him the occasional question and watching him with concern and a little admiration, to Bilbo’s surprise.

“Ah, here we are,” Gandalf announced with a smile.

Bilbo sighed in relief and leaned against a nearby tree carefully; it was a bit difficult to find a part of him that was not bruised at this point. He was incredibly thankful that Bofur had been so willing to help him with his pack once more, as he would have struggled to hold it against his back where he’d landed a bit painfully earlier. The hobbit looked up past Gandalf and was able to see the top of a thatched roof and a thin trail of smoke issuing from the chimney in the distance. Bilbo frowned.

“What do you mean, Gandalf?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, feeling admittedly quite exhausted. “The house is at least half a league away.”

“Yes, but I think it would be best if we were to approach in pairs, rather than all at once,” the wizard replied carefully, pretending not to notice the way the dwarves stiffened.

“And why would we need to do that? It’s much safer to travel together, in case we are attacked,” Thorin argued back, giving Gandalf a suspicious glare.

“I do not believe we are going to be attacked in the scant distance from here to the cabin,” Gandalf replied, leaning against his staff and fixing the dwarf with an exasperated look. The wizard was probably the least injured out of them all, though he and Glamdring had been in the thick of the fighting. “If anything, approaching in a large, armed group would not be a good idea at all. Beorn is a very cautious man, suspicious of those who travel unknown through his lands. With the amount of orcs already crawling through the mountains behind, he’s bound to be rather…on edge.”

“Fantastic,” Bilbo muttered quietly, closing his eyes and asking the Green Mother for patience and mercy.

“Are you sure this is the wisest idea, Gandalf?” Balin asked from his seat on a nearby stump. He was watching the wizard and the peaceful countryside with shrewd eyes.

“Have you got any better ones? Orcs and goblins strain at our backs, the Mirkwood lies in our path. No other towns are between, and we have several wounded and in need of rest, ” he replied sharply. When none of the company spoke, he huffed with irritation. “Now, then, we shall travel in pairs, by my signal. Bilbo and I shall go first, and then—“

“What?” Bilbo and the dwarves chorused, giving the wizard varying levels of incredulity.

“The hobbit’s the most injured among us,” Oin protested, stepping around the stiff mountain that was Dwalin standing in front of him. “He should be in the middle pairs, if we’re really going to do this. That way, he’s protected on both sides!”

“Ye’re clearly not too sure of how this fellow’s going to react to our entrance, so one of us warriors should go in his stead, just in case!” Ori piped up, his right hand clutching his beloved book nervously. Bilbo would have rolled his eyes at the bravado and at the implication that he needed all of this protection, but he couldn’t bring himself to outright disagree; he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to walk, let along fight. Especially not a gigantic murderous bear.

Dori stepped forward, his large hand resting on his sword. “Aye, I’ll go. I’m the best warrior that we’ve got whose uninjured.”

Bilbo could see Dwalin about to fire up in outrage at that, his fists tightening in readiness, when Gandalf interrupted with a muted yell.

“Silence! We’ll never get anything done with your foolish bickering,” the wizard sighed resignedly, before facing the dwarves. “It is precisely because Bilbo is not a warrior and injured that he should be one of the first introduced. We are already interlopers into his lands—Beorn would not take kindly to a burly, grim faced warrior knocking at his front door. As well…he’s not overly fond of dwarves.”

“For the love of Mahal…” Thorin grunted, one large hand coming up to rub at his temples roughly. He gave Gandalf such a frosty glare that Bilbo was surprised the man did not whither like a flower in winter. “As comforting as that notion is, “the dwarf began sarcastically, turning to face his company, “ he’s unfortunately right: our options at the moment are limited.” He eyed Bilbo’s slumped form against the tree with obvious concern. “Master Baggins, are you comfortable with this plan?”

Bilbo snorted in amused skepticism but straightened up from his slouch, gritting his teeth against the pained screaming of the muscles in his back and arms. “I’m fine with whatever gets me to a cup of tea and a bed at this point, to be honest.”

A few of the dwarves grunted in agreement. They could all do with a good night’s sleep for once.

The hobbit walked slowly up to stand next to the wizard, giving him a searching glance. Gandalf only smiled reassuringly, which Bilbo returned with a chagrined grimace. If the man ended up leading him into a ferocious bear-shaped trap, he was going to leave him to fend for himself; the wizard would at least have a chance at winning.

Dwalin strode forward to stand next to him, placing one large hand gently on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I’ll be right behind ye, Bilbo.” Gandalf looked about to protest but was silenced by the viciously stubborn glare the dwarf sent him. Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief and gave him a small smile. The wound on the dwarf’s head still looked rather painful, purpled in bruises and scabbed over, but it had stopped bleeding on the walk over, and the dwarf now looked as ready as ever to waltz into a fight.

“Thank you, Dwalin,” Bilbo murmured, placing a hand on his arm as he walked past to join Gandalf at the edge of the forest. A few of the other dwarves raised curious eyebrows at the affectionate gesture before hastily looking elsewhere at Dwalin’s challenging stare.

With one last worried look back at the crowd of dwarves at the tree line, Bilbo followed Gandalf through the tall grass and out into the open sunlight of the field, the cabin ahead growing steadily larger.

“So, Gandalf, what’s this Beorn like? Apart from disliking dwarves and turning into a large bear, I mean,” Bilbo asked curiously, his eyes surveying the land around. It was certainly a gorgeous spot to build a cabin, the hobbit mused. Like a small, secret paradise in the protective enclave of the Misty Mountains, the amber valley stretching off into the distance where a dark forest loomed. It was much different from the rolling green hills and winding rivers of the Shire, and yet the trees and grass burgeoning in the radiant sun colors of autumn were a beauty of their own. He would not mind spending a good amount of time there, to be sure.

“I’ve told you most of what I know, Bilbo,” the wizard replied shortly.

“Well, you’ve said he’s a bit unfriendly and suspicious, but surely that’s not all, yes? What’s his favorite meal? Does he prefer biscuits or scones with his tea? For that matter, is he partial to tea?” Bilbo questioned, giving Gandalf an expectant look.

“I’ve no idea what he has for dinner or what his afternoon tea preferences are, nor do I care,” the wizard growled, clearly a bit fed up with every member of the company today, dwarf and hobbit alike.

Bilbo was beginning to feel even more alarmed than before. They were close enough now that he could see the cabin and small farm surrounding it, surprisingly large when viewed at a much closer distance. The height of the cabin alone was at least four times Gandalf’s, which made Bilbo wonder at the owner of the cabin himself. Surely a man whose other form is that of a giant bear would be rather tall….

“These are rather obvious questions, Gandalf,” Bilbo chided quietly, his injured body growing tenser the closer they grew to the farmstead. “I could gather that much from a simple conversation with someone.”

“Well, then, perhaps you will be able to answer your own questions by the time our journey carries us onward,” he replied with a grunt, his hand tightening on his staff.

“Gandalf…” Bilbo began, dreading the answer before he’d even asked the question. “You have met this fellow before, yes?”

The wizard was silent for a moment, his eyes trained up ahead. “I have never met him before in my life.”

They had reached the edge of the farm and passed through a gated fence, horses grazing in the pasture nearby and dogs running about barking merrily. At their entrance, the dogs and sheep lazily roaming the area around the cabin froze before shuffling away warily. The hobbit gave them a curious look before startling at the loud crack of splintering wood echoing through the air.

A large, hulking figure was chopping wood off to the side of the house, his thick arms, easily the size of small tree trunks, hefting a large axe with a blade as long as Bilbo’s arm. Tufts of gray and brown fur created a dark line along his broad back, a fine layer of dirt and sweat covering the corded muscles. At their approach, he turned and fixed wide dark eyes upon them. Bilbo felt a cold wash of fear at the sheer power of this being, and he stepped a little behind the wizard, his hand grasping his cloak tightly.

Gandalf halted several yards away from the man, his face carefully blank. “Greetings, Master Beorn,” he called warmly.

Beorn replaced the wood on the chopping block, his eyes never leaving them. When he straightened up to his full height, Bilbo had to hold back a gasp. He was at least twice Gandalf’s height, and the wizard was a tall man.

“Who are you?” Beorn growled lowly, his hands, the size of frying pans, grasping the handle of the axe tightly.

“I am Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey,” the wizard replied, sounding rather arrogant despite the precarious situation. Bilbo wanted to pinch him.

The skinchanger’s eyes narrowed, his bushy grey eyebrows lowering in irritation. “I do not know this name. Who are you?”

Gandalf tensed warily and took off his hat, giving the man a slight bow. “I am a friend of Radagast the Brown, who is one of my kind. A wizard and a wanderer.”

“What do you want?” Beorn questioned warily, perhaps taking note of the name but giving no reaction to it.

“Simply to ask for your help and hospitality, if you would be so generous to grant it,” the wizard replied, his grey eyes measuring the man.

Bilbo shifted to get a better look at Beorn, only to recoil when the skinchanger’s eyes latched onto the movement.

“What is that with you? Is it a dwarf?” He growled, fury simmering in his guttural voice.

“Ah! No, no, Master Beorn. This is Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire.” The wizard’s hand reached behind him to grasp Bilbo’s shoulder and tug him forward, remaining there as a small comforting gesture.

“You lie,” Beorn hissed menacingly, his knuckles going white from their tight grip on the axe.

Gandalf then lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I do not! He’s a bit of an oddity, as most hobbits do not grow beards or ride off on adventures, but he’s a hobbit indeed. Comes from a very good family, too!”

Beorn’s head tilted to the side, his large eyes sharpening on the hobbit’s small form suspiciously. “A halfling, I do smell. But the scent of dwarf lingers upon him as well. Iron and blood, too.”

“Well, we have just come from the Misty Mountains, having escaped the Goblin tunnels very narrowly. Master Baggins, here, was injured in the scuffle….We have many in our party in need of rest and aid. We would be very appreciative if you would permit us lodging for a few nights.” Gandalf watched the man nearly as cautiously as he was being watched in return, though he was careful to be polite and congenial in tone.

Beorn gave no reply for a moment until he said, “And the scent of dwarf? Where does that come from?”

“Well, we have a few dwarves in our party…” the wizard replied rather sheepishly.

The skinchanger’s jaw tightened. “How many?”

Gandalf seemed to consider the best way to phrase his reply before deciding that the blunt truth would be the best bet. “Thirteen, to be precise.”

Beorn’s expression became stormy, and he turned his back on Bilbo and Gandalf to stare out onto the fields and the edge of the forest, without speaking. Bilbo worried for a moment that this meant he was refusing to help them, that they would have no respite from the orcs and goblins at their backs, but then the man’s head turned to give the hobbit an unreadable look over his shoulder.

“Tell me your story,” Beorn replied lowly. “Then I will decide if I shall grant your request or not.”

Bilbo drank from his goblet of steaming tea with utter relief, his body warming as the honey in the drink soothed his aching throat sweetly. The dwarves sat around him, eagerly feasting on the food spread about the table and gulping from large goblets of milk. A fire blazed in the hearth nearby the table, where Beorn and Gandalf sat in large chairs pillowed by sacks of wheat and wool.

After Gandalf had spun the great tale of their adventure up to that point (greatly edited to play up their injuries and their flight from the goblins and orcs), Beorn had reluctantly agreed to give them shelter, despite his dislike of dwarves and his apparent distrust of the wizard (not that Bilbo could blame him for that one). The only member of the company that Beorn did not seem inherently suspicious of was Bilbo himself.

Indeed, Beorn’s behavior toward the hobbit could even be called quite affectionate, after he’d spent some time observing him and having a conversation.  Bilbo suspected his comparatively more careful and well-mannered nature to that of the dwarves were what appealed to the skinchanger, though Beorn’s own personality was very boisterous and large: even sitting down, his presence seemed to fill the room. Of course, his friendliness toward Bilbo could also have something to do with his apparent resemblance to a rabbit.

Bilbo found it utterly absurd. They’d had now been within Beorn’s little farm for several hours, and within those first couple interactions with the large man, he had taken to calling Bilbo “Bunny,” much to the dwarves’ amusement and the hobbit’s mortification. Certainly the rabbits around the farmstead were quite large, even reaching to Bilbo’s hip in some cases, but he was quite tall for a hobbit and wore very respectable clothing (well, maybe not after being chased through goblin tunnels and orcs and wargs and all manner of things) and had good manners and breeding and opposable thumbs, for goodness’ sakes! To make matters worse, Kíli and Fíli had already begun to call Bilbo that in passing. If they continued for much longer, Bilbo was going to box their ears off.

Even now, the two dwarves were giving him sly looks and snickering in his direction. Bilbo sighed, wincing at the movement tugged on his poor ribs, and looked around the room. It was certainly no hobbit hole, but the room had its own charm that Bilbo could appreciate: very tall ceiling with wood posts and a thatched roof, open space with picnic tables and a large fireplace with comfy chairs. The small heads of two deer and a sheep peeked around the corner of the kitchen door cautiously, almost immediately drawing back when Bofur, Nori, and Gloin burst into loud laughter at the end of the table.

It all served to remind Bilbo that they were intruding into Beorn’s home. The skinchanger had let them in, albeit the dwarves a bit begrudgingly, and had fed them this great dinner and was preparing beds for them later, none of which he was obligated to do for a rough-seeming group of strangers. Bilbo would have to keep on the dwarves about their manners; they always meant well, but their exuberance often got the better of them.

“So about how long will we be staying here, Thorin?” Dori asked lowly, his eyes darting quickly over to their host.

“With the help of the eagles, we’re a bit ahead of schedule,” Balin said, giving his leader a pointed look. “Plenty of time to take a rest, go over plans, check injuries….”

Bilbo could tell by the constipated look on Thorin’s face that the dwarf did not like the direction this conversation was headed and opened his mouth to argue, only to give a low grunt when Dwalin gave him a firm slap on the back.

“Sounds like a good idea, brother.” Dwalin leaned over to whisper something in his leader’s ear. Thorin then glanced in Bilbo’s direction, causing a flush to work its way up the hobbit’s neck at the implication, before he sighed in reluctant acceptance.

“Three days, then,” Thorin conceded lowly. “We can afford no more, if we’re going to reach the Mountain in time. That accursed forest still lies in our path.”

The dwarves nearby grimaced at the reminder. Bilbo wondered at that: surely traveling through another forest would be more preferable to traveling through the goblin infested mountains.

“Aye,” Balin sighed tiredly. “We’ll need to assess our packs and food supply as well. Hopefully Master Beorn will be willing to trade or barter with us for some—“

Said man erupted into laughter next to the fireplace, much to the bewilderment of Gandalf seated across from him. His large arms wrapped around his waist as he gave large belly laughs, knocking the goblet of milk next to him splashing and clattering to the floor.

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo muttered as he rose from his seat, grabbing a couple rags that they’d been using as napkins from the end of the table.

At that same moment, one of the small sheep that had been creeping under the table to steal a potato or a roll shot out from under the table and sprinted toward the safety of the kitchen door, spooked by Beorn’s loud shouts of laughter. Too fast for Bilbo to avoid, the sheep collided with the hobbit’s shins, sending him crashing toward the floor.

“Bunny!”

Before he reached the floor and perhaps further injure himself, two large hands swept the hobbit into the air, fingers gripping his ribs just a hair too tightly. Bilbo looked down into Beorn’s concerned face and felt a wave of nausea from how far he was from the floor. Certainly higher than any hobbit should be!

“Are you all right?” The skinchanger asked in his gravelly voice.

“Ah, well, thank you, Master Beorn, but if you could please--“

“You’re very light, Bunny. Have you had enough to eat? There’s plenty here, if you are still hungry.” Beorn gave him an encouraging smile, which was a little bit terrifying due to his large and very sharp looking teeth. His big brown eyes were very earnest, though, which prompted Bilbo to give him a small tired small in return.

“I’m quite well. Thank you for your concern and your—your quick thinking, I suppose. Now, I would appreciate if you would—“

But Beorn was no longer paying attention to the hobbit. Dwalin had moved to stand protectively under Bilbo’s suspended body and was glaring up into the skinchanger’s suddenly darkening face. The other dwarves had tensed at the table and were watching with sharp eyes, with the exception of Bombur, who by that point had already begun snoring with his head on the table next to his empty plate.

“Put the hobbit down,” Dwalin growled, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his axe. He’d refused to put them away in their temporary rooms for their stay at Beorn’s, despite his brother’s censuring look.

“You do not command me, dwarf.” Beorn straightened to his full height, Bilbo still clutched in his hands, and the tension in the room became thicker than cold butter.

“Of course not,” Gandalf said soothingly as he rose, giving Dwalin an exasperated look. “We’re all just a bit on edge, with this orc business! We are all quite grateful for your hospitality, Master Beorn.”

Neither Dwalin nor Beorn backed down from their stiff stances, despite the wizard’s attempt at alleviating the atmosphere. Gandalf sent the hobbit a prompting look. Bilbo supposed he’d better try his hand at it, if for no other reason than to be placed on the floor again.

“Right! Dwalin was simply expressing his concerns, you see. My ribs are rather tender at the moment, so—oh!”

Bilbo gave a small start as he was gently lowered to the ground, the skinchanger giving him a sheepish, apologetic look. Dwalin shifted to stand next to the hobbit, even slightly in front of him.

“I remember this. I hope I’ve not hurt you, little Bunny,” Beorn murmured lowly, patting the hobbit very gingerly on the head.

“Are ye all right, Bilbo?” He asked quietly, his sharp eyes watching the hobbit’s expression carefully.

“Yes, thank you, Dwalin, Master Beorn. I’m quite well,” Bilbo said with a smile, placing a hand on the dwarf’s arm. He hesitated for a moment, before saying, “I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. On the porch?”

Dwalin nodded, still looking rather concerned. He began walking toward the door, and Bilbo nearly followed him before stopping as he remembered.

“Oh! Hold on just a moment, Dwalin,” Bilbo said quickly, looking around the room again. The small lamb that had unintentionally tripped the hobbit was peering around the corner of the kitchen door with its friends, looking frightened. Bilbo walked over slowly, before stopping a couple feet away and kneeling down. “Are you all right too, little fellow?”

“Bilbo, what are you—“ But Bilbo shushed Kíli.

The hobbit waited for a couple moments, watching the small lamb carefully. It didn’t look injured, which relieved Bilbo. It was such a cute little creature, with downy fluffs of wool and large dark eyes. The lamb looked up at the older sheep standing above it before letting out a small bleat, melting the hobbit’s heart like a pot of butter near the oven.

“I’ll take a look at him, little Bunny.” Beorn gave him a fond look before shuffling toward the kitchen.

Bilbo nodded gratefully before following after Dwalin, his hands twisting nervously in front of him. The moon was beginning its arc across the starry sky, the night bringing with it the brisk cold air of late autumn. Beorn’s farm seemed to have retired for the night: all the animals had retreated into their homes or burrows, no bees buzzed from flower to flower, and the fields were still except for the occasional stir of the wind. Dwalin had taken a seat upon the porch stair, his broad shoulders slightly hunched against the chilly air.

He plopped himself down next to Dwalin, wincing as his ribs protested, and sat a bit close to perhaps help share some warmth. Giving the dwarf a small look from the corner of his eye, Bilbo prepared himself for what could be an awkward conversation. He’d made a promise on that burning hilltop that he intended to keep, if the dwarf was amenable. He’d never considered seriously courting anyone before, let alone a dwarf. He wasn’t precisely sure how to go about it, if his own hobbit rituals would be acceptable or if he needed to follow dwarven courting rituals. He wasn’t even sure if Dwalin would want to court him at all, but…Bilbo wanted to try, at the very least.

“We’ve had quite the day, haven’t we?” Bilbo gave a small laugh.

“Aye, that we have,” Dwalin said ruefully. “Are ye sure ye’re all right? He was holding ye pretty tight in his huge mitts.”

“Oh yes, I’m fine. Much better than I might have been if I’d fallen to the ground,” Bilbo replied dismissively, rubbing his hands along his arms. He was glad he’d kept his coat on during dinner. “It was quite a lovely dinner too. I feel like I haven’t had a good cup of tea in a long time.”

Dwalin only grunted at that. The hobbit suspected he was still too suspicious and angry with their host to compliment the food.

Bilbo let the silence carry for a moment before clearing his throat. “Dwalin, I—I know that we’ve only known each other for a few weeks and only begun talking for a few days, really, but I was wondering if—well, if you wouldn’t mind if I were to—“ He huffed. “I’d like to court you, Dwalin, if that’s…acceptable to you.”

“Court me?” Dwalin turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Bilbo struggled not to stutter, his face flushing hotly. He opened his mouth to say more, intending to talk of how brave and strong and handsome, in a rough way, he found him and that he was very much interested in learning more about Dwalin in a romantic sense, when Dwalin gave a low laugh.

“Aye, that’s ‘acceptable’,” the dwarf rumbled lowly, his eyes showing fond amusement.

“Oh, oh, well,” Bilbo sighed in relief. He’d been afraid for a moment there that the dwarf was laughing at his wish to court him. “Thank you for the chance, Dwalin. I’m not sure how dwarves go about these things, but hobbits usually exchange gifts and share meals together over a few months before anything further happens. This quest is not really the ideal environment for a courtship, but perhaps here and there we could share a few—“

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo stopped talking as Dwalin turned to face him, smirking slightly. The dwarf leaned closer, until his nose nearly brushed against Bilbo’s.

“Is there anything in yer proper hobbit courting that ye shouldn’t do?”

“Ah, well,” Bilbo said quietly, his eyes transfixed on the warmth in the dwarf’s. A rough, battle-worn hand brushed against Bilbo’s cheek, before curling around the length of golden curls on his chin and tugging his face closer to Dwalin’s. His heart seemed to want to beat out of his chest.

“Is this…acceptable?” Dwalin whispered against the hobbit’s lips, his breath warm against chilled, blushing cheeks.

Bilbo gave a small instinctual nod that he would not remember later before the dwarf closed the distance between him and pressed slightly chapped lips against his own. He sighed against the sweet press of the kiss, the gentle pressure becoming firmer for a moment before withdrawing smoothly. Dwalin gave him another small, quick kiss, nuzzling their nose together for a heartbeat, before he leaned back and gave him a grin that stunned the hobbit almost as much as the gentle kisses.

“I’d like to court ye as well, Bilbo.”

Dwalin shifted on his bundle of hay and shoved the blankets from his chest, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. Balin, Gloin, and Oin occupied the other corners of the room, thankfully quiet in the silence of the night. He could hear Bombur’s loud snores from several rooms over and thanked his luck that he’d been placed far away from the redheaded dwarf. He’d always been a light sleeper, and Bombur’s snores were enough to keep him awake for hours on end until the exhaustion of the day finally pulled him under.

Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin were in the room next to theirs, which Dwalin appreciated. If he couldn’t be in the room to guard his king, the next room over would have to be sufficient. Bilbo, Nori, Ori, and Dori were in the room across the hall, perhaps strategically placed to prevent Nori from sneaking out of the room on three fronts.

Dwalin shifted onto his side, smiling into the anonymity of the darkness. Bilbo wanted to court him. Bilbo wanted to court him. Even the thought made him burn with pleasure and caused a melting sensation in his chest that he’d take with him to the Halls of his Father’s before he’d ever admit it out loud. He’d decided to pursue a relationship with Bilbo, if the hobbit welcomed it, but the hobbit had certainly caught him by surprise.

Dwalin had wondered about hobbit courting once or twice, in between beating the piss out of orcs and riding eagles. Had wondered if hobbits courted regardless of gender or age. Dwarves, because of the lack of dwarrowdams, tended to reserve more romantic gestures for the other sex. Relationships amongst dwarves were common, accepted. However, the gestures between them were different.

Dwalin was an older dwarf. He’d seen more battles in his lifetime than perhaps the entire history of the hobbit race. Certainly more than Bilbo had, though he was earning a few on this quest. That his hobbit wanted to court him, as though he were a much younger, less jaded dwarf that needed to be romanced…well, it was a bit embarrassing but appreciated for the care that it was.

He could only imagine what hobbit courting would entail. The dwarf hoped it involved good food, like the cooking he’d had in Bag End. This would be a pretty short courting if Bilbo’s cooking was involved. He suspected flowers might be used as well. Dwalin would have to make sure the rest of the company didn’t give Bilbo to much teasing.

He needed to think about his own first gift. Perhaps a small knife, to keep as a back up. Or maybe…..

Bilbo puttered about the kitchen, fixing the teapot closer to the fire and checking the small piles of dough he’d placed in the oven. Or the equivalent of a kitchen for this farmstead in the valley. All of the cooking utensils, pots, pans, and the oven, were vaguely different from those the hobbit was used to at home, but he seemed to be managing just fine. The small animals that had hid in the kitchen the night before were now peaking around the back door, though every now and then one brave sheep or dog would venture in and nudge Bilbo’s hip in greeting. He would give them a blueberry or two just to see their excitement.

He’d awoken rather early that morning, having had trouble sleeping the night before due to happy thoughts of his new courtship with Dwalin. He was actually making his first gift for the dwarf that morning, though it was perhaps a bit eager of him. Usually it was best to wait a day or two for propriety’s sake, but with this quest being what it is, Bilbo was betting he would not have access to a kitchen for quite some time, so he needed to make the best of it. Beorn had been must helpful and accommodating, even leading him out to the blueberry bushes along the back fence of the farm before returning to chop wood while the hobbit picked berries.

His injuries had not given him too much trouble once he had fallen asleep, but now he felts aches from his feet to his neck, as if his body was one big bruise. He was glad to be making blueberry scones this morning, as he did not imagine climbing any trees for apples or pears would be pleasant at all.

Despite that, Bilbo felt lighter than he had for quite some time on this quest. Dwalin had certainly surprised him last night with that kiss. Even the thought of it caused the hobbit’s face to heat and his chest to flutter as if he were a young hobbit with his first crush again. It was much gentler than he’d expected of the battle-worn dwarf, but he’d adored it all the same. And Dwalin wanted to court him in return! That was—well, very sweet of the dwarf as well. Bilbo couldn’t wait to see what dwarf courting was like and to spend more time with this dwarf that seems to be full of soft, hidden gems of depth. Like his blueberry scones.

Oh, his scones!

Bilbo hopped up from his seat next to the doorway and flew to the oven, chiding himself for getting lost in thoughts of Dwalin and forgetting about his scones. Luckily they had not burnt yet, so Bilbo carefully pulled out the small metal pan holding them and placed it on the counter, sighing at the sweet, full scent of baked goods filling the air. Now, to get a nice pot of tea going…he doubted Beorn had any teacups, so he supposed he’d have to make do again with the goblets…

“Master Baggins?”

“Bilbo, please,” the hobbit replied automatically, before turning around.

Thorin stood in the doorway leading to the large dining room of the night before, his hair and beard freshly brushed and without the furred armor he wore. He stood awkwardly on the threshold, clearly unsure of his welcome, which was a first for the dwarf that Bilbo had seen. The hobbit gave him a smile, which seemed to relax him a bit.

“Good morning, Thorin,” he greeted sunnily, crossing the kitchen and pulling out three goblets. “Would you like cup of tea? Or a pint of it, really.”

“Yes, that—that would be appreciated.” He took a couple more steps into the room and fixed the hobbit bustling here and there with the goblets and teapot with a measuring stare. “How are your injuries this morning…Bilbo?”

Bilbo startled a bit at that, having never expected to hear his first name come from Thorin Oakenshield’s mouth without some form of derision, but the dwarf seemed quite genuine. “All right, I suppose. A bit sore, but nothing that I can’t handle or a cup of tea won’t soothe. And yours? I hope you’ve been to see Oin this morning or he’ll be quite cross with you.”

Thorin grimaced, not meeting the hobbit’s amused look. “I’m fine. My injuries were not very severe—“ He ignored Bilbo’s raised eyebrow—“…but a couple days rest should cure them completely. Are you helping make breakfast?” The dwarf had slowly inched forward before the hobbit had noticed, looking rather hungrily at the pan of scones, which were slowly cooling.

“Ah, well, you see,” Bilbo began excitedly, “There actually for—“ But he froze in the middle of his sentence as a thought occurred to him. Did Dwalin want the company to know they were courting?

They’d not really talked any further about it the night before, after the kiss. Bilbo certainly didn’t care to hide it, but Dwalin was quite a reserved dwarf, not one to tell many stories about himself. He wasn’t sure they’d even be able to hide it, as they would constantly be around the other dwarfs for at least another month or two, until they reached the mountain. A little modesty was understandable, but the hobbit hoped Dwalin did not want to keep them a secret. The worry dimmed his excitement.

Thorin had watched and waited for a few moments, but as the hobbit had not continued and he was quite hungry, he picked up a warm scone from the pan and bit into it. He seemed to struggle with it, his eyes closing tightly and his free hand fisting.

“Oh, are they not good?” Bilbo asked worriedly at the dwarf’s somewhat strained expression. That could not be good at all. But he’d followed the exact proportions of his recipe to the letter! Maybe Beorn’s farm had slightly different wares than that of the shire, so the taste was off…Oh, that wouldn’t do at all. “Here’s your tea; perhaps that will help wash it down. I’m so sorry, Thorin.”

Thorin grunted and took the tea into his free hand. Bilbo noticed the half-eaten scone that had been in his hand had disappeared. “No apologies necessary, Bilbo. They’re…very good, actually.”

Bilbo looked at him suspiciously, wondering if he was trying to protect the hobbit’s feelings by being kind, before another dwarf arrived in the doorway.

Dwalin entered the kitchen, looking fresh from a good night’s sleep and hungry for a spot of breakfast as well. He had evidently decided he trusted Beorn enough to remove his armor for the day, so he wore only the dark green shirt that separated the chain mail of his armor from his skin. Bilbo thought absently that he looked very nice in that color. Very nice, indeed.

“Good morning, Dwalin,” Bilbo said, beaming at the sleepy dwarf. “I made a batch of blueberry scones for you for breakfast. It’s one of my own recipes, actually. I’ve received quite a few compliments on them whenever I serve them with afternoon tea, but they’re quite good for breakfast as well.”

Dwalin blinked at the long string of words before giving the hobbit a gentle smile. “For me, ye said?”

“Well, cooking in the Shire is one of our best ways of showing appreciation and—and affection to one another,” Bilbo answered quietly, giving the dwarf a shy look. “I know we only just began—“ he shot a nervous look at Thorin, who was watching the scene with a confused frown—“ on our new footing last night, but I thought an early start might be best.”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow at the odd phrasing. “So this is yer first courting gift, then?”

Bilbo startled before smiling happily up at the dwarf, glad that Dwalin seemed to have no intention of hiding their relationship if he was being so blunt in front of Thorin. “Yes, the first small one. I made some tea as well.”

Dwalin reached down for a scone and bit into it hungrily. He stilled for a moment before a moan broke free from his chest before he could stop it. The dwarf quickly finished off that scone before reaching for another, his eyes closing in pleasure.

“So you like them, then?” Bilbo asked eagerly, his hand brushing nervously against his beard and unknowingly spreading flour in the curls.

“They’re very good, Bilbo. Are ye making any more?” He asked, looking hopeful.

Bilbo beamed once more, already moving to the counter littered with ingredients. He seemed to glow with happiness, relieved that his first gesture had been so appreciated. “Of course I can! I just need a bit of time to make another batch….”

As he began putting another round of ingredients into his mixing bowl, Bilbo heard Thorin rumble something in Khuzdul to Dwalin, who only gave him raised eyebrows in return. Thorin gestured toward the door to the yard with a demanding look and another guttural sounding phrase before stomping out there himself.

Bilbo looked after him a bit concerned and bewildered, but Dwalin dismissed it with a waved hand and stepped closer to the hobbit.

“It’s nothin’ for ye to worry about. Just Thorin bein’ as stubborn as a mule,” he murmured lowly. “Thank ye for the gift. I’ll go settle this and be back to finish them…ye’ve got a bit in yer beard, Bilbo.” He brushed the flour out of the hobbit’s beard, letting his fingers wrap around the curls and tugging lightly. Bilbo felt a shock of pleasure run up his spine, and his chin tingled. He nodded.

Dwalin gave him and the pan of scones a lingering look before exiting the kitchen, leaving Bilbo alone to make another batch of scones. Or at least he had thought he was alone.

“Mister Boggins!” Kíli called cheerily, bounding into the room and immediately catching sight of the scones. “Oh, breakfast!”

“No, no! Those are not for you!” Bilbo said, quickly darting in and rescuing the pan before the dark-haired dwarf could devour them.

“Was that Dwalin, just now?” Fíli asked from the doorway, giving the hobbit a curious look and ignoring the whining of his brother.

“Yes, it was,” Bilbo said from around Kíli, who kept attempting to reach around the hobbit and grab a pastry.

“Oh, come on, Bilbo, have a heart!” Kíli pouted, momentarily stopping. “I’m starving!”

“There’s a nice loaf of bread and jam just over there that you can sate yourself with,” Bilbo pointed out, staunchly protecting the scones. “I made these for Dwalin as a—as an early courting gift.” He blushed and turned away from the brothers, who were now looking at him with amused surprise.

“Courting, eh? Well, that’s a bit sooner than I’d thought, but Nori’ll be happy,” Kíli commented blithely, already cutting a large swath of bread from the loaf and slathering blueberry jam over it.

“What?” Bilbo frowned at the oddness of that statement.

Fíli coughed loudly and gave his brother a censuring look, before sighing. “Bofur’s going to be crushed.”

“Yeah, I bet even his hat will be drooping once he hears the news,” Kíli added, taking a too large bite from his bread and getting jam all over his cheeks.