Chapter Text
He came by it honestly, Bilbo supposed.
annoyingly, but honestly, all the same.
One second, Bilbo would be knelt next to Frodo, helping him get ready for the day, and then he would turn around to grab a comb to brush through the boy’s soft downy curls, and once he spun back, Frodo would be gone. At first, Bilbo thought it to be intentional. That his nephew was trying to seek some time alone after his parents died. Bilbo was the same way when his own passed—he could hardly be around anyone for too long without wanting to rip his own hair out. But after two years of that exact scenario happening over and over again, he realized that, no, Frodo was not running away from Bilbo to try and brood on his lonesome. The boy was just very, very good at wandering off. His mind would get so very captured by something that he simply had to stop and drop everything he was doing in favor of walking aimlessly toward whatever had fascinated him so.
Bilbo had long since gotten used to it, though he couldn't say that it annoyed him any less. Worse, it meant that he had to keep one eye on his boy at all times. It was widely inconvenient. But he loved Frodo. So even if it meant having to whip his head around every two seconds while they were in the garden or make Frodo hold his hand while they walked through the market, he would do it.
Really, Bilbo had to admit that things weren't all that bad.
The Shire was... well, still The Shire. Filled with nosey, ambling hobbits who whispered ‘mad Baggins’ behind his back like he couldn't hear them talking (most Hobbits were less then sutble when spreading their gossip, and even less so when the topic of such speculation was within a 50-foot radius of them). He very much could, thank you very much! But, even so, he was content enough where he was. There was plenty to do around Bag End, and he had long since gotten used to ignoring whatever family members popped up on his doorstep. Before he took in Frodo, he had thought to move back to Erebor. To see his dwarfs once more, to talk to them through more than just the letters they would send back and forth to one another. Oh, how he wanted that. To see Bifur and try to decipher what his frantic hand gestures meant. To get stupid drunk and dance with Bofur. To be the victim of one of Kíli and Fíli's pranks. To talk to Ori about what new book he was reading or writing, and trade sly remarks with Nori about ‘thieves sticking together’, and to have Dori fuss over his clothing and Dwalin cross his arms over his chest and look at him with that half-disinterested half-dull amusement and-
Thorin. There wasn't much he couldn't say about wanting to do with Thorin.
But it was just a fantasy. A rambling fantasy of a silly old Hobbit.
And he was happy here, really, no need for The Lonely Mountain (not so lonely anymore, though, is it?) to make his heart feel full. Here, he had his garden and Bag End and, most importantly, Frodo. Frodo, who had his family here, and his friends, and everything else a fauntling could ever want. Yes, Bilbo was happy, if not for only the fact that Frodo was. He put the silly thought of travelling away and carefully resigned himself to couch cuddles and sticky hands clutching at his own. He was perfectly content with letters and the very, very brief occasion that one of the company would visit.
And then Frodo got sick.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Bilbo snaps, but he doesn't really mean to. He's just... scared. He can readily admit that. More scared than he was with the trolls or when they got chased down by orcs, or even in that very last battle. No, this was worse than all that combined, because this was Frodo. Poor, sweet Frodo, who wandered himself into trouble, Bilbo wasn't sure he would be able to save him from. Thankfully, Gandalf does not look the least bit affronted by Bilbo’s words nor his tone. Just worried.
“This goes beyond my capabilities, Bilbo.” He says after a moment of watching the fauntling with furrowed brows. “Even beyond that of elven healing.” And isn't that a terrifying thought? because, really, couldn't elves heal nearly anything? Bilbo supposes that he was overestimating their capabilities, but for Yavanna’s sake, they managed to heal Thorin and his sister-sons from the brink of death, didn't they? They couldn't do the same for a child who ate one bad mushroom?
“But all is not lost.” The wizard says after a moment of brief contemplation. “This sickness—is is not that of simple bodily illness. It is a rot, festering, and deep. it will attack Frodo’s mind as well as his body-”
“Yet all is not lost?” Bilbo interrupts, a mixture of anguish and what can only be indistinguishable panic rising in his gut, all the way up to his chest. “I just- he- he was just playing with Samwise for all of five minutes, Gandalf! My mother, she let me go out on my own when I was his age with friends. Hamfast was watching them. I can't- I didn't- oh my poor boy-” tears fill his eyes, and Bilbo does not attempt to hold them back. A large hand settles onto his shoulder, but Bilbo can hardly pay it any mind.
“Peace, my friend,” Gandalf says in a voice so very gentle that Bilbo is sure he hasn't heard it before. Not that tone, not from him. “This is not your fault, Bilbo, and we do not have time to waste to allow you to wilt in guilt of your own making. He is a child who ate an odd thing because he was curious, and now we must deal with the consequences.” It's true enough, but it does not make Bilbo feel any better. Many faunts forage in their youth, using their growing knowledge about plants and gardening (as gardening comes to Hobbits as smithing does to Dwarrow) to pick out different shrubs and flowers they can snack on from the forest or the fields surrounding The Shire. Hobbits are resilient in the stomach anyways, so often times it's more or less encouraged for children to go and try to identify different plants on their own, and to let them deal with the consequences if they get something wrong. There was nothing poisonous in The Shire, or the lands closely surrounding it, at least nothing that Bilbo knew of before this. Besides, usually, the consequences are just a few days spent in the bathroom or hurling into a bowl, and then the faunt would be more careful about what they were putting in their bodies. The knowledge of that does not make Bilbo feel better, not at all. He should've known; he should’ve scolded Frodo when he came back with a basket of odd mushrooms or plants from the forest. He shouldn’t have just trusted Hamfast with the life of his nephew, no matter how many children of his own he has. Frodo was entrusted to him—his life, so precious and dear, was Bilbo's to protect, and he had utterly failed.
“Now, as I was saying before you interrupted me, all is not lost! There is a flower that will help to reverse the effects of the mushroom. The Azaliana.” Gandalf places a hand on the boy’s sweaty forehead.
“But?” Bilbo rubs at his temples. There must be a but. There is always a but, isn't there? The Wizard makes a face. One that has his furry eyebrows pulling up and the corners of his mouth curling upwards. “But,” He aquecies, “It is only grown far, far away. In Erebor, on the side of the mountain.” Bilbo’s eyes pop open.
“It’ll be quite the hike to get there, you know. It’s lucky for us that The dwarrow that reside in Erebor don't realize the magnitude of such a plant. It's very powerful, you see, very sought after. Can heal a multitude of things. Very rare. It should be untouched, on account of Smaug and now the fact that the mountain has been reoccupied. Though it might be even luckier that we know the one person who will be able to get it for us with very little trouble.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, and ignores the way his voice quivers when he says his name.
He doesn't hesitate. He starts moving, looking around Frodo’s room, and taking out some of his clothes from the dresser. Tunics, trousers, just one vest or two. He doesn't want to overdress the poor boy. Bilbo can barely process that It's Erebor that Gandalf named—it couldve been anywhere, any other mountain, any other land, and he would have reacted much in the same way. His mind is too consumed with the thought of his boy being okay, that he hadn't done irreparable damage, to focus on anything else.
“How will we know if he’ll be able to make such a long trip?” He murmurs absentmindedly, hands shaking before he forces them to still. He takes a deep breath. This is not the time to let his panic overtake him, no. He must be strong, for his nephew if nothing else. Gandalf stands up from there hes crouched by Frodo’s side, and the sheets of the bed move with him as he does.
“I will be able to hold it off until we reach the mountain, assuming we do not run into any difficulties on the way.”
Bilbo pauses.
“And if we do?”
“lets hope we don't, my friend.”
The hobbit purses his lips, but says nothing else. What else is there to say?
“Pack. We will leave in the morning, at dawn. Where did you say Frodo found this mushroom?”
“The north. Near the edge of the forest. I do not know the specifics. Hamfast was with him when he ate it.” Bilbo murmurs, letting the shirt he has in his hands drop back down into the open drawer. “Gandalf-” He barely manages before stopping in his tracks as Frodo lets out a pained cry. A wail, more than anything. He barely makes it in time to hold up a nearby bucket he has set there just in case to Frodo’s mouth as he hurls. He doesn't say anything to Gandalf after that, just gives him a curt nod as he rubs circles into Frodo’s back. He doesn't watch the wizard leave. The faunt whines, and Bilbo slips into bed next to him, grabbing a nearby cloth and wiping his face clean.
“I know, love, I know.”
The road to Erebor is almost as unpleasant as when Bilbo set out the first time. More so, as he balances a toddler in his arms whilst trying to steady his pony. He’s gotten no better at riding since the first time around, and honestly, he would’ve been happier to never have to get on the back of one ever again. But. Sacrifices must be made, he supposes. He whispers to Frodo as they move along the trail, flitting from story to story, tale to tale. It's been weeks already since they’ve set out, and still no real movement from the faunt, other than soft tears or to lean over the beast he was situated on to puke. It's enough to set Bilbo on edge—if he hasn't already been catapulted off of it.
“Uncle?” Frodo finally speaks up, and Bilbo scolds himself for being so consumed with his thoughts that he didn't notice him wake. “Sh..” He soothes, ducking his head down to press a brief kiss to the top of his head. “Hello, my boy.” He murmurs, voice barely even a soothing whisper. He doesn't want to startle Frodo, not after he's just woken up.
“Where are we?” The faunt can hardly stand to peer around at their surroundings without a small whimper escaping from his chapped lips. Bilbo covers his eyes, moving his face into his chest with a gentle pat. “We are...” he hesitates, letting his own lids flutter shut before opening them once more. “..going on an adventure, my dear boy. To Erebor. Don't you remember?”
“Oh. No. Sorry. The mountain. From your stories?”
They’ve been having the same conversation for weeks.
“The one and the same.”
“But.. why?”
He just hums, leaning down and nuzzling his nose against Frodo’s. Just for a moment.
“Because you're very poorly. And we are going to the dwarrow to help you get all better.” Bilbo manages, hand sliding down to rub firm but soothing circles into the child’s back. “Oh.. Oin? he.. hes the healer, right?” Bilbo blinks before letting out a somewhat delighted laugh, the pressure of the last few months easing up off his shoulders. Sometimes he forgets that Frodo actually listens to what he says, that it's not all just meaningless rambling that goes in one ear and out the other. “Clever boy. Yes, very good. He is a healer. Though I don't think he’ll be the one to help make you better.” All the feelings of relief and fickle joy drop when Frodo starts to cough. Bilbo sighs, forcing himself to keep his expression somewhat blank, less animated than it would normally be. He doesn't want Frodo to see just how worried he is, to see how Bilbo’s heart breaks each time he takes a turn for the worse. It is his burden to bear, not his nephews. “Hush now, Frodo. It's alright, just.. go back to sleep. Im right here, I won't let anything happen to you, I swear it.” It's a promise he doesn't know if he’ll be able to keep, but one that he would try to till his dying breath. He lets his face drop only when he’s sure the boy’s asleep once more.
He looks over at the wizard riding next to them with a big, big frown. “Gandalf.. I- hes so weak. so very weak, and so very small. I can't.. how-” He starts, before being suddenly interrupted by a somewhat pointy staff being jabbed into the soft flesh of his side. “Bilbo Baggins, I will have no more of this talk. I have told you what we are meant to do, and I will not have you question me on it any longer.” Bilbo glares as he’s scolded. Once, he might’ve been ashamed, once he might’ve withered and wilted under Gandalf’s tone, like a flower in winter. But he is not the same Hobbit, and perhaps he never will be that same Hobbit again. No, in fact, he's quite sure that he could not be. So, instead, he huffs and seethes, one hand gripping tight onto the reins resting in it, while the other remains perfectly lax on Frodo’s back. He opens his mouth to speak, to protest, before he’s interrupted once more.
“Think of the future instead. think of what it will bring, once we reach the mountains and are in its halls once more.”
And.. finally, his thoughts slow just enough to consider Gandalf’s words.
The after wasn't something he’d been overly concerned about, not when there were more pressing matters to attend to in the present. But now, he supposed they had nothing but time. Long, stretching, ever-expanding time, till they reached their goal. Till Bilbo has that flower in his hands. So. He does as he’s told and thinks.
He’ll be happy to see the company again, his dwarrow, all together. Though he imagines that there will be quite the uproar, Bilbo Baggins showing up on their doorstep with no letter in anticipation, no word of warning. And with a sickly faunt! and one meddling wizard. But, yes. He’ll be.. overjoyed. Oh, how long it's been since he’s seen them. And, he hopes, that they’ll be just as happy to see him as well. He’s sure that they’ll adore Frodo—He doesn't know many a person who doesn't adore Frodo. He’s quite hard not to love. And once he’s all better, Bilbo assumes that he won't leave poor Bofur alone, not after all the toys he’s made for him. Or Kíli or Fíli. Those three are made out of the same type of mischief. Oh yes, Frodo will be the picture of innocent annoyance. Always persevering and always looking so precious while doing it. It's a talent, and a skill he’s long since perfected. It's then, as his mind moves from the company as a whole to just.. Thorin. As it so often does, though its been a less and less often occourence with how busy he’s gotten.
How would he feel about Frodo? In his letters, he wishes Bilbo and the little Hobbit the best. What else could he possibly wish them? The worst? No, obviously not. It's the best, or it's nothing. Maybe Thorin won't fawn over the boy (he once sent Thorin a picture of Frodo he had done when he first took him in, and all Thorin said in response to it when he wrote back was, ‘Very nice’), but he has faith that at the very least, he will tolerate the fauntling. Frodo will take to Thorin much quicker than Thorin to Frodo, Bilbo suspects. At least he’ll be able to get some kind of (sick, most definitely sick) amusement out of the whole affair. It’ll be uncanny to see them side by side, with how oddly similar they look. It was almost comical, the first time he held Frodo and saw those sweet baby blues blinking up at him. Comical until Bilbo started crying, anyway. He truly doesn't know where it came from. One moment, he was fine, and the next, he just wasn't. That's been happening more and more in recent years. He doesn't remember ever being this awfully emotional. It's the mundane things that get him, too. It's awfully silly—what's so sad about reading or writing or making tea or any manner of things? Nothing, of course. nothing at all. It's just, sometimes, he wonders if he would be doing the same things in Erebor. If he had stayed. Would he still be having tea at 4 o’clock? Would he still spend most of his days reading and thinking and trying to distract himself?
It felt wrong when he left the mountain. Like he was leaving behind a part of himself that he wouldn't be able to get back. He doesn't even understand entirely why he did it. He would've been able to stay, would've been able to build a life in Erebor. He wouldn't have been turned away. But, a small part of him was... well, not scared of Thorin. Never scared of Thorin. But nervous. Almost nauseatingly so. What if his sickness returned? What if Bilbo saw that gone look in his eyes once more, that cloudiness that only madness could bring? What if he stayed, and he wasn't able to control himself and pulled the king into a kiss by his stupidly nice-looking beard-
Too many what-ifs that he’ll never be able to figure out the answers to.
Frodo shifts, and Bilbo sucks in a deep breath. He holds it, then lets it go.
This is was was meant to happen, he can feel it in his bones, can't he? He was always meant to come back to the Shire and raise Frodo, garden, and live by all the comforts he was raised in. That was always going to be his fate, wasn't it? To grow old and wonder and wish for something different, and then never get it.
Suddenly, something whizzes by his ear, and Bilbo flinches on instinct. He turns his head to see what it was—a bug maybe? something big, certainly—just as another whizzing noise flies by again, followed by a thunk. His eyes drift down to his pack, and he almost freezes at what he sees. An arrow.
Almost.
“Gandalf-”
He doesn't remember much of what happens next, the events of it melting together, sticking to one another like syrup. He knows that he fought because he can feel warm blood pooling on the soft skin of his palm, and because Sting is coated in it. He must’ve slid his Mithril coat onto Frodo at some point in the scuffle, and for once, he applauds his frazzled, battle-torn mind for being able to do something right. It's a small relief to see the boy unharmed, though frightened and crying into Bilbo’s chest as the older Hobbit desperately tries to shush him. To no avail, mind you. But he can hardly blame him. He wanted to cry the first time he had the great displeasure of encountering orcs, too. He only notices the ache in his leg once he’s managed to calm the toddler and set him back down on the (somehow) unharmed pony. The adrenaline has started to wear off, and suddenly, all of his senses decide to return to him in one great flood. It almost makes his knees buckle with how much and how intense it is. Bilbo grits his teeth and digs through his pack instead of letting himself collapse into a ball. It would help no one if he did. He makes eye contact with Gandalf for only a moment before looking away again and continuing to dig. He can't afford to slow them down. He can't. Not when they’re so close.
“It's a two-week ride.” He murmurs, finally finding what he’s been searching for and taking out some ointment and a shirt. “We keep moving.” He tears the shirt apart as best he can with shaky hands.
Gandalf doesn't say anything. just looks at him with sad, sad eyes.
“We keep moving,” Bilbo repeats, though he’s not quite sure whether or not it's to himself or to the wizard.
They make it there in three instead.
Panic has long since taken over his heart and his brain.
Not for himself, no. Although he thinks his leg might be infected and he can hardly walk, his brain is all focused on Frodo. ‘lets hope not,’ that old coot said. Bilbo should've pushed harder, should've yelled and screamed and stirred up a right fuss. But he didn't, and now his nephew is on the edge of oblivion. He can't keep anything down, and he's so pale—so pale his lips have lost color, and Bilbo can see his veins through his skin. The sight makes him want to hurl, though that may just be the fact that Bilbo, too, is sicker than a dying dog.
The mountain is grand and amazing, and it is so different from what he remembers. So beautiful and—he wonders how they could've done all of this in such a short amount of time? It's only been a few years! I mean, when he last saw it, it was so.. rocky. Stone and rubble and cobwebs and far too much gold. And there's still plenty of gold, but not in piles (not that he’s in the treasury, but still). No, it's been interwoven into the walls, the pillars, the-
By the Valar, Bilbo can't think. He just can't think.
He barely makes it off of his pony, scooping Frodo into his arms and rocking him. His arms have done not much else but rock, rock, rock, and clutch at his Pony’s reins. He watches it be led away from him by a dwarf, but his eyes are unseeing, unnoticing. His panic grows when Gandalf stops to—to talk to someone, and he lets out a hiss through his teeth.
“Gandalf.”
“I know, I know, just a moment-”
“Gan-dalf.”
“I know, Bilbo! if you could just wait-”
Bilbo turns on his heel and starts walking away.
It's.. Decently early in the morning, isn't it? Yes, yes, yes, it is. Of course it is. He tries to remember where The King said he holds his... what was it called? Court. Holding court. He hears Gandalf let out a frustrated groan and then step forward to grab Bilbo’s arm, guiding him along. “Are you quite sure that you're a Hobbit? You’re as stubborn as any dwarf I know.” Bilbo just hums non-commitidly in lieu of a response.
He stumbles a bit once they make it to a big hall, doors swinging open with a clatter. It's filled with people, and noises, and voices, and- then everyone goes silent. But he doesn't care. He just moves forward and forward and—was there a line? not anymore—till he reaches the front of the crowd. Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, probably to spew some kind of idiotic nonsense, only to come to a full stop when he sees him. Thorin.
And then, the silliest thing happens.
Bilbo relaxes, and he can feel the tension drift out of his shoulders when their eyes meet, because, oh, thank god, it's Thorin. Thorin is here, and he’ll be able to help, and Bilbo won't have to worry so much anymore, and he can't stop the thoughts from spilling into the forefront of his mind. They don't even stop as he watches the king’s face twist into confusion, and then worry. Or maybe concern is a better word, because he does look awfully concerned.
“Bilbo?”
The man in question’s knees buckle. But Bilbo isn't swooning or being swayed downwards by his heart, no.
Bilbo’s going down.
He’s barely able to hand Frodo over to Gandalf before he collapses on the ground, and his vision is swarmed with black spots. The last thing he hears is panicked feet and someone calling out his name.
And then everything goes dark.