Archive of Our Own

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End is, to the quiet gossiping circles of the Shire, a very desirable bachelor. He has wealth, an excellent family name, and, perhaps most importantly, Bag End itself, one of the finest and most comfortable smials in all Hobbiton. As a result, he has no shortage of suitors.

Bilbo wants none of them.

He hears it in their voices when they speak to him, sees it in the way their eyes slide past him and linger on the walls, the furniture, the silver tea set inherited from his mother. They praise Bag End more than they praise him. They compliment his pantry before his wit.

“You must be so proud,” they say, looking around his sitting room.

“You’re very fortunate,” they add, already imagining themselves settled in his best armchair.

Bilbo smiles, offers tea, and politely, but firmly, declines them all.

“You don’t want me,” he tells them with a practiced gentle tone. “You want my name. You want my house. And you want my pantry.”

They always laugh, as though he is joking. He never is.

Bilbo grows up hearing the story of his parents instead, Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took. A quiet, respectable Baggins and a Took with fire in her blood. Their love is the sort whispered about for decades, half scandal, half fairy tale. Belladonna shocks the Shire by choosing him. Bungo surprises everyone by choosing her.

It is real. It is fierce. It is unmistakable.

Bilbo wants that.

Not this parade of polite voices and assessing eyes.

So he does his best to discourage his suitors while remaining kind, and somewhere along the way, he stumbles into something unexpected.

Matchmaking.

It begins accidentally.

A Bracegirdle lass takes a particular interest in him. She is insistent, sharp-tongued, and utterly unafraid of overstaying her welcome. She invites herself to his meals, his teas, his afternoons. She critiques Bag End as though she owns it.

“You really should replace these chairs,” she says one afternoon, settling herself comfortably anyway. “They’re far too old-fashioned.”

“They were my mother’s,” Bilbo replies mildly, pouring tea.

“Well,” she sniffs, “that explains it.”

One day, during tea, a Baggins cousin of Bilbo’s happens to be visiting. A timid fellow, well-known for his indecision and his strict devotion to what is proper. Bilbo introduces them.

“This is my cousin,” Bilbo says. “And this is—”

“Oh, I know who he is,” the Bracegirdle lass says briskly. “He’s the one who always sits on the right side at church, even when the sun’s in his eyes.”

The cousin flushes. “It’s… customary.”

She studies him. He listens, really listens, as she speaks. He nods. He agrees. He asks questions. He validates every sharp-edged opinion she offers.

Bilbo watches it unfold over teacups and seed-cakes, saying very little.

Within weeks, the Bracegirdle lass stops visiting Bag End.

Months later, she marries his cousin.

Bilbo worries at first. He’ll become a yes-man, he thinks. He’ll disappear under her opinions. But every family gathering proves him wrong. His cousin beams when he speaks of his wife.

“She’s so passionate,” he says proudly. “She knows exactly what she wants.”

And she looks… happy.

That is when Bilbo realizes what he has done.

After that, he begins, carefully, to introduce his suitors to one another. He pairs stubborn with patient, loud with quiet, dreamer with planner. At first, it goes terribly wrong. There are arguments, offended relatives, and at least one thrown teacup.

But Bilbo learns.

Over time, his instincts sharpen. His success rate improves. And slowly, something changes.

He stops being seen as the bachelor of Bag End.

He becomes the matchmaker.

Hobbits begin to seek him out not for courtship, but for advice.

“Bilbo,” they say, leaning close, “do you think—”

“Yes,” he replies thoughtfully, already imagining who might suit them best.

He helps with misunderstandings. With confessions. With apologies. And every happy pairing soothes something quiet and aching inside his chest.

He still wants romance for himself, some small part of him always will, but helping others find it is enough. For now.

Bilbo Baggins, bachelor of Bag End, is a very happy hobbit.

Content.

Until one day, a wizard arrives.

And then dwarrows fill his smial, tracking mud across his rugs, eating his food, singing about the destruction of his home—

—and then he walks in.

Tall. Raven-haired. Sharp-eyed.

The most attractive person Bilbo has ever seen.

Who promptly insults him in his own home.

And somehow, by some mystery only the Valar can explain, Bilbo agrees to join their suicidal quest after hearing that same infuriatingly beautiful person sing of a lost homeland.

Now Bilbo Baggins finds himself on the road.

Uncomfortable. Out of place.

And very much wondering how his quiet, well-ordered life unraveled so completely.

Bilbo watches as Fíli and his brother Kíli spar, or at least, what begins as sparring. Wooden practice weapons are abandoned almost immediately, and within moments it devolves into full-bodied, laughing wrestling in the dirt.

Dwalin, who is meant to be supervising them, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“By Durin’s beard,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “I leave them alone for five breaths.”

He stalks off, grumbling under his breath.

“I got you, Kee!” Fíli shouts triumphantly as he slips an arm around Kíli’s neck and hauls him into a headlock.

“Gah! Let me go, Fee!” Kíli yells, feet kicking uselessly. “You fight like a mountain goat!”

“Nope! Not happening!” Fíli laughs, tightening his hold just enough to be irritating.

A week ago, Bilbo would have been alarmed by the roughness of it, the sheer enthusiasm with which dwarrows seem to attempt to maim one another for fun. Now, after seeing this exact scene play out again and again, he merely sighs and takes another pull from his pipe.

They’ll be fine.

His attention drifts, however, when he notices something familiar.

Fíli’s grip loosens.

Ori comes into view and settles himself beside Bilbo with a small sigh, smoothing his robes and pulling out a bit of parchment. The moment Ori enters Fíli’s line of sight, the prince’s focus fractures entirely.

“Bilbo,” Ori begins politely, “I had a question about hobbits, if you don’t mind me aski—”

His words are drowned out by Kíli’s sudden burst of laughter.

“Ha!” Kíli crows as he wriggles free, using the moment of distraction to drive a boot squarely into Fíli’s side. “Serves you right!”

“I got you now!” Kíli grins, tackling his older brother while Fíli is still half-turned, indignation written plainly across his face.

“Oi, cheater!”

They roll across the grass, limbs everywhere. Fíli manages to twist away at the last second, but Bilbo barely watches this time.

He’s seen it too often.

Fíli getting distracted every single time Ori appears.

The first time it happened, Bilbo had nearly leapt out of his skin, Fíli had been tasked with tending the campfire, his hands in the flames while staring openly at Ori as he spoke with Dori and Nori. If dwarrows weren’t so resistant to heat, Bilbo is certain the prince would have roasted his fingers clean off.

Bilbo’s matchmaking senses tingle.

“I’m sorry, Ori,” Bilbo says pleasantly, turning his attention fully to him. “What was that you were saying?”

Ori blinks, momentarily flustered, then gathers himself. “Ah, yes. I was wondering… how long do hobbits live? And how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking. You seem middle-aged to me, but with other races it’s sometimes difficult to tell.”

Bilbo smiles, pleased. He taps his pipe against the log beside him.

“Well, I’m fifty at the moment, fifty-one come September,” he says. “Comfortably middle-aged, as you guessed. Hobbits live to about a hundred, on average, though there are rare exceptions.”

He warms to the topic, voice fond.

“My grandfather, the Old Took, lived to be one hundred and thirty years old. Bless his toes. He’s the oldest hobbit I ever knew personally.”

Ori’s eyes widen. “That’s remarkable.”

“And how old are you, Ori?” Bilbo asks curiously.

“I’m one hundred and twenty-seven,” Ori replies easily. “Dwarrows typically live to around two hundred and fifty. Royalty often reaches three hundred, give or take.”

Bilbo promptly chokes on his pipe smoke.

He coughs, wheezes, and waves a hand as Ori hastily pats his back. “I—pardon me,” Bilbo manages, eyes watering. “One hundred and twenty-seven?”

Ori nods, clearly amused.

“I confess,” Bilbo says once he recovers, staring at him openly now, “I thought you were… well. Younger.”

“That’s a common assumption,” Ori says mildly.

“Then—” Bilbo glances toward the still-tumbling princes. “Does that mean Fíli and Kíli are around one hundred and fifty?”

Ori grimaces, shaking his head. “Not even close.”

Bilbo blinks.

“Prince Fíli is eighty-two,” Ori says. “Prince Kíli is seventy-seven.”

Bilbo stares.

Ori sighs, resigned. “I take it you assumed I was the youngest because of my… baby face.”

Bilbo opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Then smiles very, very thoughtfully.

“My apologies,” Bilbo begins. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Ori lifts a hand, shaking his head gently. “It is all right. It is hardly the first time I’ve been mistaken for being young because of my face.” He exhales, wry but unoffended. “Though it is true that I am the third youngest among us.”

Bilbo tilts his head. “But you are an adult, yes?”

“Indeed I am,” Ori replies, a hint of pride threading through his voice.

Bilbo hesitates only a moment before asking, “May I inquire, how do dwarrows court?”

Ori’s brow arches. He glances around instinctively, eyes sweeping the camp. Thorin has stopped watching his nephews’ roughhousing and is now staring directly at them, sharp-eyed and assessing.

For a moment, Ori hesitates.

Thorin inclines his head, slow, deliberate.

Permission.

Ori exhales quietly. Of course, their leader has always been protective of dwarven customs… though Ori cannot help noting the particular attention Thorin pays to Bilbo. There is affection there, obvious to those who know how to look. Ori wisely keeps that observation to himself.

“Well,” Ori begins, lowering his voice slightly, “dwarrows court by first declaring their intent. After that, we gift one another with creations made by our own hands.”

Bilbo nods, attentive.

“This is also done among friends,” Ori continues, “but when the intent is courtship, the creations are… more intimate in nature.”

Bilbo’s face goes scarlet.

Ori freezes.

“Oh—no! Not that,” he blurts, eyes wide. “Not adult creations! Mahal, no. I mean things like hair-clasps, combs, beard oils—”

“H—hair?” Bilbo squeaks faintly.

“Hair is very intimate to dwarrows,” Ori insists. “We are not perverts!”

Bilbo releases a long breath of relief, pressing a hand to his chest. “Goodness. You had me terribly worried.”

Ori clears his throat, visibly recovering. “And how do hobbits court?”

“Well, it’s rather similar,” Bilbo says cheerfully. “We give gifts too. But food and flowers are considered the proper sort.”

Ori nods thoughtfully.

Across the camp, Thorin makes a very deliberate mental note.

“Do you have anyone in particular in mind, Ori?” Bilbo asks lightly. “Someone waiting for you back in Ered Luin?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Ori replies quickly. “I tend to favor my books over… dalliances of any sort.”

“Really?” Bilbo’s eyes sparkle. “And if someone were to show interest?”

Ori considers. “If they were unsavory, I would refuse them outright. If they were someone I respected, but I did not return their feelings, I would turn them down kindly. It is only proper.”

He pauses, studying Bilbo. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Bilbo says gently, “it seems Fíli has been making eyes at you.”

Ori grimaces immediately.

“Why the sour expression?” Bilbo asks softly.

Ori hesitates. “Fíli and I have… history.”

Bilbo remains silent, encouraging.

“When Fíli was young,” Ori continues carefully, “I was already grown. He was still in his pebblehood.” He winces. “Because of my face, he thought I was his age.”

Bilbo’s stomach tightens.

“His advances were… very forward,” Ori says, voice strained. “And at the time, my baraf had a reputation for being… admired. I suppose the Mannish term would be gold diggers.”

Bilbo winces in sympathy.

“People saw an underaged prince flirting with me,” Ori continues, “and made assumptions.” His jaw tightens. “Unkind ones.”

“That’s dreadful,” Bilbo murmurs.

“Luckily,” Ori adds, “Princess Dís witnessed it. She knew my character. So did Thorin. Nothing substantial came of it, only damage to my reputation. And my baraf’s.”

He exhales slowly. “I would rather not dwell on it.”

“Do you hate him for it?” Bilbo asks carefully.

“At first, yes,” Ori admits. “So I distanced myself. It was easy, given the difference in our stations.”

“And now?” Bilbo prompts.

Ori considers. “We have not spoken much since. But he seems… kind. Courageous. A bit foolish.”

Bilbo smiles.

“And far more mature than he once was,” Ori adds quietly.

“Do you still see him as a child?” Bilbo asks.

Ori pauses. “Perhaps a little. That memory lingers.”

“Well,” Bilbo says gently, “perhaps keep an open mind. He may yet surprise you.”

Ori nods, thoughtful, gaze drifting toward where Fíli laughs loudly as Kíli tries, and fails, to pin him.

“…Perhaps,” he says.

After speaking with Ori, Bilbo wastes no time seeking out Fíli once the prince finally disentangles himself from his brother. Kíli bounds off laughing, while Fíli remains behind, brushing dirt from his clothes and tugging his hair back into something resembling order.

Bilbo approaches quietly.

He taps Fíli’s shoulder.

Fíli jumps as though struck by lightning. “Master Baggins!” he blurts. “You gave me a fright!”

“Oh, my apologies,” Bilbo says with an easy smile, mildly surprised that Fíli did not hear him coming. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Fíli exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I was distracted.”

“Yes,” Bilbo says gently. “I noticed.”

Fíli stills.

“I couldn’t help but observe,” Bilbo continues, voice calm, “that you keep looking toward Ori. Tell me, are you interested in him?”

Fíli’s posture shifts immediately. His shoulders square, expression closing off, all princely wariness.

“Why do you need to know?” he asks, guarded.

“Peace, Fíli,” Bilbo replies softly, lifting a hand. “I’m not here to scold. I simply notice such things. And,” he adds with a small, self-deprecating smile, “I do enjoy helping others find what I cannot.”

Fíli studies him for a long moment. Then his shoulders sag.

He sighs.

“I am,” Fíli admits. “I was, even when I was young.” His voice drops. “And I… made things difficult for him.”

Bilbo nods, letting him speak.

“After that,” Fíli continues, “I was made to focus on my studies, my duties as a prince. Time passed.” His gaze drifts toward Ori without quite realizing it. “And yet he is still just as beautiful as I remember.”

He sighs again, this time almost dreamily.

“All right,” Bilbo says. “Tell me, what do you like about him?”

Fíli blinks. “I mean, look at him!”

Bilbo waits.

“…And?” he prompts.

“And what?” Fíli asks, confused.

“Surely his appearance isn’t the only thing you admire,” Bilbo says patiently.

Fíli opens his mouth.

Pauses.

Closes it again.

“Well,” he says uncertainly, “what else is there?”

Bilbo suppresses a shudder.

Oh dear. This one needs work.

“Fíli,” Bilbo says gently but firmly, “if you truly cannot think of anything beyond his looks, then you should leave him alone.”

Fíli bristles, inhaling sharply to protest, but Bilbo continues.

“But,” Bilbo adds, “if you believe you truly wish to be with him, then I will offer you this advice.”

Fíli quiets, listening.

“Apologize,” Bilbo says. “For what happened before. And then, befriend him. You may not suit one another as partners, but you may yet become friends.”

He places a small hand on Fíli’s arm.

“And perhaps,” Bilbo continues softly, “if you take the time to know him, you’ll find there is more to admire than his face. And perhaps then, he will see you as more than the child who once caused him pain.”

Bilbo gives Fíli’s shoulder a reassuring pat and turns away, leaving the prince sitting in the grass, brow furrowed, thoughts clearly churning.

Later that evening, as the company sets up camp, Bilbo watches from a short distance.

Fíli hesitates, then walks toward Ori.

Bilbo cannot hear their words, but he sees Ori’s initial surprise. He sees Fíli bow his head slightly, hands open, posture earnest. He sees Ori listen.

Then Ori smiles.

He nods.

They sit together, speaking quietly, shoulders angled toward one another.

Friends.

Or perhaps more.

Either way, Bilbo believes, it is a beginning, and a good one.

Bilbo hears Thorin’s footsteps before he sees him, heavy, deliberate, unmistakable. He barely has time to turn before something is shoved abruptly into his hands, wearing an expression that could murder the hobbit with fear.

“Here,” Thorin says gruffly. “Halfling. Take this.”

Bilbo blinks, looking down at the small bundle of flowers now clutched against his chest. Wild garlic blossoms, freshly picked, still damp with morning dew.

He bites back his annoyance.

“Oh, thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo says, forcing a strained smile. “These wild garlic flowers will do very well in the stew tonight.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, already mentally planning how best to cook them.

Thorin watches him go.

Watches the hobbit’s shoulders stiffen just slightly.

Watches him disappear between the tents.

And then Thorin visibly deflates.

“…What did I do wrong?” he mutters to himself, staring down at his empty hands. “I am certain he said hobbits court with flowers…”

Behind him, two voices answer at the same time.

“Seriously?”

Thorin turns sharply, glaring at Balin and Dwalin, who have both been watching the entire exchange with expressions ranging from disbelief to outright exasperation.

“Explain,” Thorin snaps.

Dwalin crosses his arms. “For one thing, you shoved the flowers at him. That’s not how you offer a gift to anyone.”

Balin nods. “And Bilbo has told us, repeatedly, that halfling is a slur to hobbits.”

Thorin bristles. “I did not—”

“You also didn’t say a single nice thing to him,” Dwalin continues flatly.

“And you were glaring the entire time,” Balin adds helpfully.

“I was not glaring,” Thorin protests.

“You absolutely were,” Dwalin says.

“And—”

“Enough!” Thorin snaps, face burning. He turns on his heel and storms off, cloak snapping behind him, anger and embarrassment warring fiercely in his chest.

Behind him, both brothers sigh.

Over the following weeks, Bilbo begins to notice something about the Company.

No one tells him outright, no declarations, no announcements, but he sees it all the same. It is in the way certain dwarrows linger close to one another, how hands brush and do not pull away, how eyes soften when they think no one is watching. Bilbo has always been observant. Romance leaves fingerprints everywhere.

One pairing he is particularly certain of is Bofur and Nori.

More often than not, they huddle together during night watch, cloaks shared, shoulders pressed close, murmuring quietly while the rest of the Company pretends to sleep. Bilbo has caught glimpses of it more than once, Bofur’s easy grin softened just for Nori, Nori’s sharp tongue dulled into something fond.

Bilbo finds it deeply romantic.

And lately… deeply strained.

They have been distant. Sitting apart. Speaking less. Avoiding one another’s eyes.

Bilbo suspects the reason has a bald head and very large axes.

Dwalin.

Since most of the Company are not warriors by trade, Thorin has ordered Dwalin, and the other more combat-trained members, to drill the rest of them. Not that any dwarf worth their salt cannot wield a weapon, but proficiency and mastery are very different things.

Bilbo himself has none at all.

He is usually handed off to Fíli and Kíli, who claim to be teaching him but seem far more interested in laughing as he stumbles about with a practice blade.

“Your feet go there, Master Burglar,” Kíli says, barely containing his grin.

“That’s where my feet were,” Bilbo snaps, winded.

During these training sessions, Bilbo notices things.

When Dwalin pins Nori to the ground, holding him there with ruthless efficiency, Nori, who never lacks for a biting remark, is suddenly silent. His usual scathing commentary evaporates, replaced with flushed cheeks and rigid stillness.

Bofur fares no better.

He cannot seem to keep his footing straight, constantly asking Dwalin to correct him.

“No, no, here,” Bofur says again and again, repositioning himself just close enough. “Show me again.”

Dwalin obliges, large hands firm on Bofur’s shoulders, adjusting his stance.

Bofur beams like a fool.

Bilbo puts the pieces together easily.

Nori and Bofur find Dwalin attractive.

And worse, they have noticed it in themselves.

Guilt has crept between them, quiet and corrosive. They avoid each other not out of anger, but out of shame, ashamed for feeling drawn to someone else at all.

Bilbo sighs.

This will not do.

One night, while the Company eats stew beneath the stars, Bilbo carries his bowl over and sits beside Nori. The dwarf looks up sharply, eyebrow arching.

“Well,” Nori says dryly, “this is unexpected. You don’t usually sit with me.”

“And you don’t usually eat without Bofur at your side,” Bilbo replies pleasantly.

Across the fire, Bofur sits beside Bombur, laughing at something Bifur has said. He does not look over.

Nori narrows his eyes and resumes eating, clearly waiting for Bilbo to say whatever he has come to say.

“You know,” Bilbo begins lightly, “in the Shire, it isn’t uncommon to have two, or more, lovers.”

Nori freezes mid-spoonful.

Slowly, he turns. “Are you telling me hobbits are disloyal?” he demands. “That you all cheat on one another without a care?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” Bilbo says quickly. “Cheating is quite frowned upon. What I mean is that having multiple partners isn’t considered immoral, there’s a difference. All parties involved know. All consent.”

Nori studies him suspiciously. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” Bilbo says gently, “you love Bofur.”

Nori stiffens.

“And,” Bilbo continues calmly, “you are also attracted to Dwalin.”

Silence.

“You feel guilty for it,” Bilbo adds. “And you’re afraid that feeling anything at all for someone else will cost you what you already have.”

Nori looks away, jaw tight.

“My advice,” Bilbo says, voice soft but firm, “is to tell him. Talk to him. Let him know what you’re feeling, before it eats you alive. Once it’s spoken, you can move past it.”

“And what if I lose him?” Nori asks quietly. “What if he leaves?”

Bilbo meets his gaze. “Do you truly believe Bofur would leave you for something you haven’t acted on? You haven’t touched Dwalin. You haven’t betrayed him.”

Nori exhales, long and slow.

“…You’re an infuriatingly perceptive little hobbit,” he mutters.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says cheerfully.

“Fine,” Nori says at last. “But you’re coming with me.”

Bilbo blinks. “Coming with—?”

“If he yells at me,” Nori continues flatly, “I am throwing you under the cart.”

Bilbo nods without hesitation. “Entirely fair.”

And just like that, the first step is taken.

Later that night, once the camp has settled into a low murmur of crackling fire and quiet conversation, Bilbo approaches Bofur alongside Nori.

“Bofur,” Bilbo says gently, “would you mind joining us for a short stroll?”

Bofur looks between the two of them, then grins as he rises to his feet. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

They barely take three steps before a familiar, sharp voice cuts in.

“And where do you three think you’re going?”

Thorin stands near the fire, arms crossed, glaring at them as though they have announced plans to rob the treasury.

“We just need some privacy,” Nori replies calmly. “We won’t be far.”

Thorin’s eyes flick to Bilbo. He points. “With him?”

Bilbo bristles instantly at being singled out.

“Yes,” Nori says, unbothered. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t get lost.”

Thorin studies them for a moment longer, then nods stiffly. “Do not go far.”

He turns away without another word.

As they walk a short distance from camp, Bilbo mutters under his breath, “I am not some helpless babe. That rude dwarf.”

Nori snorts. Bofur chuckles softly. They both know Thorin is simply worried for Bilbo, but the hobbit thinks otherwise.

Once they are far enough away that the firelight dims and the noise of the camp fades, Bofur glances between them. “So,” he asks, tone lighter than his eyes, “what’s the matter, Nori?”

Nori slows to a stop.

“…It’s about Dwalin.”

Bofur stiffens immediately. His usual easy cheer falters.

“W—what about him?” he asks, trying, and failing, to sound casual.

Nori fidgets, fingers twisting together. Bilbo steps closer and gives him a gentle, encouraging pat on the back.

“Go on,” Bilbo says softly.

Nori inhales deeply.

“Well, I’ve been… thinking,” he begins, words tumbling awkwardly now that they’ve started. “And—this is going to sound ridiculous—but isn’t Dwalin kind of… well. Hot?”

Bofur blinks.

“And wouldn’t it be nice,” Nori continues quickly, voice pitching upward, “if maybe he joined us? I mean—not because you’re not enough! You are more than enough. I just—maybe it could be fun, keep things exciting, and I still love you, I do, I’m not falling out of love with you, I just—”

Bofur exhales loudly.

“Oh thank Mahal,” he says, almost collapsing with relief. “I thought I was the only one thinking that!”

Nori freezes. “You—what?”

“Yes!” Bofur laughs, grabbing Nori and pulling him into a tight hug. “Yes, we can ask him! I thought I was betraying you just for thinking it. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I felt the exact same way,” Nori admits, arms tightening around Bofur. “I was terrified you’d hate me.”

They pull back just enough to look at each other, faces soft, eyes bright with relief, and then they lean closer.

Bilbo clears his throat pointedly.

“I think,” he says briskly, already turning away, “this is my cue to give you some privacy.”

He retreats quickly toward camp, pointedly not looking back.

A little later, much later, Bilbo finds it very easy to keep his eyes on the stars and his ears firmly occupied with the crackle of the fire.

In the morning, Bilbo pretends very hard not to notice how Nori and Bofur flank Dwalin at breakfast.

Nori takes his right.
Bofur takes his left.

Both rest hands quite deliberately on Dwalin’s biceps, squeezing them every so often.

Dwalin stiffens, cheeks darkening beneath his beard. “What in Durin’s name are you two doing?”

“Just admiring,” Bofur says cheerfully.

“Very thoroughly,” Nori adds.

Bilbo sips his tea and smiles into the cup as Dwalin sputters in Khuzdul over something the other two dwarrows whispered into his ears.

Yes. This, he thinks, will do just fine.

Bilbo smiles as he enjoys a peaceful walk through the gardens of Rivendell. The air is cool and clean, the sound of water and distant song soothing his frayed nerves. For a brief moment, he almost forgets the Company, the journey, and—

Heavy footsteps approach.

No, stomps.

Bilbo barely has time to turn before Thorin strides up to him and, without a word, thrusts something firmly into his hands.

Bilbo blinks, startled, and looks down.

Flowers.

Heartsease.

Violet, yellow, and white petals, delicate and vivid against Thorin’s rough gloves. Beautiful. Meaningful.

And deeply insulting when given alone, for they mean cowardice and weakness.

“For you,” Thorin says gruffly, looking down at him.

Bilbo slowly lifts his gaze.

The hobbit’s eyes narrow.

Thorin falters, just slightly, blinking in confusion when Bilbo glares back at him instead of smiling.

“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo says tightly. “You’ve made your feelings very clear.”

He lets the flowers fall from his hands.

They land softly on the garden path.

Then Bilbo turns on his heel and stomps away.

Thorin remains where he is, staring down at the fallen blossoms, utterly baffled.

“What?” he mutters. “They are beautiful.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I will… consult Balin. Or Ori. Later.”

As Bilbo marches away, muttering under his breath, he nearly collides with a dwarf moving just as quickly in the opposite direction.

“Whoa—!” Bilbo stumbles to a stop.

The dwarf halts just in time, Bifur. His eyes widen, and he rattles off something in Khuzdul, the tone urgent and apologetic.

“Oh, my apologies as well, Bifur,” Bilbo says, steadying himself. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. What happened?”

Bifur replies immediately, hands moving as well as his mouth, fingers signing in Iglishmêk to reinforce his words. The sounds are expressive, but the meaning sails cleanly over Bilbo’s head.

Bilbo offers an awkward, apologetic smile.

“…I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”

Bifur pauses. Realization dawns.

He looks around, spots a fallen stick near the path, and crouches. With practiced ease, he begins to write in the soft earth.

Bilbo watches, surprised, then remembers Bofur once mentioning that the axe lodged in Bifur’s head affects his spoken Westron, not his understanding or writing.

The letters are neat. Precise.

“Óin, light of my hearth and joy of my days, is a right fool.”

Bilbo blinks.

He has seen Bifur and Óin together, less openly affectionate than some, but unmistakably close. Shared bedrolls. Quiet companionship. They do not quarrel often.

“What’s wrong?” Bilbo asks gently.

Bifur exhales sharply and writes again, the stick carving deeper lines this time.

“I did but counsel him thus: that he seek from the Elves a tome of healing, for his art is dear to him and worthy of growth. Yet he took it as insult, as though I named his hands clumsy and his knowledge thin.”

Bilbo winces slightly.

He knows dwarrows are proud of their crafts, fiercely so. But they are also driven to perfect them. Óin is likely caught between admiration and wounded pride.

Bifur continues, movements brisk.

“I have seen his eyes linger upon Elven salves and poultices, though his tongue would never confess it. His heart yearns, yet his pride bars the door.”

Bilbo nods slowly. “And with the Company’s feelings about elves… that can’t help.”

Bifur huffs, clearly agreeing, and writes once more.

“I warned him that pride, when clutched too tightly, becometh a chain. That knowledge spurned is knowledge lost. He would not hear me. Played the deaf stone.”

He pauses, jaw tight, then adds one final line.

“Thus do I wander, seeking wood or stone upon which to carve my ire, lest I speak it and wound us both.”

Bilbo looks up at him, sympathy softening his expression.

“That’s… remarkably restrained of you,” he says honestly.

Bifur snorts, a sound halfway between laughter and frustration, and signs something curt in Khuzdul that Bilbo is fairly certain is unprintable.

Still, Bilbo smiles.

“Come,” he says kindly. “If you’re going to carve your anger into something, I’m sure Rivendell can spare you a piece of fallen wood.”

Bifur inclines his head, dignity returning, and follows, anger still sharp, but no longer alone.

Soon, they find themselves inside one of Rivendell’s comfortable sitting rooms. Soft lamplight glows against pale walls, and the scent of wood polish and crushed leaves lingers in the air. Bifur sits at a low table, a small block of wood in his hands, carefully carving away at it with steady, practiced movements.

Bilbo sits beside him, watching intently.

Bifur pauses now and then to demonstrate, tilting the blade just so, carving with the grain rather than against it, then writes brief instructions on a scrap of paper to explain himself.

“Slowly. Let the blade rest. The wood will tell thee where it wishes to break.”

Bilbo nods earnestly, trying to mimic the motion. His tiny animal, something halfway between a hedgehog and a very confused rabbit, is… progressing.

That is when Óin appears.

He approaches slowly, shoulders slumped, beard slightly disheveled, eyes downcast. To Bilbo, he looks remarkably like a sad, rain-soaked dog who knows he has done something terribly wrong.

“Bifur,” Óin says quietly. “Can we talk?”

Bifur does not look up. He continues carving, calmly demonstrating a curved cut to Bilbo as if Óin does not exist.

“…Bifur?” Óin tries again, voice softer.

Nothing.

Bilbo glances between them, shifting awkwardly. “Bifur,” he says gently, then adds before he can stop himself, “don’t be Óin.”

Óin huffs. “Hey.”

Bifur sighs, long, tired, and finally turns around. He rattles off something sharp in Khuzdul, his hands moving emphatically.

Óin winces.

Bilbo does not understand the words, but he understands the tone. Whatever Bifur has said, it is not kind.

“I know,” Óin says quickly, shoulders sagging. “I know I behaved poorly. I am ashamed of it.”

He hesitates, then exhales heavily.

“It’s just…” He grimaces. “Asking elves—” he practically spits the word, “—for help feels like an insult to our lineage. To our craft.” His voice softens. “But the truth is… their healing arts surpass my own.”

He lifts his gaze to Bifur.

“And I was angry,” Óin admits. “Not at them, but at myself. And I took it out on the one who holds my heart.” He bows his head. “For that, I am sorry, my dear.”

The rest of his words spill out in Khuzdul, low, earnest, trembling at the edges.

Bifur’s grip tightens on the carving knife.

Then he sets it down.

His eyes shine suspiciously as he steps forward and pulls Óin into a fierce embrace. Óin exhales shakily and hugs him back just as tightly.

Bilbo looks away politely.

“…I’ll just assume that went well,” he murmurs.

“If you like,” Bilbo says after a moment, clearing his throat, “I could ask Lord Elrond for the books instead. That way you wouldn’t have to.”

Óin’s head snaps up so fast Bilbo nearly jumps.

Bifur sighs deeply, already seeing where this is going.

“Thank you, Bilbo!” Óin says fervently, seizing Bilbo’s hands and shaking them with alarming enthusiasm. “That would mean more to me than I can say!”

Bilbo laughs nervously. “Yes—wonderful—please don’t dislocate my shoulders—”

Bifur gently pries Óin off him, "Biraibkhin amdâr du malkûn.", which sounds suspiciously like have mercy on the hobbit.

That evening, during dinner with their hosts, Bilbo finally broaches the subject.

“Lord Elrond,” he says politely, “I’ve heard elves are exceptionally well-versed in the healing arts. Might I borrow a few books on the subject?”

Elrond smiles warmly. “Of course, Master Baggins. You may borrow any books from my library to your heart’s content while you remain in Rivendell.”

Bilbo notices Óin’s grin stretch from ear to ear.

He also notices Ori’s barely restrained longing stare toward the direction of the library.

“May my friends join me?” Bilbo adds.

Elrond inclines his head. “Naturally. They are welcome as well.”

Ori lights up instantly, eyes shining.

Bilbo smiles back, then pointedly ignores the thunderous glare Thorin directs at him from across the table.

He has no idea why Thorin seems to abhor him so.

And at this point, Bilbo is almost afraid to ask.

Bilbo lies on a bed of flowers, absently petting one of Beorn’s giant bees as it dozes atop his stomach. The creature’s fuzzy body vibrates softly beneath his fingers, a gentle, contented hum that almost lulls him to sleep. His thoughts, however, drift elsewhere, back to the Carrock, to the hug Thorin had given him there.

He can still feel the warmth of the dwarf’s arms around him, solid and sure. He remembers the earthy scent of him, smoke and steel and pine, and the steady thrum of Thorin’s heartbeat beneath his ear. Bilbo flushes deeply and squeezes his eyes shut, flustered, shaking his head as if he can physically dislodge the memory.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself.

A sudden shout cuts through the peaceful air.

Bilbo jolts, gasping in surprise. The bee lifts off his stomach with an indignant buzz and floats away as Bilbo scrambles to his feet, brushing petals from his waistcoat. More raised voices follow, sharp, heated, unmistakably angry. Frowning, Bilbo hurries toward the sound.

He freezes when he sees them.

Balin and Dori stand facing one another, voices raised, hands gesturing sharply as they argue. The sight alone is shocking. Of all the couples in the Company, those two are the most affectionate, the most stable. Bilbo sees them every day whispering sweet nothings, sharing fond smiles, giggling together like newlyweds. He often catches them stealing quick kisses when they think no one is looking.

Seeing them like this feels wrong.

Unfortunately, like most of the older dwarrows, they argue in Khuzdul. Bilbo can tell from their tone alone that the fight is serious, voices rough with emotion, words snapping like sparks, but he has no idea what they’re saying. It frustrates him deeply. As a lover of languages, being barred from learning Khuzdul is one of his greatest disappointments. He has picked up a few words from sheer exposure, though he strongly suspects most of them are curses not meant for polite company.

“I really mustn’t be listening,” he murmurs, already edging backward.

Eavesdropping is impolite, and he has no wish to intrude, especially not on something so personal. He turns, intending to leave quietly, when the shouting abruptly stops.

Bilbo pauses.

Balin storms past him without a word, his expression thunderous as he disappears into Beorn’s cabin. Dori remains behind, standing rigid for a heartbeat longer, then his shoulders sag. He drops to his knees as if the strength has gone out of him entirely and lets out a broken, pitiful wail. He folds in on himself, sobbing openly.

Bilbo’s heart twists.

He hesitates only a moment before stepping forward. There is no way he can leave a friend like this.

“Dori?” he says gently. “Are you… are you alright?”

Dori startles violently and whirls around. He hastily wipes at his face, though the tears keep coming.

“Oh—Master Baggins, I—my apologies,” he stammers. “I didn’t— I’m so sorry you had to see—”

“No, no,” Bilbo says quickly, waving a hand. “It’s quite alright. Truly.” He shifts awkwardly, cheeks pink. “I… I must admit, I overheard the shouting. I didn’t understand a word of it, of course, but it was still rude of me to linger. I was going to leave without disturbing you, but—” He gestures helplessly. “I couldn’t very well do that after seeing you so upset.”

Dori exhales shakily, shoulders trembling.

“I know you did not do it on purpose, Master Baggins,” he says quietly. “And I thank you for your kindness. Still, I must apologize. To let you see us in such a state… it is—”

Bilbo gently cuts him off. “It’s nothing to apologize for. Even the most perfect couples argue now and then. Emotions get the better of all of us.” He hesitates, then offers a small, earnest smile. “If you wish… I can listen.”

Dori bites his lip, gaze dropping to the ground. He considers for a long moment.

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” he finally says, voice strained. “But it is only a foolish thing. Not worth troubling you over.”

Bilbo crouches slightly so they are closer to eye level. “It is worth it,” he says softly. “If it’s worth crying over.”

Dori looks up at him, giving an embarrassed, conflicted glare, then he sighs, the fight draining from him. He nods slowly.

“…Very well.”

Bilbo and Dori sit together on a fallen log, the bark rough beneath their palms. For a while, neither of them speaks. Bilbo waits patiently, hands folded in his lap, giving Dori the space he clearly needs. At last, the dwarf draws in a deep, steadying breath.

“Balin and I… we have been together for a long while,” Dori begins, his voice low. “We courted and married long before my nadad, Nori, ever met Bofur. Because of that, I know Balin. I know him very well.”

He glances aside, jaw tightening.

“Bilbo, I know you see him as patient, calm, collected, wise. And he is, most of the time. But in truth, he is very much like his nadad, Dwalin, and his iraknadad, Thorin. Hot-headed. Reckless.” A bitter smile tugs at his mouth. “Loyal to a fault.”

Dori’s hands curl into fists.

“There is a deep anger in him. He keeps it buried, buried well… unless he is fighting. He fights to protect everyone around him, but he—” His voice falters. “He does not protect himself.”

Bilbo listens, heart heavy, as Dori continues.

“During the battle, once he knew Thorin was safe… I saw him charge the orcs. Alone. He let himself be surrounded.” Dori shudders. “And I cannot stop thinking of what might have happened, had the eagles not plucked him from the field.”

Bilbo swallows. He remembers flashes of the chaos, remembers Dwalin at his side, remembers shielding Thorin’s unconscious body together.

“You could say he did not realize the danger,” Dori says quietly. “But I know him. And he knew.” His voice hardens. “The rest of us fought in groups. Not him. He is brave,” Dori admits softly. “Terribly brave. My Balin is.” He hesitates, then exhales. “And perhaps I should not say this to you, Bilbo, especially since you, too, threw yourself between Thorin and danger without a thought for your own life.”

Bilbo flushes at that, ears warming.

“But he is a fool for it,” Dori continues, voice cracking. “All Durins are. Always so ready to die a glorious death for honor, for kin, for people… that they never think of those they leave behind.”

His shoulders begin to tremble.

“Some nights,” Dori whispers, “I dream of him leaving me. Of him walking somewhere I cannot follow. And I wake up shaking, knowing I—” His breath hitches. “I cannot do it, Bilbo.”

He curls inward, clutching his knees.

“You may think I am the strongest dwarf there is,” Dori says hoarsely. “And perhaps that is true, physically. But in heart?” He lets out a broken laugh. “I am the weakest.”

Bilbo’s arms wrap around him without hesitation.

“I cannot do what my 'amad did,” Dori sobs. “She stayed strong for me and my naddad when my 'adad died long ago. She endured. I… I cannot endure that. I cannot bear being alone.”

His voice breaks completely.

“And Balin—” Dori shakes his head. “He is stubborn as stone. He does not understand. He argues with logic, with necessity, with honor, and I—” He chokes. “I do not know what to do.”

Bilbo holds him close, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back.

The fear of being left behind is achingly familiar.

He remembers his father, Bungo, dying before Belladonna. Remembers how his mother lived afterward, alive, yet hollow. A living ghost. He remembers the silence of Bag End, far too large for one hobbit, and the weight of that loneliness pressing in from every wall.

Bilbo knows, with painful certainty, that he has never truly recovered from it.

“Have you told Balin all of this?” Bilbo asks gently.

“I have,” Dori says, voice muffled. “But I grow heated, and he responds with logic, saying it was a necessary risk, or some kakhf—”

Bilbo winces. He is fairly certain that word is not meant for polite company, and hearing it from Dori of all dwarrows is startling. Then again, he is Nori’s brother.

“If you like,” Bilbo says after a moment, “I could help mediate.”

Dori nods faintly. “Yes… you helped my naddad once. But not now. I am still—” He gestures helplessly at himself.

Bilbo nods in understanding.

“Then we can stay here for now,” he says softly. “I can tell you about Beorn’s flowers. Or we can coax one of his bees over, if you’d like to pet one.”

Dori gives a small, tired nod.

“Anything,” he murmurs, “that lets my mind rest.”

They remain in Beorn’s garden for hours.

Bilbo chatters happily the entire time, pointing out flowers by name and meaning, what each bloom signifies in the language of flowers, which herbs soothe aching muscles, which calm the nerves, and which make the very best tea. Dori listens more than he speaks, nodding along, visibly easing as the minutes pass. When Bilbo mentions which leaves produce a deep, spiced brew, Dori’s eyes light up; as a devoted lover of tea, he hangs on every word.

Giant bees drift lazily through the air, humming like living instruments. A few of them land on their shoulders and knees without fear, warm and fuzzy beneath their hands. Dori startles the first time it happens, then laughs quietly when Bilbo assures him they are friendly.

Eventually, Dori exhales and gives Bilbo a small, resolute nod.

The hobbit understands immediately and rises, following him back toward the cabin.

Inside is, well… Chaos.

Which, admittedly, is the Company’s natural state.

Dwalin and Óin are absent, likely guarding the injured Thorin in a separate room, but Beorn’s living space is alive with noise and movement. Fíli is in the middle of juggling knives, grinning as he tries to impress Ori, who looks torn between fascination and sheer terror. Kíli hovers nearby, coiled like a spring, clearly ready to tackle his brother at the first slip.

Across the room, Nori throws daggers at an apple perched precariously on Bombur’s head while Bofur and Bifur shout at Bombur to stop eating the target. Bombur, undeterred, takes another bite anyway.

Meanwhile, Glóin sits happily beside Balin, regaling him with yet another long, loving story about his wife and young son, Gimli. Balin listens politely, though his eyes glaze just a little.

Then he notices them.

Balin’s expression shifts instantly, relief and shame warring across his face as he rises to his feet. His gaze fixes on Dori with open longing.

“Amrâlimê,” he begins softly, stepping forward. “I must apologi—”

“Balin, can we talk?” Dori cuts in, voice steady but strained. “Preferably alone.”

Balin blinks, startled, then nods at once. “Of course.”

He follows Dori, and Bilbo, into an adjoining room, closing the door behind them. The rest of the Company is far too absorbed in their own mayhem to notice.

Once inside, Balin glances at Bilbo, one brow arching.

“I’m here to mediate,” Bilbo says calmly.

Balin’s other eyebrow joins the first.

Dori draws in a slow breath. “Balin… I am going to say something. And I need you to let me finish before you answer. Alright?”

Balin hesitates, then nods. “Of course.”

“Balin,” Dori begins quietly, “you are a great warrior. I know many believe your nadad, Dwalin, is the better fighter, but that is untrue.” He lifts his gaze, eyes fierce. “But like him, you are reckless. Hot-headed. You leave yourself open again and again, taking risks simply to ensure others are protected, or to turn the tide of battle alone.”

Balin opens his mouth to argue, then stops himself. His eyes flick briefly to Bilbo’s, then back to Dori.

Dori continues, voice trembling now. “Every time we fight, I feel like you are already halfway to the Halls. Like you are chasing glory and honor because we are exiled from our home. Like you believe a grand, noble death would somehow compensate our people, because you are a Durin, because you carry royal blood, because you think our fall is your fault.”

His breath shudders.

“But I am not ready to be alone,” Dori whispers. “I do not want to be alone. I cannot—” His voice breaks completely. “Please don’t die and leave me.”

Balin’s expression crumples. In an instant, he closes the distance between them, pulling Dori tightly into his arms.

“Oh, Dori,” he murmurs. “I am so sorry.”

Dori clings to him as Balin continues, voice thick with emotion. “I promise you, I did not mean to hurt you. But… perhaps you are right. Somewhere in my heart, I believed I failed our people. I am no king like Thorin, but I am still a Durin. And yes, perhaps I thought a noble death would be my only redemption.”

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to Dori’s.

“But not like this,” Balin says firmly. “Not when I have you waiting for me. I do not want to shorten our time together.”

“I promise you,” he whispers. “I will try to be less reckless. I promise I will always come home to you.”

Dori sobs, burying his face in Balin’s shoulder, and Balin holds him just as tightly, tears slipping freely down his own cheeks.

Bilbo watches with a soft smile, his vision blurring as tears well in his eyes. Quietly, carefully, he slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Some moments are meant to be shared.

Others are meant to be left in peace.

Bilbo steps out into the corridor, still smiling from everything that has passed, and nearly walks straight into a broad, bandaged chest.

“Oh!” he gasps, stumbling back.

Thorin stands there, pale beneath the bruises, wrapped in fresh linen from shoulder to ribs. Dwalin supports him firmly at his side, one arm braced around Thorin’s back to keep him upright. Thorin looks as though he has no business being out of bed, yet stubbornness keeps him standing.

In Thorin’s free hand is a flower.

It is bell-shaped and purple, the blossoms hanging downward like tiny lanterns. Foxglove.

Bilbo’s breath catches.

Foxglove. In the language of flowers, insincerity.

And after the apology Thorin gave him on the Carrock…

It feels like a blade sliding between his ribs.

Thorin’s eyes soften when he sees him. “For you, Bilbo,” he says quietly, offering the flower forward.

Bilbo does not take it.

Instead, he stares at the bloom, then slowly lifts his gaze to Thorin. His expression hardens.

“Are you certain that is for me?” Bilbo asks, voice dangerously calm.

Thorin blinks. “I—of course it is.”

Bilbo’s eyes flick meaningfully to the flower.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Thorin’s face.

“N—No,” Thorin amends quickly, faltering. “I mean—yes—but—”

Bilbo gives a short, curt nod.

“I see,” he says.

And he walks past them.

Dwalin shifts Thorin’s weight more securely under his arm as they both stare after the hobbit.

“What was that about?” Dwalin mutters. “It’s a fine flower. Pretty enough.”

Thorin watches Bilbo’s retreating form with confusion tightening his features. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, “it was not good enough.”

He glances down at the foxglove, frowning. “Are you certain this was the prettiest one?”

“Aye,” Dwalin replies firmly. “Brightest purple in the whole patch. Nearly blinded me.”

Thorin exhales, frustrated. “Then why would he look at me as though I’d struck him?”

Dwalin grunts. “You’re asking the wrong dwarf. I know axes, not flowers.”

Neither of them knows the meaning behind the bloom.

Bilbo knows, deep down, that he is destined to help along yet another romance, one way or another.

What he does not expect is for it to happen in the depths of an Elven dungeon.

Invisible beneath the ring, he weaves quietly through the shadows, trying to avoid the patrols and searching desperately for his friends. That is how he stumbles upon Kíli, pressed far too close to the bars of his cell, staring with open awe at the Captain of the Guard.

Tauriel.

And, to Bilbo’s growing disbelief, Tauriel seems to return the look.

Later, when Tauriel has moved on and Kíli is left staring dreamily into nothing, Bilbo hisses from the shadows, “You are smiling.”

Kíli startles, then grins unabashedly. “Bilbo, she is simply perfect. Her hair, like firelight. Her eyes, her lips, oh, she is a gem. Tauriel is the one for me.”

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Of course she is,” he mutters. It seems falling in love at first glance runs in the family. Still, like with Fíli, Kíli might yet be salvaged.

“Kíli,” Bilbo says gently, “do you truly think this will work?”

Kíli straightens, clearly bristling. “I know what you are thinking. She is an elf, I am a dwarf—it is not meant to be. But what I feel is real, and I—”

Bilbo shakes his head. “That is not what I mean.”

Kíli falters.

“Yes, the differences may be a problem,” Bilbo continues. “But those can be faced, if two people truly love one another and are willing to try. Right now, however… I do not think you love her.”

Kíli’s eyes narrow. “What? Of course I love her! There is no other woman who looks like her.”

Bilbo raises a brow. “Very well. Tell me, what is her favorite food? Her favorite color? What does she enjoy doing in her free time? What is her greatest fear?”

Kíli opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Bilbo sighs softly. “Kíli, what you are feeling is attraction. Not love.” He softens his tone. “But attraction can become love, if you take the time to know her. And she must know you in turn. Love does not bloom instantly. It must be nurtured, carefully. It is a beautiful thing, but also a fragile one.”

Kíli stares at the floor, silent.

“I…” he begins, then trails off.

Bilbo chuckles quietly. “And yes, falling for your warden is a rather dreadful way to meet someone.” He pauses, smiling. “Still, if it works, it works. All I can say is this: be patient. Love needs time to grow.”

Footsteps echo down the corridor.

Bilbo stiffens. In an instant, he vanishes into nothing as Tauriel comes into view, her hand resting on her dagger.

“I heard voices,” she says, eyes sharp as she scans the hall. “Were you speaking to someone?”

Kíli swallows. “Just… myself,” he says quickly. “Thinking about a few things.”

Tauriel tilts her head, amused. “About what, dwarf?”

Kíli hesitates, then lifts his gaze to hers. “Tell me,” he asks, tentative but sincere, “what is your favorite food?”

Tauriel blinks, surprised.

Then she smiles.

And slowly, carefully, they begin to talk, truly talk, learning the shape of one another, one question at a time.

Bilbo sighs as he looks out over the ramparts of Erebor.

Below him, the world teems with tension, armed Elves standing in disciplined lines, weary Men huddled in makeshift camps. Steel glints in the cold light. Hunger, fear, and anger all press against the Mountain like a rising tide. None of this was meant to happen this way.

He has only just managed to sneak out of the treasury chamber, after Thorin kept him there far longer than comfort allowed. Trapped. Watched. Guarded like a piece of gold rather than a person.

Where did it all go wrong?

This is not how reclaiming Erebor was meant to be. Thorin has not been himself since they entered the Mountain. All he sees now is gold, endless, blinding gold, and not his people, not the Company, not the danger closing in around them. His honor feels distant. His promises fractured.

Bilbo has heard the whispers from Balin and the others. Goldsickness. The curse Smaug spoke of with such cruel certainty.

Bilbo presses his hands against the cold stone and wonders if he will ever see Thorin again, the rude, stubborn dwarf who growls more than he smiles, but who once showed kindness so quietly it nearly broke Bilbo’s heart.

He hates the feeling creeping into his chest.

Mourning someone who is still alive.

It is a grief he never wished to know again.

His thoughts drift to his mother, Belladonna, how she died in spirit the day his father, Bungo, was taken from her. How she lingered afterward, hollow and faded, until she followed him in truth. Bilbo swallows hard.

Is Thorin already dead in spirit too?

The thought tightens around his throat. Tears slip free before he can stop them, warm against his cheeks.

“Bilbo?”

The voice makes him jump. He whirls around to find Thorin standing behind him, eyes sharp, expression dark with fury.

Thorin strides toward him in long, furious steps. Bilbo’s heart lurches, he thinks, wildly, that he has angered him somehow. He turns to flee, but Thorin’s hand snaps out, gripping his arm and yanking him close.

“Who did this to you?” Thorin demands, voice low and venomous.

“Pardon?” Bilbo blinks, startled.

Thorin’s gaze flicks to the tears still clinging to Bilbo’s lashes. “Why do you cry?” he growls. “Tell me who caused this. I will have their head before the hour ends.”

“No one did this to me,” Bilbo says quickly.

For a heartbeat, Thorin’s eyes soften, just a little. Bilbo sees him there, buried beneath the sheen of madness. But the glaze of gold still clings to his stare.

“I was just…” Bilbo hesitates. “…missing someone.”

“Who?” Thorin snaps.

The word is sharp, dangerous.

“Who are you missing enough to weep?” Thorin roars. “Who do you want that is not me?”

The warmth Bilbo glimpsed vanishes. Gold overtakes Thorin’s eyes completely, bright and merciless.

Bilbo’s chest aches.

“It is you,” he says softly.

Thorin freezes.

“I miss you, Thorin,” Bilbo whispers. “I miss you.”

The fury falters. Thorin blinks, breath hitching, more of himself bleeding back through the sickness.

“I am here, Bilbo,” Thorin says, quieter now. “Right here.” His grip loosens just slightly. “Come. We will return to the treasury. You should not leave it. You are safe there.”

He gestures inward, possessive. “I will be with you.”

Bilbo shakes his head.

“No,” he says, voice trembling but firm. “I do not want to go back. And you will not be there.”

Thorin’s hand tightens again around Bilbo’s arm.

“What?” he snarls. “What do you mean you do not want to?” His voice drops, dangerous. “You will stand at my side. What else could you possibly need?”

Bilbo lifts his gaze to meet Thorin’s.

“I need you,” he says quietly. “Not the Mountain. Not the gold.”

“But I am here,” Thorin insists, his voice rising as agitation coils through him. “I do not understand.”

“No,” Bilbo whispers, shaking his head. “You are not.”

Tears blur his vision, but he forces himself to look at Thorin—to truly look.

“I need the dwarf who walked into my smial,” Bilbo says, voice trembling. “The one who loved his people. The one who is rude and stubborn and yet so very kind. The one who frowns with worry for everyone under his protection.” He swallows hard. “I need Thorin the dwarf. Not Thorin the king.”

Thorin’s expression twists, fury flashing hot and sharp. “That Thorin is dead,” he snarls. “He was weak.”

The goldsickness surges, burning bright in his eyes.

“No—no, he is not,” Bilbo sobs. He steps closer, hands clenched at his sides. “Please tell me he is not. He cannot be, because I—” His breath catches. “I have not told him that I love him.”

Thorin freezes.

“You… do?” he asks softly.

The madness in his gaze falters, retreating inch by inch.

“I do,” Bilbo says, voice shaking but resolute. “Of course I do. I have never felt this way about anyone.” He laughs weakly through his tears. “You are infuriating, Thorin. And noble. Brave. Kind.” His voice breaks. “You carry so many burdens that I fear they will crush you, and I want—no, I need—to help shoulder them. With you. Beside you.”

Bilbo draws a breath, steadying himself.

“I love you.”

Something breaks, and heals, all at once.

The gold drains from Thorin’s eyes as if chased away by light. He reaches for Bilbo with trembling hands.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin whispers. “I am so sorry.” Tears spill freely now. “I love you too. I always have. I have been trying to court you for so long, only to lose myself at the very moment I—”

Bilbo does not let him finish.

He surges forward and kisses him.

Thorin gasps, then kisses him back with aching tenderness, arms wrapping around him as if afraid Bilbo might vanish. When they part, Thorin’s eyes are clear, wholly himself again.

He leans in for another kiss—

CLANG.

Thorin drops like a stone.

Bilbo yelps as the dwarf collapses, revealing Fíli and Kíli standing behind him. Fíli grips a frying pan with wild-eyed determination.

“NO!” Fíli shouts. “I refuse to let irak’adad go so far as to assault his beloved! This madness must end!”

“Agreed!” Kíli nods vigorously. “Tie him up, quickly!”

Bilbo stares, stunned, mouth hanging open.

Then he snaps out of it. “Boys! Boys—stop!” He rushes forward, waving his arms. “Thorin was fine! He broke free of the goldsickness! We were— we were having a moment!”

He looks down at the unconscious dwarf.

“…Oh dear,” Bilbo mutters. “He is quite knocked out.”

Fíli and Kíli exchange glances, both embarrassed and deeply worried.

Kíli perks up. “That means Fíli is in charge until irak’adad wakes, right?”

Bilbo winces. “Technically, yes.” He fixes Fíli with a firm look. “But do not let it go to your head. Listen to Balin. Always.”

He exhales. “I am going to find Óin.”

With the nephews’ help, Bilbo carries Thorin back inside. Orders are given swiftly, Men are paid in gold, Elves in gems, tempers cooled before blood can spill. When Gandalf arrives with news of an orc army on the move, Fíli does as he is told: everyone is brought inside, the Mountain sealed and prepared for siege.

With Erebor defended by Dwarrows, Elves, and Men, and Dáin arriving with reinforcements, the battle is won with minimal loss.

Thorin sleeps through it all.

Bilbo remains by his side, nursing him back to health, holding his hand and watching his chest rise and fall. Whatever comes next, whatever burdens remain, Bilbo knows one thing with aching certainty—

His beloved will wake.

Safe. Whole. And loved.

And Thorin does indeed wake.

His eyes flutter open slowly, unfocused at first, then they land on Bilbo sitting faithfully at his bedside. A soft, relieved smile spreads across his face.

“Bilbo…” he murmurs hoarsely. “What happened? I—”

His expression shifts abruptly.

“I was attacked!” Thorin suddenly jolts upright. “Where are they? Is the Company safe? Those elves—!”

The movement proves a mistake. He groans and clutches his head as pain splits through him, forcing him back against the pillows, though panic still flashes in his eyes.

“Thorin, calm down,” Bilbo says quickly, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Everything is fine. Yes, there was a war—”

“WAR?” Thorin’s eyes widen in horror.

“—but it is over now,” Bilbo continues firmly. “And with minimal casualties. Your cousin Dáin arrived with reinforcements. Even before then, the Men of Lake-town and the Elves of Greenwood were inside Erebor’s walls with us.”

Thorin blinks.

“Inside?” he repeats faintly.

“Yes,” Bilbo says pointedly. “Inside. Fought alongside us.”

Thorin exhales slowly, trying to process it all. “I will have… several words about that later,” he mutters. “But—who attacked me?”

Bilbo coughs lightly. “Ah. That would be your nephews.”

Thorin closes his eyes. “Of course it would.”

“They believed you were still goldsick,” Bilbo explains, trying not to smile. “And that you were assaulting me. In an effort to defend my honor, and, I suppose, your own, they decided that striking you with a frying pan was the most reasonable course of action.”

Thorin groans and rubs his temples. “I suppose I cannot blame them.”

There is guilt in his voice now, heavy and sincere.

Bilbo folds his arms. “I can. We were having a moment.”

That draws a reluctant smile from Thorin despite the headache.

“A moment?” he echoes softly.

“Yes,” Bilbo says, flushing slightly. “All this time I believed you hated me. And it turns out you loved me back.”

Thorin frowns in confusion. “Hated you? Bilbo, after the Carrock I was quite certain I was courting you properly.”

Bilbo blinks. “Courting me.”

“Yes,” Thorin says, sitting up a little straighter despite the pain. “I brought you flowers.”

Bilbo stares.

“You… had no idea what those flowers meant, did you?” he asks slowly.

Thorin hesitates. His eyes widen.

“They have meaning?”

Bilbo stares at him for a long moment, then exhales something very close to hysterical laughter.

“Yes, Thorin, they do. Hobbits have an entire language of flowers. Each bloom carries a message.”

Thorin looks genuinely stricken. “I only knew that hobbits court with flowers.”

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Bilbo says, pressing a hand to his forehead. “All this time you and I could have been together much sooner.”

“You would have accepted them?” Thorin asks, hope flickering openly in his expression.

“Well,” Bilbo says carefully, cheeks warming, “not before the Carrock. I was still rather frightened of you then.”

Thorin winces faintly. “Fair.”

“But after the Carrock…” Bilbo’s voice softens. “You took the first piece of my heart that day. And you have been stealing more ever since.”

Thorin’s answering smile is gentle and unguarded.

“I had no idea,” he admits.

“That much is obvious,” Bilbo teases fondly.

Thorin reaches for him slowly, giving Bilbo time to pull away if he wishes. Bilbo does not.

“You would have accepted my courtship?” Thorin asks again, quieter now.

“I would have,” Bilbo replies just as softly. “And I do.”

Thorin leans forward, brushing his lips against Bilbo’s in a tender, lingering kiss, nothing desperate this time, nothing frantic. Just warmth, and relief, and the promise of something steady and real.

When they part, Thorin rests his forehead against Bilbo’s.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“And I love you too,” Bilbo counters.

Thorin chuckles happily.

And for the first time since entering the Mountain, everything feels right again.