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Chapter Text

It’s been three days since their encounter with the trolls, and Bilbo doesn’t think he can take it anymore. At first it was just something he worked hard to overlook – after all, the dwarves’ disdain for him and his lifestyle was nothing new to him, and Bilbo had thought that given time the rest of the Company would accept their Hobbit companion. The name calling was just one more way for them to remind him that no matter what delusions he might have had at the start of their journey, simply climbing on a pony and leaving behind his home and everything he knew was not enough to make him part of the Company.

It had started with teasing phrases such as ‘grocer’ and ‘burgler’, both titles laced with mocking smirks that highlighted the fact that the speakers knew very well that Bilbo held neither occupation. Bilbo tolerated it, ducking his head and biting his lip, not wanting to antagonize anyone by objecting to what could very well be considered friendly teasing. Even if it always felt a bit – hostile – well, what did Bilbo know about dwarves and their culture? Nothing, that’s what. And Gandalf seemed unconcerned. So Bilbo kept biting his lip, taking the mocking and shrugging off any hurt that may have developed due to the insults.

But a few days into their journey, Bilbo was riding at the back of the line of ponies led by Gandalf and his full-sized horse, when Kili made the innocent sounding comment. “I bet you’ve never seen the likes of that before, Halfling.” Bilbo felt the word hit him like a blow to the chest. His lungs locked up and he fell silent, his eyes dropping as he habitually bit back his offended response. Emotions churned in his chest, a mix of hurt and disappointment that burned their way up his clenched throat. He nodded at whatever story Kili was finishing up – that he hadn’t heard a word of – and let his pony drop slowly back behind the others’. His heart pounding in his ears was all he could hear, and shame that he could be so hurt by such a small thing burned so brightly he was certain his ears shone with it. He finally forced himself to take a deep breath, then had to fight the burning of his eyes as the inflation of his lungs seemed to release the hold he had held on the rest of his body.

He refused to let the dwarf see how much he had affected him with the slur, and promised himself that he would overcome this. The dwarves couldn’t keep it up forever, he’d assured himself. They’d become more accustomed to the Hobbit in their midst, and Bilbo would be able to prove himself as a worthy member of the Company, if not as a burglar, than simply as a friend.

After the trolls, he had been so sure that he had accomplished this – sure, he’d been caught, but he’d almost freed the ponies on his own, and he’d managed to trick the trolls long enough for Gandalf to expose them to the sun. Surely he had earned some manner of respect from his dwarven companions. They had certainly seemed proud, Fili and Kili slapping him on the shoulders with broad grins, Balin patting him on the back, even Thorin seemed to give him the tiniest of smiles. It was the tiniest smile that Bilbo had ever seen in his life, but he was determined that he saw it there, curling Thorin’s lips for just a second before the dwarf’s natural state of brooding ill-temper crushed all signs of its existence.

Then Bofur – friendly Bofur, with his goofy hat and general goodwill for the displaced Hobbit – passed him with a nonchalant “Good job, Halfling,” and all of Bilbo’s happiness fled faster than the Took brats caught stealing from Farmer Maggot’s crops, taking his burgeoning self-esteem along in its wake like a bag of pilfered mushrooms.

He was quiet as the dwarves work to set up camp, taking up his self-imposed task of tending to the ponies. He tried to sort out his own feelings as he snuck Molly an extra apple, crooning softly to the mare as if it were her emotions that needed soothing. Something heavy had settled in his ribcage, occasionally reaching a clawed hand up to clutch his throat, leaving it feeling tight and dry. Now, Bilbo can barely spare a small smile for Bombur when he ladles out the hobbit’s share of the stew, and Bilbo quietly retreats from the fireside, hoping to find somewhere to eat where no one will notice if the creature in his chest occasionally pokes at the corner of his eyes, causing water to well up before Bilbo blinks fast and fights it back down.

“Not joining us Halfling?” kind little Ori asks as he passes, and the monster runs its claws down along his ribcage, playing it like a string instrument, fingers plucking lightly at each bone as it passes. The wounds left behind sting and burn, bleeding where no one can see them, and Bilbo wishes, for a moment, with all his heart, that he had never left his hobbit hole in the Shire.

“ORI.” The name is said with a dark tone that makes the youngest dwarf squeak even as he turns helplessly to face the resident Wizard across the fire. Gandalf’s face is hard as stone, his usual friendly gleam extinguished and replaced instead with a furious displeasure. Ori shrinks down in his seat, his bowl of stew falling from suddenly numb hands even as he stares into the Wizard’s eyes. He feels like a captive rabbit, who’d looked up from an enjoyable meal of grass to find the forest around him suddenly filled with a pack of Wargs. A hungry pack of Wargs. One whose members are all solely focused on him.

“Never,” Gandalf says, his voice little more than a whisper, “NEVER, use that word in my presence again.” Despite his quiet volume, no one in the company had trouble hearing him due to everyone’s frozen, silent states. Bilbo can’t help the small flare of gratitude that sparks in his chest.

Ori can do naught but nod fearfully, over and over until his elder brother elbows him in the side and he finally goes completely still once again, hoping the lack of movement will cause the predator’s gaze to move on. The Wizard continues to glare at the dwarfling for a few more minutes, as if hoping the extra terror would imprint his message deep into Ori’s subconscious. The other members of the Company are silent as well, everyone staring at either Gandalf or Ori with varying degrees of bafflement on their faces. It is to no one’s surprise that rock headed Kili is the first to break the silence.

“What, Halfling?” the brunette asks, and then quails and falls over backwards off of the stump he was using as a seat when the Wizard’s wrathful glare turns upon him.

“Yes,” Gandalf answers, sounding like Thorin does whenever he mentions the name Smaug. “Halfling. I will not tolerate anyone using such vulgar language towards our burglar in my presence. In fact, I do not approve of any of you using that term at all.” He shoots a fierce glare around at the Company, heavy brows creased low over glaring eyes. “Wipe it from your vocabularies from here on out, or there will be consequences.” His intonation of the word consequences reminds all who hear it that the Maiar are beings to be treated with a healthy dose of fear. “Am I clear?” The last word comes out as something resembling a growl. Bilbo feels the spark flare into an open flame, warming him from the inside and bathing the still stinging wounds in a warm light.

“As quartz,” Fili assures hastily, kicking his brother when Kili opens his mouth again to question the decree.

“Is it –“ Bofur begins hesitantly, shooting Bilbo a look of dawning dismay before turning back to the Istari. “Is it an insult?”

Bilbo jerks slightly, sending his stew slopping over the edge of his bowl, and Gandalf answers the question. “To a hobbit, there is little else more insulting a title than that of ‘Halfling’,” Gandalf informs, face still tight with anger. He had spent many years among the small folk of the Shire, and dare he say it, the whole race had become something of a favorite of his. Hearing those who were supposed to be Bilbo’s companions degrading him so had, to put it mildly, greatly pissed him off. “Calling a Hobbit a Halfling is implying that they are worth only half that of another race. This is, of course, blatantly untrue, as I know many Hobbits who are worth many times that of many Men, Dwarves, and Elves.”

Bilbo lets his eyes stay fixed on his stew, and thus misses the guilty looks that are being pinned on him from all directions.

“Wait,” Kili blurts, his head popping up from behind his stump. “You mean we’ve been insulting him this whole time?” His face gained a look much like a puppy that knew it shouldn’t have tinkled on the floor and that promptly expected to be beaten and tossed outside. It was a look mirrored by many of his companions.

“Bilbo,” Ori says, reaching a now empty hand out towards the hobbit and then freezing it midway. He then drew it back in, unable to bring himself to touch the hobbit that he had damaged so carelessly a few minutes before. “I - I’m sorry. I didn’t realize….”

Bilbo finally straightens and gives a short, overly bright laugh that all of the dwarves recognized instantly as fake. “It’s alright,” the hobbit says, brushing off the apology with a waved hand. “I expected some cultural differences coming into this arrangement. I would be poor company if I took offense at every misunderstanding between us, eh?”

The dwarves exchange doubting looks. They may not be the brightest spells in a book, but they could put two and two together. Bilbo had seemed surprised that they hadn’t known what ‘Halfling’ meant. That meant that this whole time, he had believed that they were degrading him on purpose. While they were growing fond of the small being in their midst – beardless and fussy though he might be – he had believed that they were actively belittling him. And none of them had even noticed.

Unknown to each other, they each made themselves a promise to treat the hobbit more gently, and to watch out for him among the others. If he didn’t speak up about them all calling him something that was so horrifying to his kind, then he wouldn’t speak up the next time one of the dwarves did something intolerable. But if they paid close attention, each dwarf thought, all pinning the hobbit with frankly disconcertingly manic eyes, they could catch the next occurrence and keep their burglar safe from such harm.

The next few days brought around quite a few changes for the Company’s hobbit. Firstly, each dwarf found a moment to pull the hobbit aside and make their own apologies (even Thorin, who despite not having interacted much with their resident burglar, had once used the term in question, and whose honor would not allow him to ignore this given slight). Secondly, he found that he was unable to wander anywhere without at least one dwarf accompanying him (‘for safeties sake’ he is assured). Thirdly, each dwarf had found some time to sit down and talk to him. He now knew more about Gloin’s family, Ori’s hopes for after they have reclaimed Erebor, and Kili’s, erm, experiences, then he had ever wanted to know, and he had endured the most probing, improper questionings of his life.

‘Is there anyone who would want to hurt you?’ was the most verbalized question, often ending in open ended suggestions such as ‘Childhood rival?’ and ‘Travelling trader?’ Kili had gone so far as to add, quite demandingly, ‘Former lover?’ to which Bilbo had blushed, sputtered, and ignore the suddenly intent looks pinned on him by various Company members, including the heavy stare of their King.

The extra care and respect lasted for about a week, before Bilbo got fed up and shouted them all back to normal behavior, no matter how nice it had been to see them all eat with proper table manners whenever they sat down for a meal. Then it toned down into muted gestures that Bilbo wouldn’t notice as much, such as the hobbit effortlessly gaining the prized sleeping position next to the dimmed fire embers, and the quiet offers to help mend the clothing torn by the rough voyage. And if, for the rest of their lives, long after Erebor was reclaimed and the Kingship settled, any of the Company had a quick and fierce reaction to the word ‘Halfling’, often involving the sharp end of a weapon, and then spent the next day dwelling over their vanished companion, it was nobody’s business but theirs, was it?

Chapter Text

The sun was rising on their third day in Lake Town when Thorin’s Company felt well enough to leave the house leant to them by the Master of Lake Town. Spending a couple days sealed in barrels had done nothing for their general health and wellbeing, but having a couple of days where they only crawled out of bed to set upon the feast spread across their table by the Men of Lake Town had done wonders to restore both. Goodwill had returned once more to the Company, helped along by the occasional burst of song from outdoors, hailing the return of the King Under the Mountain and calling for the death of the dragon and the return of the dwarves to Erebor.

Ironically, it was Bilbo – the one who had escaped capture by spider, evaded the jails of the Mirkwood King, and avoided being sealed inside a spinning barrel – who was not quite feeling up to snuff. He had awoken that morning with a headache that would down Smaug, centered squarely around his eyes. To make it worse, his nose kept itching, and he kept imagining that he couldn’t breathe. Thus, while the rest of the Company were donning their outdoor gear, Bilbo sat off to the side, hunched slightly in the stiff chair that sat in the entrance-way.

“C’mon Master Baggins,” Fili was coaxing, already dressed. Bilbo blamed his speed on youthful enthusiasm, a theory that was supported by the fact that Kili and Ori were already chatting out on the step while Dwalin and Thorin and the rest were still working on fastening their various buckles and ties. He had to forcefully remind himself that he was considered a youngster, too, among this group. With Fili and Kili around, he certainly didn’t feel like it. “You don’t want to miss out on Market Day do you?” Fili continued, pinning the hobbit with an earnest stare.

“I’m just fine waiting here,” Bilbo replied, sniffing slightly. Was his nose running? It felt like it was running. He swiped a discreet hand under his nose, and examined it under the pretense of checking the state of his nails, thus missing Fili’s elevation to outright puppy eyes. Clean. Huh.

“You are fine, Master Baggins,” Oin assured, straightening from where he was fastening the last tie on his boot. The healer had checked him over earlier that morning, and declared his sniffles just a cold. “As long as you don’t do anything too strenuous and don’t begin coughing, you can attend Market Day.”

Taking this as approval from on high, Fili promptly lifted Bilbo from his comfortable perch on the plush side chair and Kili swooped in out of nowhere and shoved Bilbo’s arms through the sleeves of his jacket before he could muster up any more objections. Then they each appropriated an arm, and hauled the hobbit out of the house. The rest of the Company followed with various looks of amusement on their faces, all ignoring the hobbit’s cries of protest, mostly involving his lack of proper clothing which they all considered to be unnecessary.

It was strangely endearing, they all agreed, the way the young ones now clung to their burglar. Admittedly none of the Company’s older members were quite ready to let the hobbit out on his own, not after the events of the last few weeks. Mirkwood forest had changed many things for their group, but nothing more than their opinion of the hobbit in their midst. When the spider’s had captured them in their webs, and left them hanging over the forest, they had all believed their quest was done for. The small hobbit had shown great initiative in leading the spiders off and releasing the dwarves, and they had all hoped for a moment that they would go free. But poison and weakness from starvation had slowed them, and the spiders quickly caught up with them. Without Gandalf there, they were sure they would soon be captured. But the hobbit once again surprised them, drawing his small stinging knife and holding off the spiders until they finally tired and gave up the pursuit.

This alone would have altered the dwarves’ opinions of Bilbo, revealing that the tidy homebody they had originally met in the Shire was also a fierce (if untrained) warrior who was worthy not only of their friendship but of their respect. But then came the dungeons of the elf king, and Bilbo had managed to find Thorin, free the Company, and come up with their escape plan, helping pack each dwarf into a barrel and making sure that they all were settled in as comfortably as they could be with straw and sealed in safely so that they had enough holes to breathe but not enough to sink.

It wasn’t until after they were pried out of the barrels on the shore near Lake Town that the dwarves realized that the hobbit had had no one left to show a similar care towards him. He had been in better shape than any of them, surely, but an invisibility ring was no protection against a river. Also, they had all come to realize, hobbits were definitely not as hardy as dwarves were. At some point Bilbo must have taken a dunking in the river, because Oin had confirmed that morning (out of Bilbo’s earshot) that the cold was likely to get worse before it got better. They were all informed in great detail of the consequences to their hobbit’s health if the infection moved into his lungs. (Dwalin maintained that coughing up blood and drowning in bed sounded more like the work of Wizards than that of a river, but Oin assured them the danger was real.)

Thus, they were all fully behind the hobbit getting out of the house before his illness worsened and he was stuck in bed. This might be the only chance he got to wander the town of Men before they left, and they all thought that it was something that the hobbit would enjoy. The streets grew more crowded as they approached the center of town, but the Men of Lake Town parted easily for the dwarves, pointed fingers and whispered conversations closing back in behind them. The dwarves seemed cheered by the attention, especially when another rendition of one of the ‘King Under the Mountain’ songs began, but Bilbo found himself quailing under the regard of the Men folk. As soon as Fili and Kili were distracted by one of the stalls he let himself go small and still, using the hobbit skill that Gandalf had recruited him for in the first place to go unnoticed in the business of the marketplace.

“Very stealthy, Hobbit,” Balin said from behind him, and Bilbo turned around and gave the old dwarf a sheepish smile.

“Whatever works,” Bilbo replied, feeling his throat tighten a little. He scratched at a suddenly tingly nose until it stopped itching; his eyes squinted under the uncomfortable sensation. Ugh. Colds.

“See if you find anything you like,” Balin offered, patting the hobbit gently on the shoulder. “We’re looking mostly for storable foods to tide us over until we reach the mountain. Get something you like. This may be our last chance at fresh supplies for a while.” Neither mentioned the chance that they might all die at the Mountain when facing the dragon.

Falling silent, they both watched Kili pick up a ripe apple and toss it at his brother. Fili saw a glimpse of it in his peripheral vision and swiftly caught the projectile, before catching sight of its red skin. His face crinkled up in disgust and he dropped the offending fruit to the ground. The stall keeper shouted something, and Thorin was soon dragged into the angry discussion. Nori hastily paid the stall keeper for the apple while Thorin took over scolding his nephews. The two observers heard Fili wail ‘They smell disgusting!’ and the stall keeper looked extremely offended. However, the Man held his tongue, and the surrounding crowd dispersed when it seemed they would get no more drama today.

Bilbo and Balin sighed, near in unison, and made their way back into the thick of the group. Bilbo looked across many food items as the Company moved from stall to stall, losing members here and there. Bofur wandered into a carpentry shop that was displaying small children’s toys in the window, and Dori was engrossed by a display containing beautifully designed flutes. Fili and Kili disappeared into the crowd, and Ori popped up at Bilbo’s elbow, brandishing a tomato in his fist. “How well do you think these would do in –“ he began, but then the tingling returned to Bilbo’s nose, unexpectedly strong, and he sneezed. All over the tomato.

Ori’s nose wrinkled, and Nori opened his mouth to make what would surely be some sort of teasingly sarcastic comment about Bilbo’s hygiene around their food (for which Bilbo was usually quite the stickler), when the owner of their current produce stall made the flippant comment of “Watch it, halfing.” The Man knew that the dwarves were all accompanying the King Under the Mountain on his return to Erebor, but he had no idea if they would take financial responsibility for the midget in their midst, and he didn’t care to have his livelihood damaged by careless handling. He did not expect the sudden aggressive silence that this produced among the dwarves, nor did he expect the littlest dwarf (identified as such by his tinier beard), to turn on him and demand in a suddenly fierce voice “You take that back.”

The stall keeper shook his head slightly in bafflement at the change from meek little rabbit to infuriated badger, but one of the dwarves apparently took it as a refusal because the next thing he heard was “You shall not insult the hobbit, sir!” and then they were on him. The Man felt a small but firm fist crash into one of his eyes and glimpsed the wild grin of the burliest dwarf before a face he recognized as his cousin’s appeared behind the vengeful vision and tackled the dwarf off of him.

What seemed like mere seconds later the fight had spread across the street, to the stall where Fili had desecrated the apple. That stall keeper took the opportunity to swing at Thorin, seemingly blaming him for the mess, and Thorin bared his teeth and swung back. Back across the street, some of the other Men dove in to defend the offending stall keeper from the suddenly feral dwarves, the fattest one even going so far as to fasten his teeth into the fleshy part of the stall keeper’s calf as that was the only part he could reach. Bilbo watched in horror as three Men hauled Bombur off of the original stall keeper, only for Bifur to leap onto them with an incomprehensible howl in Khudzul.

Dwalin was quickly diverted by an incoming hoard of guards, leaping off his downed opponent with a growl and barreling into the legs of the leader, knocking him to the ground just in time for Thorin to hit the next one square in the chest, downing him as well. Bilbo turned to find some island of sanity in the madness only to find Ori sitting on the original offender’s chest beating at his face while Balin and Nori held down his legs to keep him from getting up. They all wore expressions that said that sanity was the last thing on their minds.

Bilbo, as the only sensible one of the lot, did the only thing he could. He rescued the bags of groceries that they had collected in advance (with the rest to come later in the week when they left). The multitude of bags was slightly overwhelming, and Bilbo had barely a moment to hear the “Oh, let us help with that Master Baggins” before Fili and Kili divested him of the bags, storing them in a nearby alleyway where they wouldn’t get crushed. Bilbo felt a moment of relief – someone had stayed sane after all – when Kili said “Ow, look at the one he just landed on Uncle Thorin.”

“Uncle won’t stand for that,” Fili replied wisely. Sure enough, Thorin retaliated with a vicious uppercut. The guard did not stir again.

Kili laughed.

Bilbo stared at him.

Fili asked, “Wanna join in?”

Kili nodded, his eyes shining bright with an excitement Bilbo had only previously thought could be mustered towards gold and cake, respectively, and the two abandoned him in his bubble of quiet to wade into the madness, laughing like loons the entire time. Bilbo shook his head in amazement, unknowingly mimicking the movement that had started this whole mess. He looked back up just in time to see Dori come running in, throwing himself upon the now tangled pile of dwarves and guards. He shook his head again, and sneezed again.

Oin immediately popped up next to Bilbo’s elbow while his brother planted himself protectively in front of the hobbit, protecting him from the outspread of the brawling spirit. “How do your lungs feel?” Oin asked, pressing a hand to Bilbo’s forehead. Bilbo stared at him in stunned disbelief.

“Everything that’s going on here, and that’s what you’re concerned about?” he muttered, suddenly frustrated with everything. He scowled out at the fight in the Market, arms crossing over his chest and toe beginning to tap on the ground. More guard reinforcements appeared on the edges of the circled crowd, and then paused there, taking in the sight of their fallen comrades sprinkling the ground amid the lasting dots of violence. It was only when Bilbo saw the fear on the guards’ reinforcements’ faces that he figured enough was enough. He stepped forward and around Gloin, who took one look at his face and got out of the way.

“STOP!” Bilbo shouted at the top of his lungs. The deep breath, however, aggravated his draining sinuses and caused a coughing fit as he tried to dislodge the phlem that had disturbed his lungs. This caused an instant halt to the aggression, all of the dwarves abandoning their prey to converge upon the hobbit, reaching out to pat every inch of him they could reach in their quest to make sure he was alright, all the while blurting out questions and giving him no time to answer.

“Are you okay Mister Baggins?”

“Take some deep breaths Bilbo.”

“DON’T DROWN!” Dwalin said loudly, and several other voices repeated the demand.

“Let’s get him home to bed,” Balin finally broke in, and just like that, the dwarves scooped up their bags and their hobbit and left behind the trashed Marketplace with its fallen occupants. Later, when the Master of Lake Town confronted the dwarf King about his people’s violent reaction to what the townspeople considered to be a minor offense, Thorin simply crossed his arms and gave the Man a stony glare.

“The Men here need to know that the Dwarves of Erebor will not take any sort of attack against one of their own lightly,” he growled. The Master decided not to argue with the dwarves’ set expression, and that was all that was said about that until the Company vacated the town at the end of the week, the newly well hobbit ensconced at their center.

Chapter Text

The Council of Elrond seemed to be going well, at least as far as Frodo could tell. He had no experience in such important things, but the conversations were flowing well, and there had yet to be any fights. Gloin had shared news of Moria, Gandalf of his time on top of Isengard, and Elrond of the making of the rings and Sauron’s rise and fall from power. It was all very interesting, and relevant, Frodo was sure, but he was a hobbit, and the longest speech he had ever had to hear was Tolman Cotton’s wedding speech, which lasted until the copious amounts of alcohol flowing through his veins finally knocked him into unconsciousness. Between the length of the speeches, and the distraction of the ring in his pocket, Frodo was admittedly having some trouble paying attention.

And anyway, Frodo wasn’t quite sure how all of this related to him. Surely his involvement with the ring was over now, and he could return promptly to Bag End. He glanced sideways at Bilbo, who wore the focused look that said that he was recording what was being said so that he could put it down on paper later. He was glad at least that his guardian had joined him here, so that he was not the only hobbit present at the meeting of the races of Middle Earth. The large size of the rest of the Council members, even the dwarves, was rather intimidating to someone who had until previously never left the Shire.

He found himself staring around the circle, eyes dancing from figure to figure until he found himself meeting the eyes of Gloin across the way. The dwarf’s eyes crinkled slightly, and Frodo suspected that his lips were curved upward under the concealing bulk of his beard. It was because he was already watching him that he caught the Dwarf’s reaction to what happened next.

“In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.”*

Frodo saw Gloin’s face tighten up with anger, even as Bilbo twitched slightly beside him, their arms bumping together and causing Frodo to jerk his head around. He expected Bilbo to look offended, but he looked more despairing than anything. Frodo himself was rather offended; he seriously doubted the truth of the Man’s words about his dream. Surely no spiritual being who would send such a dream would be so derisive.

Gandalf straightened up on Bilbo’s other side, the grey of his cloak darkening as shadows fell across his face, much as they had back in Bag End before this journey had begun. It was the other dwarf who reacted the strongest though.

“TAKE THAT BACK,” the youngest dwarf bellowed, leaping to his feet and brandishing his axe. The elves all seemed startled, except for the younger blonde one, who simply looked resigned. “How dare you speak such language! As if the hobbit has not proved himself by bearing the foul thing here, and his elder for years beyond that, resisting the taint that such things bear upon those who hold them!”

Gandalf settled back in his chair, looking pleased, and the Man simply looked confused. Bilbo almost seemed to be – giggling? “I do not understand what has insulted you so,” the Man – Boromir, Frodo thought, replied, eyeing the axe warily.

“Halfling,” the blonde elf said before the younger dwarf could shout again. “It is some sort of grave insult among the hobbit folk. Dwarves seem to be very strong defenders against this particular slur.”

“I am surprised that you know of its meaning Legolas,” Gandalf said.

“There was an, incident, once with my father,” Legolas said, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“And this is an insult to the hobbit folk?” Elrond asked, looking interested.

“A grave insult indeed,” Gloin said, glaring darkly at Boromir.

“I meant no offense,” Boromir said, looking less majestic and more like a rejected puppy at every moment that passed. “I did not realize such a word was an affront. I did not even know to what sort of species the dream referred to until our two hobbit friends stepped into the meeting,” he said, nodding to Frodo and Bilbo.

“Must be sent from an elven spirit,” the young dwarf muttered ungraciously.

Elrond looked amused.

Bilbo seemed to be choking.

Gandalf was twinkling.

Frodo just sighed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gimli wasn’t really sure what had happened. The meeting had continued after the Man had slighted the hobbits, and everyone had been very careful to refer to the two as ‘hobbits’ throughout the rest of the talks. He still couldn’t believe the nerve of that Man, using such an insult right in the face of the hobbit who Gimli had grown up hearing stories about, the one who had left his comfortable home and accompanied his father and their Companions on the quest to reclaim Erebor. The one who had faced down elves, orcs, and a dragon to help Gimli’s people reclaim their home. Of course Gimli had been offended by their use of the word ‘halfling’ – how anyone could cast aspersions upon the honor of that hobbit, after all that he had done?

So of course he stood up for him. And he was one of the few who were unsurprised when the younger hobbit offered to carry the ring. The tiny folk just kept proving their bravery to the world. What baffled him was what came after. Hobbits seem to come melting out of the woodwork, like miniature elves but ten times less annoying. Or not so, Gimli corrected himself, when he found the four of them surrounding him, all of them babbling away.

“I’m really sorry Mr. Frodo,” the bulkier blonde was muttering.

“It’s alright Sam,” Bilbo’s nephew responded, looking tired. He had been injured on the way here, Gimli remembered. “I’m glad to have you along.”

“Hello!” the other brunette said, popping up right in Gimli’s face. “I’m Pippin! And this is Merry!” He pointed at the other blonde, who grinned and waved. “We wondered if you wanted to go find lunch with us.”

“Didn’t we already have lunch?” Gimli questioned, remembering the food the elves had laid out for them just an hour before the Council begun.

“Oh that was just elevensies,” Pippin dismissed, waving a hand. “It’s about time for a proper lunch. You can’t go around missing meals. It’s not good for your health.” The two began herding the dwarf with them in the direction of the dining room. “Also, that is a really big axe you have there. I thought you were really gonna hurt that guy.”

“He was being rude,” Merry said, pulling a bread roll out of nowhere and shoving it in his mouth. He continued to talk around his chewing. “Would have deserved what he got,” he mumbled.

The other two fell in behind them, bracketing Gimli in their center, and he seriously wondered what was happening.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bilbo found himself falling in behind his nephew and the others as they herded the young dwarf towards more food. Poor Gimli, he chuckled to himself. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, falling in with that lot.

“Looks like the situation’s switched around a bit,” a familiar voice spoke up from beside him. Bilbo looked over and met Gloin’s friendly gaze. The two stared for a moment, taking in the changes time had wrought upon their companions. Gloin still bore his familiar braids, in their usual color, though there were a few grey streaks mixed in now. There were some crow’s feet formed around his eyes, no doubt from laughter. He looked very much the same as he had fifty years ago.

Bilbo, in contrast, looked like the old man he was. His hair had gone completely silver, and his skin bore more wrinkled places than not. He sometimes had mysterious aches and pains when the weather changed, and he got tired more easily than he used to. It was easy enough for Gloin to pull his frail frame into a gentle hug.

“Well met, burglar,” Gloin murmured in his ear, and Bilbo had to wipe a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye when he drew back. Gloin pretended not to see, and let Bilbo have his moment.

“Switched around you say?” Bilbo asked, ignoring the slight wobble in his voice. Gloin was kind enough not to comment.

“Instead of a bunch of dwarf’s adopting a hobbit, the hobbits adopt a dwarf,” Gloin points out, nodding towards where they could see an overwhelmed looking Gimli sitting in the midst of a hobbit’s idea of lunch time. Food was disappearing at alarming rates, and some elves were looking on in amazement. Pippin disappeared to somewhere, and returned with a tankard of what looked to be wine.

“He’s doomed,” Bilbo replied, the sadness disappearing into the joy of seeing an old friend once again. “What do you say we find some ale and catch up a bit, hm?”

“I would like that,” Gloin said, watching his son take up a drinking contest with the hobbit across from him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the months it took for Elrond’s scouts to return to Rivendell, Gimli had learned a lot about Hobbits, more than he’d ever wanted to know really. He’s learned that despite their tiny size they can outdrink him and his father alike, though the elves can still miraculously outdrink them all. He’s learned that all of the skill that dwarves have with materials under the earth, the Hobbits have with the things that grow above it. He’s learned that they earn every extra pound on their stomachs by eating three times the regular amount at meals, and that to challenge one to an eating contest is to court defeat. He’s learned that they are picky about their clothing, and what constitutes ‘proper’ behavior in public. He can now identity over thirty edible and medicinal plants. Before winter rolled around, Gimli had managed to grow a small patch of carrots and onions, harvested just before the first hard frost.

He found that when he pulled the first orange root above the ground, he looked up to find four beaming faces, and he thought that maybe learning hobbit crafts wasn’t so bad.

He had managed to teach them some things too. Gimli had caught Pippin and Merry bugging the Ranger into teaching them swordcraft, and had taken up the duty himself. He knew more moves that were styled towards their small size, and both Men of their Company worked with him to adapt them towards the Hobbits’ speed rather than a Dwarf’s strength. The elf taught each of them the basics of the bow, though only Pippin seemed to have any aptitude for it despite the Hobbits’ talent for Conkers (another challenge in which a Hobbit will inevitably win).

Gimli found himself getting used to being placed in the middle of a square of hobbits, one moment pulled ahead into Pippin and Merry’s chatter and the next falling back between the silent Frodo and Sam. It was like being back in the mountain, with mischievous Bofur and quiet Dori, who had been two of his most frequent ‘sitters when he’d been a lad. It felt like home. It felt like family.
It was a surprise to none that, when the Company left Rivendell that spring, five of its members wore Dwarven familial braids in their hair, however short and undwarf-like their locks happened to be.

Chapter Text

It was a sad looking troop of dwarves that was lead into the Greenwood realm’s throne hall, with spider silk still tangled around the occasional limb, inhibiting some movement and turning much of their clothes a dull grey. Weapons had been stripped by their captors, and they moved slowly, as if pained by the exhaustion leftover from the spider venom. Bilbo, invisible, thought they looked all the sadder due to their lack of King.

The Elvenking reclined gracefully upon his throne, striking an elegant picture of decadence and finery. Bilbo’s first impression leaned more along the lines of ‘strangely stretched’, a thought that he was almost ashamed of due to its uncharitability. After spending most of his life among those his own size, and spending the last months around the dwarves with barely a wizard in sight, the elf’s long legs and lean torso seemed almost comically oversized, like someone had taken a being of proper size and stretched them out lengthwise. ‘Thorin would appreciate that thought,’ he mused as the Company was brought to a halt. Worry clenched in his chest. ‘I hope he’s okay.’

Thranduil gazed down upon the dwarves, his face carved and stiff like one of the toys Bofur was always whittling away at at night time. Bilbo thought he looked less regal and more smug, and his opinion of the King dropped a few more rungs. Elves sure weren’t turning out to be all that he’d expected, that’s for sure.

“Tell me this,” the Elvenking began, and his guards straightened to attention, emphasizing the dwarves prisoner status. “What is a group of thirteen dwarves doing in my woods?”

“Thirteen?” Balin asked slyly, stepping towards the king. “Does that mean that you found our errant member?”

“If you mean Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, exiled King of no one, then you would be correct,” Thranduil said, and Bilbo had the strange experience of feeling utter relief and building rage at the same time.

“And is he a prisoner here as well?” Dwalin demanded, fists clenching.

“How many other beings do you keep locked up here?” Nori added challengingly. Bilbo smirked, settling back into his corner. Trust Nori to subtly fish for information – they had found Thorin, but none of the Company knew if Bilbo had made it or if he was still stuck out in the woods, wandering, lost, and starving, easy food for the giant spiders.

“Just you for now,” Thranduil responded smoothly. “Unless you have another for us to go pick up?” The dwarves were silent, and Bilbo felt the ring, cool and heavy around his finger. The room was fuzzy around the corners, and odd effect of the ring, but he could still make out the close press of bodies, the way Dori supported Ori, who seemed to have some sort of leg injury, the way Bifur supported Bombur with a firm hand under his elbow. He felt a rush of fondness for his Companions.

“Fourteen,” the female guard corrected, walking right past Bilbo. He automatically took a step to the left to avoid her, and almost ran smack dab into a blonde male elf, who followed the red head up towards the King.

“What?” the king asked.

“There were fourteen beings in the woods,” the female guard repeated. “Though the other didn’t seem to be a dwarf, despite being the proper size for one. Too small,” she said.
“No beard,” the blonde added, with a mocking glint.

“So you were travelling with another companion,” the king mused. “One that is not a dwarf. Small though, leaner than your bulk, beardless, and with pointed ears.” Bilbo almost slapped his forehead when he noticed the shocked and amazed looks on Fili and Kili’s faces. Thranduil obviously read his confirmation on their faces. “I’ve heard of a race that fits this description, though I haven’t seen one in many many years. Halflings…” he murmured.

Bilbo slapped a hand to his face, and thus missed the instigating leap. It was old Balin, usually so filled with calm and sense, who struck first. Later he claimed temporary insanity, brought on by a cocktail of starvation, lack of sleep, and lingering venom, but Dwalin insisted that he was just finally taking advantage of an excuse to deck Thranduil for his part in their people’s dispersal after Smaug’s sacking of Erebor. Bilbo personally supported insanity over revenge, because when he looked up, it was to find the old dwarf scrabbling up onto the King’s lap, one hand leveraging himself up by pulling on the King’s long, blonde hair, the other flailing up towards his face and instead knocking his crown off his head onto the floor. Bilbo would never in his life forget the sheer astonishment on the Elvenking’s face before Ori pulled a slingshot out of nowhere and one of his rocks knocked unswervingly into the side of Thranduil’s forehead. The guards unfroze, stepping forward to interfere, but the Company, spurred on by lack of sleep and sense as well as a smidgeon of revenge, focused entirely upon the Elvenking. The guards seemed not to know what to do with themselves, each wanting to pull the dwarves off of their inelegantly flailing king but as soon as they released one to grab another, the first dwarf returned to the fray.

Dwalin and Bofur had each grabbed a leg, with Dori and Nori helping as they slid the King out of his throne onto his bum. Fili had somehow pulled a knife out of nowhere and stuck it into the thigh of the first guard to pull him off, incidentally the guard who had stripped him of his weapons in the forest. The guard howled and Kili grabbed the fallen branch crown and leap frogged over his brother, shoving it into the guard’s face. The guard fell back with a cry, and the auburn haired elf stepped forward. Kili paused, but Fili simply charged, tackling her legs out from under her. Kili laughed brightly before diving into the wrestling match. Bofur leaned into the King’s face, and, because they were all so silent, everyone heard the “Do. Not. Ever. Call. Him. That. Again.” Each word was reinforced with a knock of the king’s head back against the seat of his throne. The younger blonde seemed to shake off his shock, and strode up to the brawl, calling for more guards. He picked up each dwarf one at a time, avoiding their thrashing limbs, and tossed them each to a guard, having the whole brawl under control in seconds. (Gloin did manage to get a grip into his hair though, and the elf’s nose looked suspiciously red after tossing the red head to the nearest guard.)

Bilbo was reluctantly impressed, but all of the awe faded when he caught a glimpse of the fallen Elvenking. He still wore a look of complete shock, only now his hair was tossed wildly and knotted around his head. A goose egg grew on his forehead where Ori had struck, and his once beautiful clothing was torn and stained with spider webs and all the grime the dwarves had collected in their weeks in the forest.

“THROW THEM ALL INTO THE DUNGEON!” the king roared as the other blonde helped him to his feet. The auburn haired guard held each of the heirs by an arm and frog marched them out, all three of them suspiciously unbruised, while the others were all escorted out, most of them still spitting what was undoubtedly curses in Khuzdul.

The tale was retold many times throughout the years, first a bare ten minutes after the incident to Thorin in the cells, and many years later to Gimli, as well as to the dwarven warriors who later had to patrol the border Erebor shared with Mirkwood. (“They should be prepared!” Bofur once objected over the laughter of his fellows when Dis had walked in on him sharing the tale for the umpteenth time.) Many details changed, and were exaggerated terribly, but one detail was too good to ever change, and remained constant through every retelling.

For the story would never be complete without the mention of their final glimpse of the Elvenking, laying on the floor with Oin’s hearing trumpet perched on his head instead of his crown.