Chapter Text
“Did you find it hard to breathe? Did you cry so much that you could barely see? You're in the darkness all alone, and no one cares, there's no one there. But did you see the flares in the sky? Were you blinded by the light? Did you feel the smoke in your eyes? Did you, did you? Did you see the sparks filled with hope? You are not alone, ‘cause someone's out there, sending out flares.” - Flares, The Script
Bilbo enjoyed his alone time, but that did not mean he enjoyed being lonely. And with his mother’s first anniversary swiftly approaching, he was feeling very lonely indeed.
That was what led him to the Green Dragon this evening. A need for a voice that was not his own, a cheerful and boisterous atmosphere. He ate to his heart’s content and people-watched, listening to the merry little band play.
He almost felt better until the storm struck.
Well then, perhaps Yavanna is trying to tell me something, Bilbo thought glumly, all his attention now on the rain. Goodness but it was coming down in buckets. The storm had hit so quickly too, it was downright eerie.
He waited for it to stop.
It didn’t. He waited hours and it kept going. It only got worse. Soon enough, there was even thunder and lightning. Sitting next to the window, Bilbo shuddered at the thought of walking home. He didn’t have enough money left in his pocket to rent a room tonight. Oh well, what other option was there? Fly home? It would still force him outside.
Steady on, old chap, it’s just rain, Bilbo sternly told himself. He’d run home, brew himself some tea and sit by the fire in his cosiest sleepwear. Yes, that sounded like a nice plan.
Bilbo steeled himself, pulled up his hood, and rushed out into the storm.
It was sheer chance, when Bilbo thought back on it. What if he’d stayed home? What if someone else had run up the lane before him?
But it was him. It was him and it was Kíli, and Bilbo wouldn’t change it for the world.
It went like this: he ran through the storm, thinking longingly of a warm hearth and a cosy bed. He was soaked to the bone, his cloak of little use in such a tempest. The thunder was deafening, the lightning was blinding.
His mother used to love watching storms.
And then a tiny figure stumbled down the hill. They fell into a puddle and let out a frightened scream when more lightning struck.
Bilbo stopped dead. The tiny person didn’t notice him; they scrambled up and ran unsteadily to the nearest tree, crouching down against its trunk. It provided next to no shelter from the relentless rain.
They were a child, Bilbo immediately saw. But what was a little one doing all alone out here? In weather like this and so late at night…
“Hello?” He approached carefully, crouching down. “Goodness, what are you doing out here, hm?”
The child was curled up in a little ball, face pressed against their knees. They weren’t a hobbit, that much was plain; they were missing a boot, and their bare foot was filthy and bleeding. (No hair on their feet at all! And such little feet too, how very unusual.) Their little hands were covered in scrapes.
“Hello?” Bilbo scooted closer. He placed a hand on their knee.
Startled, the child sharply looked up, flinching back so harshly that their head knocked against the tree.
A little one indeed, Bilbo thought, horrified as he took in the child’s appearance. A little lad, and he couldn’t be more than a toddler. He was practically a babe! Long dark hair, plastered to his pale face, huge brown eyes, full of terror. His nose was bleeding, his lip was split. He was covered in mud; it stuck to his clothes, was smeared across his face, neck, bare foot and hands, even clung to his hair.
A human? Maybe…Or maybe…
Bilbo took in the child’s ears, his proportions, the matted braid hanging limply by his face.
A dwarf, he thought.
“Hello,” he said again, careful to keep his voice calm when he felt anything but. “My name’s Bilbo. At your service, little one. What’s your name, hm? Where are your parents?”
The little lad just continued to tremble and stare at Bilbo.
He’s frightened out of his wits, poor thing, Bilbo frowned. Either something had happened to his parents or, horrifyingly, they put him in this state.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently. “I just want to help. It’s very scary out here, isn’t it? Shall we fix up those nasty cuts and get you dried off? Then we can-” He nearly said, Look for your parents, but if they’d hurt the child…
“Then we can get help,” he finished limply.
The child didn’t give any signs of agreement; he didn’t nod or speak, but he didn’t flinch back or try to flee when Bilbo cautiously lifted him up.
Bilbo turned and continued to hurry towards Bag End.
Carefully at first, and then desperately, the little one clung to him.
Funnily enough, Bilbo didn’t feel uncertain until they were actually in Bag End. Once the door shut behind him, he hesitated, frozen by sudden indecision. The poor little lad was soaked and filthy, terrified and most likely hungry, if not outright starving. What took first priority? A bath or food? Should he just plop the wee one into an armchair and get the fire started? Did he clean the child’s injuries in the bath, or before, or after?
The child sneezed and Bilbo’s mind was made up for him. He hurried to his childhood room (child still in his arms) and found some night clothes that would, hopefully, be a close enough fit.
With that, he carried the child to the bathroom. When he tried to set him down, the child clung more tightly.
“It’s okay!” Bilbo hastened to assure him. “It’s perfectly okay, I’m just going to run you a bath, see? I’m not going anywhere.”
The child looked up at him with those huge dark eyes, so miserable and frightened, and Bilbo felt his heart break.
Either something had separated him from his parents, something terrible had happened to them, or they had done this.
Bilbo knew which option horrified him more. He prayed it wasn’t them; he prayed his suspicion was wrong.
“It’s okay,” he repeated more gently. “We’re nice and safe in here, I promise.”
The child stared at him. After a moment, he nodded. He still wouldn’t let Bilbo put him down, but he didn’t cling so tightly.
It took a lot of coaxing and pleading to get him into the tub, and then it was a trial getting the poor lad clean. He flinched when Bilbo went near his little braid, he scooted away when Bilbo tried to wash the mud from his face and kept wriggling and squirming when Bilbo scrubbed him. He yelped when Bilbo washed the cuts on his hands and kept ducking his head and trying to look away as Bilbo cleaned his bloody nose and lip. All the while, he grumbled and scowled and cried.
There was one odd thing; a little bracelet. Mostly leather with bronze woven in so flawlessly that Bilbo had to marvel at it. Fancy that! Metal woven as neatly as fabric. Dwarven work indeed. There were four little circular medallions dangling from the bracelet, made of blue gems (lapis, he was quite sure) and engraved with runes that Bilbo didn’t recognise.
Bilbo’s hand brushed the child’s wrist, against the bracelet, as he washed him and the child wrenched away from him with all his strength, giving such a scream that Bilbo thought he’d broken a bone.
“Sorry, sorry!” Bilbo yelped, hands up in surrender. “Goodness me, it’s just a bracelet, my boy!”
The child stared at him suspiciously, sitting tensely in the water and holding his wrist close to his chest, flinching when Bilbo came near again.
Had he been any older, Bilbo would have been tempted to leave him for a moment, so he could go fetch something to entice the lad into staying still and co-operating. A sweet, perhaps, or a toy from his old room. He had a little wooden boat that would serve beautifully. But the fact of the matter was, Bilbo just couldn’t be sure of his age at all. What if he turned his back and the lad drowned?
“I’m sorry,” he said, pointedly not looking at the bracelet this time. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t touch it again, okay?”
Slowly, so slowly, the child relaxed again. Well, as much as he’d been “relaxed” in the first place.
Bilbo had to empty the bath and refill it, the poor thing was so filthy.
“Poor little thing,” Bilbo murmured, still soaked himself, and his hands now wrinkled from the hot water and soap. “What happened to you, eh?”
The child stared, head slightly tilted. Bilbo copied him with a teasing grin and the child smiled.
He smiled and Bilbo felt himself relax.
“There we are,” Bilbo said happily. “I knew there was a handsome face under all that muck.”
Finally, he lifted the child from the water and got to work on drying him off. Bilbo’s old nightclothes fit well enough, though with some room to spare around the middle. This little one was far too skinny, if you asked him.
Hobbit children were most often plump; sweet round faces, rosy cheeks and equally round bellies. Oh, sure, plenty thinned out as they grew older, but babies and children tended to be plump. It was good; a sign of health and care.
This child was so skinny with a gaunt look about him.
How long were you alone? Bilbo fretted.
First thing in the morning, he’d have to…Well, talking to the Shirriffs would be the best way to start. And then- posters? That was what you did for missing people, wasn’t it? He’d never dealt with such a thing before. He didn’t know anyone who had.
But for now…Did the child speak? Grumbling from him seemed to just be noise. He’d yet to actually say a word.
Once the child was dressed and sitting before the fire, Bilbo darted to his own room and changed into his cosiest pyjamas and favourite night-robe. Running a towel over his hair, he ran back to the child.
He was sitting exactly as Bilbo left him, tense and staring at the ground, but he seemed to relax a little when Bilbo returned.
“Now then.” Bilbo knelt in front of him. “Let’s get you something to eat and I need to tend to your poor foot. And then maybe you can tell me a little of what happened to you?”
The child ate like he hadn’t seen food in weeks. Bilbo certainly hoped that wasn’t the case.
He’d whined when Bilbo tried to go to the kitchen alone, so he lifted him and muddled along, preparing food one-handed, balancing the child on his hip. He brewed them both tea, made the child a sandwich, piled a plate with soft oat biscuits, and then spread some more bread with raspberry jam.
(How much did dwarf children eat anyway? Surely not as much as hobbit children. But how much was too much and how much was too little?)
It took a few trips back and forth to get everything laid out in the living room, including the few medical supplies Bilbo had. It would have been quicker if the child would consent to being put down.
Honestly, he saw Bilbo would return! Did being alone for those brief moments really frighten him that much?
Lightning struck again and the child flinched, his fingers digging into Bilbo’s arms. Bilbo barely bit back a sigh and felt like slapping himself- of course the lad was terrified. He still had no idea how long he’d been alone.
Finally, as Bilbo rubbed salve onto the child’s wounded foot and wrapped it, things seemed a little calmer. The little lad ate so quickly and with such gusto that Bilbo had to urge him to slow down (to no avail.) He brushed the tangles from his long dark hair (the child shouted and clung to his little braid, refusing to let Bilbo touch it, so it had to stay) and finally sat down to nibble a biscuit and enjoy his own cup of tea, sitting across from the lad in his own armchair.
“Now then,” he said, careful to be gentle. “I am Bilbo Baggins, at your service. What’s your name, little lad?”
The child stared. He stared for so long that Bilbo’s (hopefully reassuring) smile started to falter, and he began to fret that the child didn’t actually understand a word he’d said at all thus far, and-
He mumbled something. The dwarf child ducked his head and mumbled something.
Bilbo resisted the urge to jump up, or move his armchair closer. He made himself keep smiling and fought with all his might to keep his voice quiet and calm.
“I’m sorry, little sir, I didn’t quite catch that.”
Another pause, though much shorter. The child looked up, his dark hair falling in his face.
“Kíli,” he said quietly, his voice a little hoarse. Bilbo didn’t recognise the accent at all.
“Kíli,” Bilbo repeated with a nod and a smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Kíli. That’s a lovely name.”
The little boy- Kíli- smiled once more.
“Is there…Well, is there a last name to go with that?” Bilbo asked.
Kíli’s smile vanished, replaced by a blank look.
“I’m Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo said again. “And you are…?”
“Kíli.”
Oh dear, he was young. Or was it possible that dwarves didn’t have surnames? That just seemed like it would cause confusion. No matter, he didn’t need Kíli’s surname to help him really.
“And-” Oh, he prayed this question wouldn’t lead to disaster. “Your parents? Where are they? Where’s your mama?”
Sure enough, Kíli burst into tears.
Here’s the thing: Bilbo had a lot of cousins. Many of them had children. His friends and neighbours too, a lot of them had children. Bilbo was, for all intents and purposes, well used to children. He’d like to think he was good with them.
That didn’t mean he knew how to handle a wailing child. He’d never ever been left in charge of a sobbing little one. Once the tears started, Bilbo made sure to be far away and that the child was with their parents.
That wasn’t an option here.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he fretted, trying in vain to soothe Kíli. The poor little thing just kept sobbing, clinging to Bilbo for dear life. He was talking now, rapidly babbling, but Bilbo didn’t understand most of what he said. He understood “Mama” and- something about fee? Or was it free? And…Sorin?
But beyond that and “scary,” he didn’t speak in Westron. Bilbo didn’t recognise the language at all.
Dwarves had a secret language, didn’t they? Something deadly secret and sacred. Khuzdul, Bilbo was sure. It seemed Kíli spoke that more than Westron.
Oh, bless him, how old was this child? How had he ended up all alone?
If he was screaming for his mother like this, she couldn’t have been the one to hurt him. Right?
Bilbo sat with Kíli on his lap, the child wailing and sobbing against his chest as Bilbo rocked him back and forth, trying to recall what his relatives did with their children. What his own parents had once done for him.
He rested his cheek against the top of Kíli’s head, caught in a loop of “There, there,” and “Poor little lad,” and “Don’t you fret, I’ve got you.”
Outside, the storm continued to batter the Shire. Inside, Bilbo said, “You’re safe, I promise, Kíli. You’re perfectly safe, don’t you worry.”
After what felt like hours, Kíli’s screams and sobs lessened. He grew quieter, still crying, hiccuping and gasping slightly. He still clung to Bilbo like his very life depended on it.
Something truly dreadful happened, Bilbo thought, closing his eyes. Is his mother dead? Is everyone dead? What happened to this child?
Surely there was someone looking for him. There had to be. Who in their right mind wouldn’t search for a missing toddler?
(Unless they were all dead. Unless someone had killed Kíli’s mother. Unless she had been safe for Kíli but someone else hadn’t been. Unless any manner of cruel people had attacked his family, be they strangers or other relatives. Unless they were truly monstrous but Kíli cried for them anyway. Unless, unless, unless…Oh, there were so many terrible possibilities.)
“Want Fí,” Kíli mumbled, seconds before falling into a deep sleep. He went boneless in Bilbo’s arms, his little hands falling from Bilbo’s arms, his ear pressed against Bilbo’s heart.
A fee? Bilbo thought, baffled. Wait, no- that was almost definitely a name. Or perhaps a dwarven word, a title? He wished he spoke Khuzdul. He wished he knew any dwarves, so someone could translate.
“Well then, little one, looks like it’s just you and me tonight,” Bilbo murmured, gently rubbing Kíli’s back. “Hopefully this storm lets up come morning. And then…Then it’s off to the Shirriffs, I think. We’ll find a way to help you, don’t you worry.”
Kíli slept on. Bilbo was afraid to move, but he must. After much deliberation, he carried Kíli to his old room, tucking him into Bilbo’s childhood bed. He hesitated in the doorway, watching the tiny chest rise and fall. He should really go to his own bed now, but…
Thunder struck, lightning flashed, and Kíli rolled over uneasily in his sleep, letting out a soft little whimper.
“Oh, I’m a soft-hearted fool,” Bilbo grumbled and set about making himself a nest of blankets on the floor. Just for tonight. It wouldn’t do to let a babe wake up alone and frightened in a strange place. His parents would haunt him and scold him forever for such negligence.
This was going to be a long night, that was for certain. The storm still raged, but at least Bag End was safe and warm. Kíli was fast asleep (even if he had cried himself to sleep) and surely that counted for something? He was clean, his wounds were tended to, he’d been fed, and now he was in a nice, cosy bed. If Bilbo was to pat himself on the back, he’d say he’d handled this strange turn of events quite well indeed.
Tomorrow I’ll get some proper answers from the lad, Bilbo told himself as he lay down. Once he’s had some rest and time to calm down. Surely there’s something useful he can tell me. I’ll talk to the Shirriffs and ask for advice. We’ll find the poor boy’s home soon enough.
And if it turned out Kíli’s family were responsible for his injuries and terror after all…Well, Bungo’s old walking stick was still in the cupboard. Bilbo would be quite happy to slap some heads with it.