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The gates of Erebor had weathered dragon-fire and war, but they were ill-prepared for the sheer, judgmental silence of two dozen Hobbits.
The procession didn't arrive with drums or trumpets. Instead, it was the sound of pony hooves and the smell of lavender-pressed linens and aged cheddar. At the head of the group rode the Old Took, his long, furry tail flicking irritably against his pony’s flank. Beside him, in a cart that looked scrubbed within an inch of its life, sat Grandmother Laura Baggins. She held a parasol like a spear and wore a look of intense, clinical observation.
Behind them came the aunts, uncles, and cousins, a wall of sturdy, dense Halflings who looked at the massive stone peaks of the mountain and seemed singularly unimpressed.
"BILBO!" the Old Took roared, his voice echoing through the stone arches with the authority of a man who owned the very concept of "family."
Bilbo practically tumbled down the stairs of the main entrance, his face alight with a joy the Dwarves had rarely seen. "Grandfather! Grandmother! You’re here! You actually came!"
The Dwarves stood in a formal line behind Thorin, trying to look regal. They didn't yet know that to a Hobbit, "King Under the Mountain" was just a very fancy title for someone who lived in a drafty cave.
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After the initial flurry of hugs, pinches to Bilbo’s cheeks, and a thorough inspection of his waistcoat buttons, the group settled into a parlor near the gates. Bilbo was so swept up in the excitement that his usual "Baggins" filter was entirely absent.
"Oh, it was a long road, Grandmother," Bilbo said, leaning back as Drogo and Primula sat at his feet. "Quite terrifying at first! I was so dreadfully out of my element. I remember the first night, Thorin told the others I looked more like a grocer than a burglar. He was quite convinced I’d be a burden."
The Old Took’s tail, which had been swaying gently, suddenly went stiff.
"A burden?" Laura Baggins asked, her voice dangerously soft. "Is that so?"
"Oh, yes," Bilbo chirped, oblivious to the way Dwalin and Thorin had suddenly gone pale in the corner. "And when the Trolls nearly ate us, the Dwarves were quite cross. I think some of them wanted to leave me behind right then! Then there was the mountain pass... Thorin shouted at me quite a bit, saying I had no place among them and that I should never have come. It was a bit lonely, really, until I proved my worth."
Bilbo smiled brightly. "But it's all fine now! They’re my dearest friends."
The Hobbits didn't smile back. A look passed between the Old Took and Laura, a silent, ancient communication of the clan. They hadn't known Bilbo was the favorite of the Shire because of his titles; they favored him because, since his parents died, he was the heart of their family. And someone had broken that heart.
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..
"Bilbo, dear," Aunt Donnamira said, her tail coiling around his arm. "Why don't you take the younger ones to see the forges?" “
Oh! Certainly!" Bilbo jumped up, herding the younger Hobbits out.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the temperature in the room seemed to drop forty degrees. The Old Took stood up. He wasn't tall, but he was dense, Hobbits were made of earth and stubbornness, and he was the oldest of them all.
"So," Gerontius Took said, walking toward the Company Dwarves. "You’re the ones."
"Master Took, we can explain-" Balin started, sensing the impending storm.
Grandma baggins turned her gaze to Thorin. "You. The one with the crown. You called my grandson a grocer? a burden?"
Thorin drew himself up, trying to find his Kingly voice. "At the time, I did not know his quality. I have since-"
He didn't get to finish.
With a speed that defied his age, the Old Took stepped into Thorin’s space. He didn't use a weapon. He pulled back a fist that had spent decades tilling soil and boxing ears, and punched Thorin square in the jaw.
The crack was sickening. Thorin reeled back, his head snapping to the side.
Dwalin let out a roar of fury and lunged forward to protect his King, but Laura Baggins was faster. She didn't even look at him. Her heavy, furred tail lashed out like a whip, coiling around Dwalin’s ankle and jerking it sideways. As he stumbled, she stepped forward with the surprising weight of a Hobbit elder and landed a sharp, technical punch to Dwalin’s solar plexus, then followed it with a stinging hook to his nose.
The legendary warrior and the King Under the Mountain both ended up on the floor, gasping and clutching their faces.
"That," the Old Took growled, towering over Thorin, "was for the 'grocer' comment."
"And mine," Laura added, smoothing her skirts, "was for making him feel unwanted in a world that already has too little love in it."
The Dwarves looked up in genuine shock. They hadn't known about the engagement yet; they only knew that they had just been physically dismantled by two grandpeople who looked like they should be knitting tea-cosies.
"We... we deserved that," Thorin wheezed, rubbing his jaw.
"You deserve much worse," the Old Took said, his tail flicking one last time in warning. "Now, clean yourselves up. My grandson is coming back, and if I see a single tear in his eye because of your 'Kingly' attitudes, I won't use my fists next time."
…..
The heavy oak doors creaked open as Bilbo returned, his face flushed with excitement. Behind him, the younger cousins were still giggling about the giant mechanical bellows they had seen in the lower forges.
"Grandfather! You won't believe the-" Bilbo stopped mid-sentence. His eyes went wide as he took in the scene.
Thorin was sitting on the edge of a stone bench, dabbing a handkerchief at a split lip that was already beginning to swell. Dwalin was leaned against a pillar, his hand pressed firmly against his stomach, his nose looking decidedly crooked.
"Oh, goodness! What happened?" Bilbo rushed forward, his hands fluttering in distress. "Thorin? Dwalin? Did a stone give way? Was there a cave-in?"
The Old Took stepped into Bilbo’s line of sight, his expression shifting instantly into one of mild, grandfatherly concern. He tucked his hands behind his back, his furry tail swaying with a deceptive rhythm. "It was the most peculiar thing, Bilbo. The King and his captain here seem to have had a bit of a tumble. Clumsy feet on stone, I suppose. Isn't that right, Thorin?"
Gerontius Took cast a sideways glance at Thorin. It was a look of pure, unadulterated ice. It was a silent promise: If you breathe a word to him, the next one won't be a punch; it’ll be a siege.
Thorin swallowed hard, his jaw throbbing. "Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "The... the masonry is quite treacherous in this light. A sudden trip."
"Both of you at once?" Bilbo asked, his brow furrowed as he hovered over Thorin, gently tilting the King’s chin up to inspect the bruise. "Honestly, you’d think the King of the Mountain could walk across a flat floor. I’ll have to find Oin. You know how he gets about 'head trauma' and 'internal rattling.'"
Bilbo sighed, patting Thorin’s hand affectionately. "Do try to stay put, dear. I don't want my soon-to-be husband walking down the aisle with a black eye. It would look dreadful in the wedding chronicles."
The room went so silent you could hear the distant drip of a stalactite.
The Old Took froze. Grandma Baggins dropped her lace handkerchief. The aunts and uncles, who had been casually looking at the tapestries, all turned as one.
"Your... your what?" grandma baggins asked, her voice cracking for the first time in eighty years.
Bilbo looked up, blinking innocently. "Oh! Did I not mention? My letters were a bit rushed. Thorin and I are engaged. We’re to be married in the spring! I’ve already picked out the lace for the hand-fasting."
He beamed at his family, then turned back to the wounded Dwarves. "Now, don't move. I’ll be right back with the healing salves!"
As Bilbo hurried out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall, the "Saintly Mask" of the Hobbits didn't just slip, it shattered.
The Old Took turned back to the Company. Every Dwarf was now present, Fili, Kili, Gloin, the Ri brothers, all of them standing in a circle, trapped under the collective gaze of the Shire’s elders.
"Soon-to-be husband," the Old Took repeated, the words sounding like a death sentence.
"Listen here," grandma Baggins said, stepping toward the center of the room. She looked at the bruised Thorin, the limping Dwalin, and the rest of the cowering warriors. "You are all very, very lucky that my grandson is a Baggins of the Hill."
"What does that mean?" Kili squeaked, hiding behind his brother.
"It means," Uncle Isengar growled, crossing his arms, "that he is the most infuriatingly forgiving creature in the history of Middle-earth. Any other Hobbit would have come home, sat by the fire, and told us how a pack of ruffians treated him like dirt. We would have closed the borders to you forever."
The Old Took stepped right up to Thorin, poking him in the chest with a finger that felt like a hot iron.
"He loves you," the Old Took hissed. "Valar know why. Maybe it’s that Tookish streak that likes a project, or maybe he’s just too good for his own skin. But he loves you. And if you ever- ever- make him regret that forgiveness, there won't be a stone left on stone in this mountain when we’re through with you."
"He thinks you're heroes," grandma Baggins said, her voice dripping with exasperated affection for her grandson and pure venom for the Dwarves. "So for his sake, you will pretend to be. You will treat him like the King he is, or you’ll find out exactly why the Shire hasn't been conquered in a thousand years."
Thorin looked at the row of small, fierce people. He looked at the Old Took’s bruised knuckles. He realized then that Bilbo hadn't just saved the Dwarves from a dragon; he had saved them from the wrath of a family that made the Orcs of Moria look like a minor inconvenience.
"We understand," Thorin said, his voice low and humble. "He is more than we deserve."
"Correct," the Old Took snapped. "Now sit down and look 'heroic' before he gets back. And if any of you mentions my right hook, I’ll tell him you tripped over a goat."
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Bilbo led his family through the sprawling, amber-lit markets of the Great Hall, his step light and his tail, flickering with a nervous but happy energy, guiding them through the throng. He was still a bit flustered by the engagement announcement, but he was determined to show his kin that Erebor was a home, not just a fortress.
What the Shire Hobbits saw, however, was a revelation.
As they entered the main artisanal district, the usual clang of hammers and the roar of the forges didn't drown out the sudden hush that fell when Bilbo stepped into view. It wasn't the hush of fear or the stiff formality they gave Thorin; it was something far warmer.
A group of civilian Dwarven children, their beards barely more than peach-fuzz, were playing near a massive fountain. When they spotted the golden-haired Hobbit, they abandoned their game of "Slay the Worm" and sprinted toward him.
"Master Baggins! Master Baggins!" a small girl shouted, her boots clattering on the stone. She skidded to a halt and thrust a bunch of iron-wrought lilies into his hand. "My Da made these for you! He said you liked the ones in the garden!"
Bilbo beamed, crouching down to her level. "Oh, Thilda, they’re magnificent! Tell your father I shall put them in my very best vase."
The Old Took watched this, his eyes narrowing. He saw the way the Dwarven mother, standing by a nearby stall, bowed her head with a hand over her heart as Bilbo passed. It wasn't the bow one gave a King; it was the bow one gave a savior.
They moved deeper into the stalls, where the scent of roasting meats and metallic dust filled the air.
"Master Hobbit!" an elderly Dwarven weaver called out, her voice cracked with age. She beckoned him over to her stall, which was draped in fine silks. "The winter cloak is finished. Double-lined with rabbit fur, just as you requested for the little ones in the infirmary."
"Thank you, Mistress Grizel," Bilbo said, patting her hand. "I’ll have the boys from the kitchen come by to help you move the crates."
Grandma Baggins leaned into Aunt Donnamira, her tail twitching in surprise. "They treat him as if he’s the Thain himself, Donna. Look at that merchant, he’s giving Bilbo the 'royal' discount without even being asked."
"It’s more than that, Mother," Donnamira whispered. "Look at their faces. They don't just respect him. They adore him."
The further they walked, the more evident it became. Bilbo was the heartbeat of the mountain. He stopped to ask a stonemason about his wife’s recovery; he helped a distracted baker pick up a dropped tray of tarts; he even mediated a brief, loud argument between two jewelers about the "correct" way to cut an emerald.
Everywhere he went, the civilian Dwarves, those who had lived through the starvation of the siege and the terror of the battle, looked at Bilbo with a profound, quiet devotion.
"He’s the one who stayed," a Dwarven soldier muttered to Uncle Isengar as they stood near a balcony. The soldier didn't know he was talking to a Hobbit of high standing; he only knew he was talking to one of the "Master’s" people. "When the gold-sickness took the King, and the mountain felt cold... Master Baggins was the only one who looked us in the eye. He brought us blankets. He made sure the children were fed. He’s the only reason we didn't turn on each other."
Isengar’s tail stilled. He looked at Bilbo, who was currently laughing as a Dwarven toddler tried to climb up his waistcoat.
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The Hobbits moved through the Mountain with a polite, terrifying efficiency. While the civilian Dwarves were treated with nothing but sunshine and soft words, grandma Baggins even gave a recipe for blackberry jam to a kitchen maid, the Company was being systematically "sorted."
grandma Laura and the Old Took stood back, watching the Dwarves interact with their grandson. They didn't need to ask who had been kind; they watched the tails.
When Ori approached with a book for Bilbo, or Bombur brought out a fresh tray of honey-cakes, the Hobbits' tails swayed in soft, rhythmic arcs. They saw the way Bilbo leaned into Balin’s side or laughed at Bofur’s jokes. These Dwarves were given the "Saint Treatment", extra large portions of Hobbit-ale and genuine smiles.
However, when Kili walked by and chirped, "Still got your wits about you, Mr. Boggins?" the atmosphere curdled.
Kili didn't even see it coming. Uncle Isengar’s thick, furry tail whipped out like a lash, coiling around Kili’s ankle and jerking upward. The young Dwarf hit the stone floor with a spectacular thud.
"Oh, dear me!" Isengar said, his face a mask of concern as he looked down at the sprawling Dwarf. "These floors are so terribly slick. You really should watch your step, Master... what was it? kile? No, that’s not it."
Kili scrambled up, red-faced, only to find Aunt Belladonna’s siblings staring at him with eyes like cold marbles. They knew Bilbo hated that name. They knew Kili had said it a thousand times just to see the twitch in Bilbo’s brow.
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The halls of Erebor had become a minefield for the "unfavored" members of the Company. While Balin and Bofur were currently being pampered with extra-thick wool socks and endless supplies of pipeweed, the others were living in a state of high-alert, constantly checking for the snap of a Hobbit tail.
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Dori was currently limping. Every time he moved toward Bilbo with a quilt or a cup of fortifying tea, Aunt Donnamira seemed to materialize out of the shadows, her heavy boot landing squarely on his toes with the weight of a falling anvil.
"Please, My Lady!" Dori finally hissed, cornering Donnamira in a side corridor. "I beg of you! My feet can take no more. I realize my welcome to Master Baggins was... less than hospitable. But you must understand! I had two younger brothers to keep alive. Nori is a magnet for trouble, and Ori was so young, I saw Bilbo as another mouth to feed, another soul I couldn't protect!"
Donnamira leaned on her parasol, her tail twitching in a dangerous rhythm. "And now?"
"Now?" Dori’s voice cracked with genuine affection. "Now he is family. He is the third brother I never knew I wanted. I only wish to fuss over him because I care, not because I doubt him!"
Donnamira scrutinized him for a long beat before her tail slowed to a gentle wave. "Very well, Master Dori. You may pass."
Dori didn't wait. He let out a joyful squeak, spotted Bilbo walking toward the library, and sprinted. "MASTER BILBO! You look peaked! You need a wrap and a lie-down!"
Before Bilbo could blink, Dori scooped him up like a sack of flour and began running toward the royal apartments. Bilbo, long since resigned to the whims of overbearing Dwarves, simply went limp in Dori's arms, his arms dangling as he sighed, "Oh, hello Dori. I suppose it's nap time then?"
….
the training court, the atmosphere was thick with sibling rivalry. Fíli was currently sitting on a bench, draped in a hand-knitted Shire shawl and being fed slices of apple by Uncle Isengar.
Kíli, meanwhile, was being forced to sharpen everyone’s training swords under the watchful, judging eye of Grandmother Laura.
"It’s not fair!" Kíli whined, looking at Fíli. "I'm the youngest! I'm supposed to be the favorite! Why am I getting the bad treatment?!”
Fíli leaned back, looking insufferably smug as he caught Bilbo’s eye across the court. "Perhaps it's because I didn't spend the first half of the journey making fun of his name, Kíli." Fíli then stood up and trotted over to Bilbo, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Uncle Bilbo! Don't you think I've practiced enough for today? My muscles feel quite strained."
The older Hobbits froze. Isengar and Laura exchanged a look. "Uncle?" Isengar whispered.
"Oh, yes," Bilbo said, patting Fíli’s hand. "He’s been calling me that since Laketown. He’s a very good lad, really."
The Hobbits' tails immediately began to wag with approval. Fíli winked at Kíli, who looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue in frustration.
…
Gloín found himself sitting with the Old Took on a bench near the forges. They were looking at a locket containing a portrait of Gloín’s wife and his son, Gimli.
"I missed them," Gloín said quietly, his usual bluster gone. "I was a bear with a sore paw for the whole trek. I wasn't just rude to Bilbo; I was rude to the trees, the rocks, and my own kin. I was scared I'd never see them again."
The Old Took nodded, his tail brushing the floor. "Fear for one's hearth can sour the blood, Master Gloín. That, I can understand."
"But it was more than that," Gloín added, leaning in. "I was especially mad at Thorin. He’s been crushing on that Hobbit since the moment he saw him in that yellow waistcoat, but the man has the emotional intelligence of a stalactite. He took his own confusion and fear out on Bilbo, and it drove me mad because I know what it’s like to love a spouse properly. Thorin was a fool, and we followed his lead."
The Old Took’s eyes widened. "So the King was pining while he was shouting, was he?"
"Oh, miserably," Gloín chuckled. "It was quite pathetic, really."
….
Balin stood beside his brother, Dwalin, as they faced Grandmother Laura. Dwalin was looking at his boots, feeling the weight of the Hobbit Matriarch’s gaze.
"My brother is a man of few words, My Lady," Balin said smoothly. "His task was to keep a stubborn King alive. He didn't have the luxury of focus for Master Baggins at first. But he was the one who gave Bilbo his spare hood when the rain turned to ice. And he was the one who spent every evening teaching Bilbo how to hold a blade so he wouldn't be slaughtered."
Dwalin grunted, finally looking up. "The lad has heart. I didn't see it at first. I saw a liability. I was wrong. I’d take a blow for him now as readily as I would for Thorin."
Laura’s tail twitched once, then stilled. "Teaching a boy to defend himself is a high form of love, Master Dwalin. I suppose I can stop tripping you in the hallways. For now."
….
Finally, Nori found himself cornered by Uncle Hildifons. Nori, who usually had a quip for everything, looked uncharacteristically somber.
"I’ve spent my life in the cracks of the world," Nori said, his tail-braid flicking nervously. "I’ve seen 'nice' people sell their mothers for a silver coin. I’ve seen smiles that hide daggers. I didn't trust Bilbo because he was too good. I thought it was a mask. I thought he was waiting for us to sleep so he could vanish with the map."
Hildifons watched him closely. "And when did you realize he wasn't?"
"When he came back," Nori said. "He had the Ring. He could have gone home. He could have left us to the Goblins. But he came back for us. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. I didn't know people like him actually existed."
Hildifons patted Nori’s arm. "The Shire produces many things, Master Nori. But Bilbo is our best. I think we can forgive a bit of caution from a man who has lived in the dark."
As the sun set over Erebor, the "Bad Dwarves" found themselves slowly being integrated into the Hobbit's circle. The tails were no longer lashing; they were swaying in the evening breeze, a sign of a hard-won, slightly bruised peace.
….
The great hearth of the Royal Solar crackled with a warmth that felt more like the Shire than the cold stone of a mountain. Huge logs of cedar, a gift from the Men of Dale, filled the room with a sweet, resinous scent. Bilbo sat in a plush armchair, surrounded by his kin and his Company, feeling the strange, dizzying collision of his two lives.
"Oh, he was always a peculiar lad," the Old Took chuckled, his long, furry tail thumping against the rug. He leaned toward Thorin, who was still nursing a slightly bruised jaw but listening with rapt attention. "Most fauntlings were out in the mud, wrestling or playing conquer-the-hill. Not our Bilbo. At every family gathering, we’d find him tucked into the furthest corner of the library, sitting on a pile of cushions, his nose buried in a book of Elven legends. I used to tell him, 'Bilbo, lad, the sun is shining!' and he’d just look up and say, 'But Grandfather, the High Elves are marching to war in this chapter!'"
"Grandfather, please," Bilbo groaned, hiding his face in his hands as his ears turned a vivid shade of scarlet. "I was a perfectly normal child."
"Normal?" Grandmother Laura Baggins snorted gently, reaching into a velvet satchel. "You were a terror for the laundry, my treasure. You and your mother, Belladonna... I remember looking out into the garden and seeing the two of you trampling the snapdragons, using sturdy oak sticks as swords, shouting in what I now realize was a very poor imitation of Quenya."
"And I have the sketches to prove it," Laura continued. Since the world had not yet mastered the art of photography, the Hobbits relied on meticulous charcoal and ink drawings. She pulled out a series of yellowed parchments, passing them to a very curious Fíli and Balin.
The Dwarves crowded around. The first drawing was of a Hobbit fauntling, perhaps five years old, with cheeks so chubby they looked like ripe peaches. He was covered in dirt, his tiny waistcoat was buttoned incorrectly, and he had a crown of willow leaves tangled hopelessly in his golden curls. He was holding a wooden 'sword' over his head with a look of fierce, adorable determination.
"Look at those curls!" Bofur cooed, pointing at the drawing. "And the feet! He hasn't grown into them yet."
"He looks like a very round warrior," Thorin murmured, his eyes softening as he traced the lines of the sketch.
The next drawing showed a slightly older Bilbo, sitting on the floor of Bag End. He was literally surrounded by a fortress of books, some taller than he was. He looked focused, a quill held in his small hand as he appeared to be translating something.
"He was always advanced," Uncle Isengar said, his voice thick with pride. "Walking before he was a year old, and babbling in full sentences while his cousins were still pointing at jam jars. But it wasn't just his brains. He had a heart for those who had less."
The Dwarves went quiet. This was the side of the Shire they hadn't seen, the social hierarchy.
"Bilbo was the son of the Thain’s youngest daughter and the Baggins' eldest son," Isengar explained, looking at Thorin. "He was the bridge between our most adventurous blood and our most respected line. When Bungo and Belladonna passed... Bilbo was all we had left of them. He became the favorite of both sides of the family, not just because of his status, but because of what he did with it."
"He taught the miller's children to read," Aunt Donnamira added softly. "Poorer Hobbit families usually don't see the use in letters, they have fields to plow. But Bilbo would sit them down under the Party Tree and teach them for hours. He said everyone deserved to know what was in the books."
"He learned Elvish by fifteen," the Old Took said. "And then he started on the languages of the Big People. He’d disappear for hours into the North Moors. We later found out he was bothering the Rangers, those grim Men who wander the wilds."
"I was not bothering them!" Bilbo peeked through his fingers.
"He was the only fauntling they’d talk to," Isengar laughed. "Most Hobbits hide when they see a Ranger. But Bilbo would march right up to them with a pot of tea and a notebook. He’d ask them about the ruins in the north and the songs of their ancestors. I suspect they kept coming back to the Shire borders just to see what the 'Little Scholar' would ask them next."
Thorin looked at Bilbo, realizing for the first time that the Hobbit’s bravery hadn't started with a dragon. It had started with a tea-pot and a thirst for knowledge in a world that preferred to stay hidden.
"He was our jewel," Grandmother Laura said, her tail gently coiling around Bilbo's chair. "And we were quite cross when a certain Wizard took him away. We thought the world would break him."
She looked up at the circle of Dwarves, the fierce warriors, the overprotective brothers, and the King who had finally learned to value what he had.
"But it seems," she added, her eyes landing on Thorin with a look that was half-warning. "that he was the one who mended the world instead. Just keep him away from the corner books during the wedding, King. Or you’ll never get him to the altar."
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The departure of the Shire-folk was an affair of immense gravity, punctuated by the jingle of pony harnesses and the rustle of several hundred parchment-wrapped leftovers. The gates of Erebor were crowded, not just with the Company, but with hundreds of civilian Dwarves who had come to see off the kin of their "Master Baggins."
Bilbo stood at the front of the crowd, his eyes suspiciously bright. He had spent the morning being squeezed, fussed over, and lectured one last time on the proper way to store winter potatoes in a mountain climate.
Grandmother Laura Baggins sat regally in her cart, her tail tucked neatly around her ankles. She beckoned Thorin forward with a single, sharp crook of her finger.
The King Under the Mountain approached with a slight limp and a jaw that was still a fascinating shade of violet. He bowed low, lower than he had ever bowed to a King of Men.
"He is the best of us," Laura whispered, her voice carrying only to Thorin’s ears. "He is all that remains of my Bungo. If I hear that he is unhappy, if I hear that he has been made to feel 'lesser' even for a moment, I will not send letters, Thorin Oakenshield. I will send the Tooks. And you have seen how they box."
Thorin took her hand and kissed it with profound solemnity. "He is the light of these halls, My Lady. I shall spend my life ensuring he knows it."
Further down the line, Fíli was helping Uncle Isengar tighten a saddle cinch.
"Take care of him, lad," Isengar said, patting Fíli’s shoulder with a hand that felt like a sledgehammer. "He’s got a soft heart, but he’s a Took. Don't let him climb anything too high without one of you standing underneath."
"He wouldn't let us if we tried, Uncle Isengar," Fíli laughed, though he looked genuinely sad to see the sturdy Hobbit go. He turned to Kíli, who was standing several feet away, still looking piteously at his own lack of Hobbit-favor. "Chin up, brother. Maybe if you’re good, they’ll let you visit the Shire next harvest. You might even get a name that isn't kile by then."
Kíli let out a long, dramatic sigh. "I’m going to start a garden. Right in the middle of the barracks. I’ll show them."
Finally, the Old Took turned to his grandson. He pulled Bilbo into a crushing embrace, his tail coiling tightly around Bilbo’s waist in a final, wordless goodbye.
"You’ve done well, Bilbo," Gerontius muttered into his curls. "A bit of a mess of a home, all this stone, but the people... they’re good people. They know what you are."