Archive of Our Own

This is something that every child in the Shire knows.

Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was the one to run to for stories, the occasional treat, to mediate childish disputes in the best way since Parents would not understand, to bandage skinned knees and listen to childish woes.  While he was, technically speaking, a Grown-Up, somehow, there was something about him that was not very Grown-Up like and therefore, Mister Bilbo was graciously permitted into the secrets, pranks and plays of the Hobbitlings.  Perhaps it was because while they could all trust him to make sure they didn’t get into Too Much Trouble, they all knew that he understood things.  And that was most important, of course. 

Now this is something that every dwarfling in Ered Luin knows. 

For all his gruff and regal demeanor, the littlest ones knew that their Prince Thorin was actually very kind and that they could always run to him to beg for a story or song.  And because he was a very wise and a very just Prince, he could sort out Dwarfling squabbles in a way that was fair to all concerned, without getting the Parents angry, because Parents never understood these sorts of things.  He never minded when the Dwarflings opted to climb all over him like an oak tree, much to the horror of some of the more fussy Dwarf parents and the Dwarflings understood that when Princes Fili and Kili were born, they would have pride of place in Thorin’s arms. 

We must note here, of course, that now Princes Fili and Kili were Grown Up or mostly so.  However, the Princes Under the Mountain made most excellent playmates, being as Kili knew all the best pranks to play and Fili knew exactly how to get away with it.  And though everyone knew that they were actually Thorin’s sister-sons, the constant refrain of near every Dwarf who knew them (read: Master Dwalin) was “Are ye two daft sods absolutely sure ye didn’t sire and birth these two miscreants instead of Dis and Nali?” 

At which point Thorin would choke and sputter and Bilbo would start flailing, because surely it must be one of Mahal’s greatest jests that Fili and Kili inexplicably resembled Bilbo and Thorin quite closely and had some rather hobbit-y characteristics.   

It didn’t help that at some point, Thorin blamed it all on Bilbo being of Took blood, courtesy of his mother and naturally, Bilbo retorted that he had ample evidence that Fili and Kili came by their mischievous sides quite honestly from their not-so-proper-after-all uncle! 

Dis, of course, laughed herself silly when she heard about it.

And wiser souls or at least those who knew their histories, like, say, Balin or Bofur or Ori, would remember Durin the Deathless and the fact that his mate wasn’t exactly a Dwarf… 

But we digress.

The point, of course, is that the children of Dale and Erebor - dwarfling, human and hobbit (for there were a few hobbits that decided to follow in Bilbo Baggins’ footsteps and heeded the call to an Adventure) felt themselves to be the most fortunate in all of Middle-earth.

For the Dragon was gone and the Dwarves had returned to Erebor and Dale was a city once more with her own hero-king - Bard the Dragonslayer - upon the throne.  And the Dwarves once again made the beautiful toys that had made both Dale and Erebor so famous in all of Middle-earth.  And all of the children understood that though the King Under the Mountain and his Prince Consort might be attending to the business of running their own kingdom, there was always time for a story or a song and to listen and laugh and be merry too. 

Now there was a little lad, a bright young fellow in his third year of life, who was being told the stories of the King Under the Mountain, his brave Hobbit Consort and their merry company of twelve dwarves - plus one Grey Wizard - by his mother.  He was an inquisitive little fellow, already showing signs of an adventurous spirit and so while his mother had initially objected to his father’s plan of relocating them and a certain number of their kinsmen and people to Dale, she eventually agreed. 

There was one story that she would not tell her boy.  It was foretold that the boy’s father would die at an earlier age than was customary for their people.  For they were of the Dunedain, the remnant of the folk ruled by the great Sea-Kings of Numenor, long lost beneath the waves of the sea.  For their aid in the great wars waged by the Valar and the Elves against the Great Enemy, He who had been Sauron’s Master, they were granted the grace of a lifespan far greater than other Men.  And there were other graces granted as well to their Kings and those of their bloodline. 

The boy and his father represented that bloodline, a long unbroken chain from father to son, descended from the High King Elendil himself, still standing strong despite Isildulr’s Fall and all of Sauron’s attempts to destroy them. 

The  boy’s father had sought to change his fate, for he refused to be bound to prophecy.  If the King Under the Mountain had reclaimed his homeland and survived against all odds, could he not attempt the same?  For the sake of his wife and son? 

And so he, with a few faithful and trusted companions, brought his wife and son to Esgaroth, which once was Lake-town, stopping here to rest and resupply before continuing on to the new Kingdom of Dale.  They had a long and dangerous journey and they had already had some unpleasant encounters with small groups of orcs but had been able to successfully fend them off with little injury to their group.  While the grown-ups were rather busy with their concerns, this little lad of the Dunedain decided to go on a little Adventure of his own. 

The boy was careful not to toddle too close to the water, already mindful of his mother’s admonishments but he’d walked and walked, marveling at the people who looked so different from his kin and goodness, there were Elves and Dwarves too!  How perfectly wonderful!

Soon enough he wandered into an inn, attracted by all the other children going in and and out its doors - dwarflings and human children and at least a couple of hobbit fauntlings as well. 

There he was, looking exactly as the little Dunadan had pictured him.

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. 

The little boy meant to get closer but something or someone jostled him from behind and the child stumbled and fell with a sharp cry.  Small, nimble hands caught him up and he was promptly carried up to rest against someone’s hip and he was startled to find that he wasn’t as quite as far off the ground as he was used to when a grown-up carried him. 

This was promptly explained when he found that it was a Hobbit who’d caught him. 

“Hullo!”  said the Hobbit, with a gentle smile.  “Are you lost?”

The little boy shook his head, entranced with his new friend and quite fascinated by the delicately pointed ear, just hidden beneath the hobbit’s russet curls. 

“Bilbo!”  Thorin called out to him.  And at that, the little Dunadan was utterly delighted.  So he was in the company of the heroes of his mother’s stories!  What a grand Adventure this was turning out to be!

“Found this one toddling about.  Looks like he’s a bit lost!” Bilbo said, bouncing the little one in his arms and making him giggle. 

The little boy objected.  “Not lost!  Onna a’venture!”

“And so you are,” the King Under the Mountain said kindly.  “It’s never too early to start going on them.” 

“Honestly, Thorin!”  Bilbo chided, though his eyes were merry.  “Don’t you listen to him, m’lad.  Adventures can be a terrible business - make you late for supper!” 

“Trust a hobbit to think about food,”  Thorin returned with a snort, making the children laugh. 

“And if I didn’t, I’d be in the company of thirteen bellyaching dwarves,” Bilbo snorted.  He smiled at the little boy.  “Not very good company, I assure you, but I’d still take them over three monstrous trolls!”

“That troll story of yours keeps changing every time we hear it,” Thorin observed wryly.  “As I recall it, I was not the one trussed up and roasting over a fire.”

“Oh yes, that was Dwalin and Bofur and Nori and Ori…. you were just there looking majestic as usual, even in a burlap sack…”

And so it was that the little Dunadan spent at least an hour or so in the company of the King and Consort Under the Mountain, enjoying his adventure and their stories, at least until his mother found him (for unbeknownst to him, Bilbo had already sent a few of the Dwarrow guards to inquire amongst the Menfolk for a missing child) and took him off for bed, with many thanks to the Dwarf and the Hobbit for keeping her son safe.

Safe in his bed, there were a few things that the little boy would not witness.  The presence of the Dwarf King and his Consort in Esgaroth would encourage the boy’s father to press on to Dale.  The boy’s father would not have known that the servants of Sauron were still compelled to seek out and destroy the Heir of Isildur and so their party would fall prey to an even larger group of orcs that had ever been seen in Erebor since the Battle of Five Armies. 

What the boy would remember was the screams of his companions, his father’s desperate orders to his mother to hide in the wagons.  He would remember his mother crying out and her futile attempts to shield him from the sight of his father falling, an orc arrow buried in his eye.  He would remember his mother standing her ground with a short sword in hand and a dagger, fighting off the two orcs who had made it inside their wagon. 

He would remember his mother fall, blood spattering across the wagon floor and then the cry “Baruk Khazad!”  as a bright elven blade would cleave one orc’s head from its shoulders while skewering the second one.  He would remember seeing Thorin Oakenshield, face and hair matted with blood and sweat, bending to sweep him up into his arms and calling for Bilbo. 

“Little one,” Bilbo said tenderly and so he would call the child, when he would wake from nightmares that would fade with time.  

Frerin, they would name him later, because the little boy of the Dunadan would be claimed as a son by the King of Erebor, a prince of Durin’s House, raised to be a brother to Fili and Kili and the little princess who had been born to Bilbo, to the great rejoicing of their kingdom.  Frerin, this little child of the Dunadan would be, while he called Thorin and Bilbo Adad and Adadith, beloved by his adoptive family. 

The little boy would not know that his mother would live long enough to tell the King Under the Mountain and his Consort the child’s true name and his lineage.  They would keep this concealed for as long as they could, in the same way Dwarves kept their true names secret, for the sake of the little Prince of Men that they already loved and cherished as their own.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn. 

- end -