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The journey from Rivendell had been arduous, but for the last three days, it had also been inexplicably... annoying.
It started small. Legolas had woken up to find his bowstring replaced with a length of pink silk ribbon. Then, Boromir’s shield had been polished to such a high mirror sheen that he accidentally blinded himself for five minutes in the morning sun. Most suspiciously, Aragorn had found his boots filled with a very specific, very sticky mountain honey.
"Merry! Pippin!" Aragorn sighed, shaking out a boot. "We are in the wilds. This is no time for games."
"It wasn't us!" Pippin insisted, his eyes wide with genuine hurt. "I wouldn't waste honey, Strider. That’s a crime against breakfast."
"He’s right," Merry added. "And where would we even get pink silk? We’re traveling light."
Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff, looked around the rocky outcropping they had chosen for their midday rest. His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, a sense of mounting dread pooling in his stomach. He knew that specific brand of chaos. He had spent months in the company of it sixty years ago.
Suddenly, a muffled, wheezing giggle drifted from behind a large boulder. It was followed by a sharp shush and the unmistakable sound of two heads knocking together.
Gimli, son of Glóin, froze. He knew that laugh. He had heard it in the halls of Erebor during every festival and royal banquet since he was a lad. His hand flew to his axe, but he didn't swing it. Instead, he stomped toward the boulder with a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"You two rascals!" Gimli roared, reaching behind the stone and grabbing two fistfuls of fur-lined collars. "Come out here and face your judgment!"
He dragged two Dwarves into the light. They were golden-haired and dark-haired, dressed in traveling leathers that were far too fine for common vagabonds, and they were both grinning like they had just invented the concept of trouble.
"Gimli!" Kíli chirped, brushing dust off his tunic. "Fancy meeting you here. I see you’ve joined a very tall, very gloomy walking club."
"What in the name of Durin are you doing here?" Gimli demanded, shaking them slightly before letting go. "Fíli, Kíli! You are Princes of the Mountain! You should be in Erebor, not stalking a Wizard through the wilderness!"
The Fellowship stared. Gandalf, meanwhile, had walked over to a nearby ancient oak and was rhythmically banging his forehead against its trunk.
"We got bored," Fíli explained, looking around the group with keen, bright eyes. "Uncle Thorin was being particularly 'King-ish,' and we decided to see a bit of the world. We heard a rumor that a certain grey-mantled nuisance was heading south, so we followed the breadcrumbs."
Kíli’s eyes landed on Legolas. The Elf was standing perfectly still, his hand hovering near his quiver. "Oi! Blondie! Still haven't found a barber, I see? You look just as grumpy as you did in the Mirkwood dungeons."
"Dwarves," Legolas hissed, his eyes narrowing. "Gandalf, why are there more Dwarves?"
Aragorn and Boromir stepped forward, looking at Gandalf with deep concern. "Mithrandir," Boromir asked, "do you know these... pranksters?"
"I am currently trying to forget them," Gandalf muffled into the tree bark.
Gimli sighed, turning to the Hobbits. "Masters hobbits, ... allow me to introduce the Princes of Erebor. Fíli and Kíli of the Line of Durin. They are... well, they are a handful."
Fíli and Kíli’s eyes widened as they looked at the four Hobbits. They shared a look of intense, secret significance.
"Hobbits!" Kíli whispered. "Real ones! Auntie always said they were the most dangerous creatures in Middle-earth because you never see them coming until they’ve already stolen your heart and your last biscuit."
"Auntie?" Sam asked, confused.
"Never mind that," Fíli said, stepping forward. "Why is a Prince of the Iron Hills traveling with an Elf, a Ranger, a Gondorian, and four Halflings? Is there a party we weren't invited to?"
Aragorn stepped in, his voice grave. "We are on a journey of great peril. There is a shadow growing in the East, a war that will determine the fate of all peoples."
Fíli and Kíli’s grins faded slightly. "War?" Fíli asked. "We’ve been in the wilds for months. We heard nothing of a war."
The Fellowship retreated to a private huddle. Gimli insisted they stay, partly because they were Princes and he couldn't exactly banish them, and partly because they were the finest scouts Erebor had to offer.
"They don't know about the Ring," Gandalf whispered, finally turning away from the tree. "And for now, it is better they do not. But they will follow us regardless. They are Durins; once they find a trail, they never leave it."
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The brothers joined the group, adding a layer of chaotic energy that kept the Hobbits laughing and the Men on edge. They grew particularly fond of Merry and Pippin, teaching them Dwarven gambling games that involved far too much shouting.
But the laughter died when they reached the Walls of Moria.
When the doors of Khazad-dûm finally creaked open, Fíli and Kíli’s faces were masks of reverence. This was the ancestral home. The Great Dwarrowdelf. But as they journeyed deeper, the dust and the silence began to weigh on them.
The discovery in the Chamber of Mazarbul shattered them.
Gimli wailed for his kin, but Fíli and Kíli knelt before the tomb of Balin in a silence that was far more terrifying. They had grown up on Balin’s stories. They had grown up with Ori. They had been saved from death by Óin after the battle of five armies.
"They’re all gone," Kíli whispered, his hand trembling as he touched the rusted remains of Ori’s journal. "They came home to find a grave."
The subsequent battle, the drums in the deep, and the flight to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm were a blur of terror. When Gandalf fell into the abyss, the Fellowship was broken. Fíli and Kíli were the ones who practically carried the Hobbits out into the blinding light of Dimrill Dale, their faces grim and streaked with soot.
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It was later, during a tense rest, that the truth began to unravel.
An Orc-ambush had nearly claimed Frodo’s life. Boromir and Aragorn had rushed to him, fearing the worst, only for Frodo to stand up, bruised but miraculously unpierced.
"The spear should have gone through him!" Boromir exclaimed, pulling back Frodo’s tattered tunic to check the wound.
The light hit the mesh. A shimmer of moonlight and starlight, woven into a fabric that was stronger than steel and lighter than a feather. Mithril.
Gimli let out a gasp of awe. "A kingly gift! I did not know such a thing still existed outside the mountain!"
But Fíli and Kíli weren't gasping in awe. They were staring at the shirt as if it were a ghost. They recognized that. There was only one shirt of mithril ever made and they knew who was supposed to have that.
"Where," Fíli said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that sounded exactly like Thorin Oakenshield, "did you get that, Halfling?"
Frodo stepped back, startled by the sudden intensity in the Prince's eyes. "It... it was a gift. From my uncle."
"Your uncle?" Fíli snapped, stepping into Frodo’s personal space. Boromir moved to intercept him, but Fíli didn't even look at the Man. "That shirt was forged in the hearts of the mountain. It was the prize of our house. Our Uncle Thorin gave that to his Consort sixty years ago as a betrothal gift!”
The Fellowship went dead silent.
"A betrothal gift?" Pippin squeaked. "Bilbo’s married?"
"Of course he’s married!" Kíli shouted, gesturing wildly. "To our Uncle Thorin! They’ve been in a long-distance relationship for decades! They send letters every month via the Eagle-post! Auntie Bilbo is the Consort of Erebor!"
Frodo’s jaw dropped. "Bilbo never... he never told me. He said he went on an adventure, and he talked about his friends, but he never said he was... a King’s husband."
Fíli let out a bitter, sharp bark of laughter. He looked at Kíli and muttered, "Of course he didn't. Of course that Hobbit didn't say anything. That man would lie about what’s in his own sandwich if he thought the secret was more interesting."
"Your uncle is Bilbo Baggins?" Kíli asked, his eyes suddenly wide with a different kind of realization.
"Yes," Frodo whispered. "He’s my mother’s sister’s son... my uncle and my guardian."
Fíli and Kíli looked at each other, then back at Frodo. The anger vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, stunned bewilderment.
"You’re the nephew," Kíli breathed. "The one he never shuts up about. Every time he visits the mountain, or every time a letter comes, it’s 'Frodo did this' and 'Frodo is so clever' and 'I hope Frodo hasn't burnt the kitchen down'."
"He calls him his little heir," Fíli added, looking at Frodo with newfound respect. "He told Uncle Thorin that if anything ever happened to Bag End, his nephew was to be treated as a Prince of the Line of Durin."
Gimli let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the trees. "By the beard of my fathers! This means... Frodo, lad! If you’re Bilbo’s heir and Bilbo is Thorin’s husband... that makes you Fíli and Kíli’s cousin!"
"Cousins?" Frodo asked, looking at the two formidable, golden-and-dark Dwarves.
"Technically, you’re our cousin-nephew-in-law," Kíli said, grinning ear-to-ear as he swung an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. "But 'Cousin' is much easier to say."
Aragorn and Boromir stood off to the side, looking profoundly overwhelmed.
"Aragorn," Boromir whispered, rubbing his temples. "Did we just gain two more Dwarven Princes because of a Hobbit’s secret marriage?"
"It would appear so," Aragorn sighed, watching as Fíli began to inspect Frodo’s Mithril shirt with the professional eye of a jeweler. "Though, considering the state of the world, having the Princes of Erebor claim the Ring-bearer as kin might be the only stroke of luck we have left."
Fíli patted Frodo’s shoulder. "Don't worry, Cousin. Since Auntie Bilbo isn't here to look after you, we’ll take over. And God help any Orc that tries to touch a hair on a Durin’s head."