Archive of Our Own

1. Bofur

The Shire was a distant memory, and the storm outside—combined with the misty appearance of the Misty Mountains—left Bilbo feeling rather cold deep down.

He didn’t know what had driven him out of his door, but if he was honest, it was likely recklessness of the highest order.

He had told Gandalf that adventures and hobbits had nothing to do with one another; indeed, Bilbo had already traveled far more than any other hobbit since their settlement in the Shire. Anyone who endured longer journeys had long since departed for the Green Gardens of Lady Yavanna—a land where travel was safe and suited to any hobbit, a place that never turned hostile like the Wild he and the Company found themselves in.

“Ah, lad,” Bilbo turned as Bofur sat down beside him, “you look downcast.”

“Downcast? Oh, no—I’m afraid hobbits don’t get downcast,” Bilbo replied. “They might question their own judgment at times—especially those who let meddlesome wizards, the sort who vanish at the most inconvenient moments, poke their noses into their smials.” Bilbo shook his head. “I should have learned from my grandfather’s mistake—letting that wizard take his youngest daughter along on his adventures. Only as far as Rivendell, mind you, but still...” Bilbo shook his head again. “No, hobbits aren’t made for adventure. I was mad to come here.”

“Don’t think like that,” Bofur interjected. “Thorin spoke out of turn, but it was mostly fear and anger directed at himself. You are part of our Company.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and turned to look at Bofur. “Do you think I’m insulted or hurted by Thorin’s words?”

Bilbo did not notice the other dwarves’ gazes fixed upon them. The cave wasn't spacious enough to allow for a private conversation, after all—not without curious ears listening in.

“You aren't?” Bofur asked, raising an eyebrow. “Thorin was rather cruel to you, Master Baggins.”

“Call me Bilbo; I’m not the Master of anything.” Bilbo snorted, thinking of the snooty look Lobelia would wear if she ever heard the title Mistress applied to herself. Perish that thought! “And no, it would have to be untrue to offend me. Thorin spoke nothing but the truth. This quest isn't for me, and I was mad to come along.”

“But you only fell because you pushed Fili and Ori out of the way!” Bofur exclaimed. “You saved their lives.”

“Well, that doesn't make my decision any less mad,” Bilbo reasoned. “A good outcome doesn't make it a good choice.”

“So what makes a good choice, then?” Bofur asked.

“A right choice isn't one that guarantees a good outcome. It’s one you make for the right reasons, knowing the cost it might entail,” Bilbo replied. “Of course, no one ever really knows. You simply make the choice that allows you to live with the consequences, whatever they may be.”

“And do you regret signing the contract?” Bofur asked. “It would be understandable, given everything that’s been happening.”

“That depends on what you mean, and you really ought to ask me at the end of the journey rather than the beginning,” Bilbo said. “Regardless, I signed the contract. I’m a Baggins, not a Bracegirdle.” Bilbo wrinkled his nose at the thought of Lobelia and the unfortunate fact that they were related—twice over.

Some Bagginses had truly poor taste.

Bofur snorted, as if the comparison amused him. “You said Bracegirdle the same way we’d say Elves.”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “Believe me, Lobelia is worse than any elf. I’d rather talk about the near-fall than that unfortunate relative—and that’s only because a cousin had absolutely no taste.”

Bofur chuckled, making Bilbo smile in return.

“Anyway, thank you for trying to cheer me up,” Bilbo said. “You're very good at making people feel welcome.”

Bofur stopped smiling for a moment as his cheeks began to flush. “Well... someone has to.”

Bilbo nodded and replied, “Then I'm glad it's you.”

Bofur’s blush deepened considerably, but Bilbo had already turned his gaze back to his notebook, which he was using to jot down notes about their adventure.

Regretting it later versus failing to take notes were two very different things; any Baggins would have documented it all.

1. Oin

Climbing down from the Carrock was supposed to be the easy part of the journey.

Instead, they were all battered and bruised from their unscheduled visit to Goblin-town and the subsequent arrival of Azog.

Bilbo didn’t know what postal service the goblins used, but he dearly wished it was the same one the Shire used—something that would speed up the delivery of letters, rather than having to hope and pray that a letter reached its destination on time.

Sending out invitations was always a massive headache, and it had to be done months before any event.

Bilbo and Gandalf sat alone, smoking pipe-weed, while Oin, the healer, made his rounds among the dwarves.

“You know, you could have told me that goblins looked a lot like Lobelia,” Bilbo said calmly, casting a sidelong glance at Gandalf. “It would have made the whole experience much less stressful.”

“Goblins are creatures of darkness—cunning, cruel, and ingenious—yet they rarely build anything that isn’t meant to corrupt or destroy,” Gandalf replied, sounding weary.

“And what is Lobelia?” Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow. “Look.” He held out his notebook, revealing a sketch of the goblin. “I used Lobelia’s likeness as the starting point for the drawing.”

“There’s no need to be mean about Lobelia,” Gandalf grunted. “Do I need to remind you that she’s your cousin?”

“Do I need to remind you that my grandfather strictly forbade you from dragging any of his relatives along on your foolish escapades?” Bilbo shot back.

“Well, strictly speaking, you aren’t actually related,” Gandalf continued, almost inadvertently taking Bilbo’s side.

“I thought as much,” Bilbo snorted. “He’ll be furious with you. Taking his favorite grandson, letting him run off like that without telling a soul. The scandal surrounding your actions will be unprecedented.”

Gandalf shot a sharp look at Bilbo, as if to stop him, but Oin—who had come to a halt right in front of Bilbo—interrupted their conversation.

“Master Oin.” Bilbo nodded.

“Master Baggins.” Oin nodded back. “Take off your shirt, lad; I want to see the damage.”

“What damage?” Bilbo asked, blinking. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me your chest, will you?” Oin asked, urging Bilbo to reveal his injuries.

Left with no excuses or alternatives, Bilbo stripped off his upper garments, giving Oin a clear view of his torso.

“Mahal, lad,” Oin exclaimed upon seeing the array of bruises, cuts, and scrapes covering the hobbit’s chest. “What happened to you?”

“The same sort of thing that always happens to hobbits, Gandalf,” Bilbo replied, hearing the laughter—barely stifled—of a few dwarves nearby.

“The injuries—how did you get them?” Oin asked.

“Oh, I fell into the goblin cave.” Bilbo paused. “A goblin fell on top of me, and we tumbled down into the chasm below.”

Oin blinked.

“The good news is, a tree down there broke my fall.” Bilbo shrugged.

“And the bad news?” Oin asked, beginning to prod Bilbo’s body and making him wince in pain.

“The tree had plenty of branches but very few leaves, and I managed to hit every single one of them,” Bilbo answered calmly. “Nothing’s broken. Hobbits are hardy creatures.”

Oin grumbled as he began tending to Bilbo’s cuts, muttering occasionally as if Bilbo had offended him by falling off a cliff.

Bilbo could have said that it hadn't exactly been his intention.

Oin had had little to do with his fall.

“There you are, Master Baggins,” Oin nodded. “You can get dressed again.”

Bilbo did so, failing to notice the dwarves’ eyes fixed upon them—some amused, others shocked, and still others surprised.

“Thank you, Oin.” Bilbo nodded. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

As Bilbo turned away to resume berating Gandalf, Oin blushed before walking briskly over to his brother.

1. Kili

Kili approached him that evening, while Bilbo had gone in search of some spices for dinner.

“Mister Boggins!” Kili exclaimed, practically running toward Bilbo, excited about something.

“Kili.” Bilbo nodded. “And it’s Baggins.”

“I…” Kili hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I wanted to thank you.”

“And for what?” Bilbo looked surprised. “Bombur is making dinner; you should thank him.”

“Not for the dinner—though I’d ​​take anything with a bit of flavor at this point.” Kili shook his head. “No, I… you saved Fili and then Thorin, even though he’d been horrible to you! And I know you said it didn’t really matter—because you thought what he said was true—but he shouldn’t have said it!”

“Kili, it’s all right.” Bilbo stopped him. “Your uncle has to reclaim his people’s home, and there’s a dragon waiting further along the path.” Bilbo reflected for a moment, the words of Elrond and Gandalf echoing in his mind—one fearing Thorin’s madness, the other intent on Smaug’s defeat, a goal that might well entail the death of Thorin or the Company. “A hobbit—especially among dwarves—appears weak and vulnerable, like prey; not the sort of thing you want to be when you have to fight your way to your destination.”

Kili slumped, clearly disappointed that Bilbo was using logic rather than the emotional sentiment dwarves seemed to cherish.

Instead, Bilbo found himself appreciating Thorin’s younger nephew, saying almost absentmindedly, “It is very kind of you to care about that.” Bilbo nodded at his own words, as if mulling them over. “Yes, it is very easy to like you, Kili. Very easy.” As soon as the words left Bilbo’s lips, Kili blushed deeply, leaving Bilbo wondering what had caused it.

Unfortunately, Kili’s hasty departure gave Bilbo no chance to find out. Bilbo simply hoped he hadn’t somehow offended the young prince.

1. Fili

It was sheer luck that Bilbo ran into Fili well before returning to the other dwarves, the spices finally gathered.

“Fili!” Bilbo looked him over, noting his posture and checking for any untreated injuries. “Should you be up?” Bilbo asked, knowing the dwarf had avoided being confined to bed rest only because Gandalf had claimed to have used a bit of magic on him, ensuring he would be perfectly fine.

“Yes, I can be up,” Fili said. “And it’s a good thing, too, since Kili needs a lot of watching over, and Uncle isn't available to look after him.”

Bilbo smiled, knowing Fili was always the one keeping an eye on Kili’s whereabouts during the journey; he insisted on walking behind his brother, effectively placing himself between Kili and their uncle—a position that, by Bilbo’s reckoning, was Fili’s rightful place as heir.

“You really are a good brother,” Bilbo remarked, blinking in surprise when Fili looked confused. Unfortunately for him, Bilbo didn't have time to dwell on it. “I need to take these herbs to Bombur; maybe we can speed up someone’s recovery.” Like Thorin—that foolish dwarf who went charging at wargs and orcs.

As he walked toward the camp, Bilbo failed to notice the blush that had spread across Fili’s face following the compliment.

1. Bombur

“Here are the herbs for the stew, Bombur.” Bilbo handed the herbs to Bombur, smiling at Bofur and Bifur, who were camped nearby. “You said they’d come in handy, didn’t you?”

“Ah, I didn’t think I’d be able to do anything with spices until the first caravans arrived from the Blue Mountains with supplies.” Bombur sighed. “Spices would have taken up valuable space in the packs—space better used for other things. And now, with all our gear lost…”

Bilbo hummed thoughtfully, unable to think of a way to solve Bombur’s dilemma. He still had his own pack because he had been on the verge of leaving to return to Rivendell.

As luck would have it, Elrond had personally stocked Bilbo’s pack—perhaps anticipating that they would attempt to flee after Gandalf’s words. He had included plenty of medical supplies, too, allowing Oin to treat Thorin far more effectively than Gandalf had.

“You know, you really have a knack for making these meals tasty,” Bilbo said. “And I’m a hobbit—I know what I’m talking about.”

Bombur beamed, delighted, a blush spreading through his beard.

1. Dwalin

Of all the dwarves, the one who—along with Thorin—had held Bilbo in the lowest regard was his right-hand man, Dwalin.

It wasn’t that the warrior hated Bilbo, or failed to appreciate his stories or even his presence. It was simply that, as he had pointed out at Bag End, hobbits and the Wild had very little in common, and Bilbo was bound to get himself killed.

However, leaping at an orc that was about to behead Thorin—thereby saving the leader's life—had proven Bilbo worthy enough to stand in Dwalin’s company; now, Dwalin appreciated him without reservation.

In particular, Bilbo had realized that Dwalin was what one might call a mother hen, deeply concerned for the younger ones and for Thorin—who was more reckless than any of the other dwarves present. This made Bilbo feel deeply for Thorin’s sister, the mother of the Company’s other two reckless souls, Kili and Fili.

After helping Bombur prepare dinner, Bilbo had stepped away to watch the rocks for any approaching orcs.

The dwarves could see better than Bilbo in the dark, but Bilbo could sense through the earth if orcs were near. Their foul presence was enough for him to know if they were in the area.

He hadn't realized this with the goblins because he had never sensed them before, but now that he knew them too, nothing could hide from his sight.

Bilbo hoped to determine whether Smaug was still alive before entering the Mountain, knowing that a very different approach would be required depending on the knowledge.

“Master Baggins, you haven’t eaten,” Dwalin announced, speaking from behind him.

“Ah, no—I’ll eat later, yes.” Bilbo nodded. “I’m still a bit shaken by what happened, yes.” 

“The first kill is never easy, even if you’re slaying a foul beast like an orc or a warg.” Dwalin nodded gravely, setting a heaped plate down in front of Bilbo. “Eat. Bombur says it helps us dwarves heal faster; perhaps it has the same effect on hobbits.”

“You’ll find that Lady Yavanna has compassion for dwarves,” Bilbo said, somewhat testily. “She would never harm her husband’s children—whom she doesn’t call children only because she has her own.”

“Did Lady Yavanna create the hobbits?” Dwalin asked, sitting down beside Bilbo. Seeing Bilbo’s look of mild surprise—genuinely taken aback that Dwalin had realized he was speaking of his own people—Dwalin added, “It’s obvious that Elves and Men have little to do with Yavanna, and I know you can’t see a thing, yet you always know how distant orcs and wargs are. You see here the same way we see the stone. Yavanna must be your creator.”

“She is,” Bilbo confirmed, finally taking a sip of the soup Bombur had concocted. “Yavanna is life; killing goes against everything hobbits are and stand for.”

“Do you regret it?” Dwalin asked—perhaps curious about Bilbo’s answer, yet indifferent to the reply itself, knowing that actions mattered more than words. He recalled how Thorin had insulted Bilbo right after he saved the hobbit’s life—or, in that other memorable instance, right before embracing him.

“No.” Bilbo shook his head. “I can live with the consequences of my actions.” He nodded to himself, realizing he truly could live with his choices. Surprisingly enough. Then, the hobbit turned to Dwalin, able to fully appreciate the gesture now that the heavy burden had lifted. “You’re very kind, you know?”

“I am not kind.” Dwalin growled, blushing right up to his ears.

“You really are,” Bilbo insisted, smiling in amusement as the flush only deepened.

Then, with all the dignity a dwarf with a beet-red face could muster, Dwalin stood up and strode briskly toward the camp, making it clear he would not let Bilbo insult him without consequence.

1. Balin

“You’ve broken my brother, you know, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo smiled as he turned to look at Balin, the dwarf assigned to look after him for the time being.

The dwarves thought they were being subtle, but dwarves weren't subtle at all—Bilbo couldn't fathom how they could possibly think they were. He shuddered at the thought that that might be the definition of dwarven subtlety.

“In what way?” Bilbo asked. “The last time I saw Dwalin, he’d brought me my dinner.” Bilbo held up the empty bowl in his hand as proof.

“Well, ever since then, Dwalin has made a point of reminding everyone that he isn't kind at all,” Balin said, casting a knowing glance at Bilbo. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“If Dwalin thinks he isn't kind, that’s hardly my fault.” Bilbo huffed. “In fact, I told him the exact opposite just last night!”

“I think that’s what broke him, Master Baggins,” Balin murmured, perhaps wondering why Bilbo failed to grasp such basic things.

Dwarves must be allergic to emotions, just as they were to subtlety.

“Well, I simply don't see why!” Bilbo exclaimed, standing up and following Balin back toward the camp. “Dwalin is a wonderful friend, and anyone can see he’s extremely kind.” At Balin’s dry look, Bilbo added, “Who told him to bring me my meal?”

“No one,” Balin replied. “Dwalin realized it on his own and took it upon himself to see to your needs.”

“You see?” Bilbo nodded. “Kind, just as I said.”

Balin remained silent, as if unsure how to dispute Bilbo’s logic.

Bilbo could have told him it was no use. The Bagginses had no flaws in their reasoning because, unlike other folk, they spoke only when they had something to say, rather than just to let air out of their mouths.

“Well, I suppose from an outsider’s perspective, Dwalin might…” Balin paused. “I won’t deny it, Master Baggins; many find Dwalin rather intimidating.”

“Well, the axes certainly don’t give the opposite impression, do they?” Bilbo mused aloud. “Especially when one isn’t expecting them.”

“Not expecting them?” Balin blinked. “Master Baggins, the dinner had been planned for months!”

“Nonsense.” Bilbo huffed. “I only found out about your arrival when you actually arrived! And that morning was the first time I’d seen Gandalf in years!” Bilbo grumbled. “The old Disturber of the Peace shows up, mutters about adventures, and then even puts a mark on my door! Me, a Baggins—my door ruined by that madman.”

Balin blinked before speaking, his tone slow and almost hesitant. “Bilbo, are you telling me you didn’t even know we were coming, or why we were there?”

“I had no idea, no.” Bilbo confirmed. “It’s rather difficult to pry information out of you Dwarves, anyway. If you took for granted that I knew, though, I imagine that didn’t leave a very good impression, did it?” Bilbo murmured. “Ah, a Baggins offering poor hospitality—what a dreadful state of affairs.”

“All things considered, Bilbo, you were an excellent host.” Balin said, sounding annoyed. “Unfortunately, Gandalf had told us you were perfectly willing to be our burglar months before we even arrived at your home.” Balin’s expression made it clear that that perception was about to change very quickly. Bilbo might have felt sorry for the wizard had he not organized a party of dwarves in his home without warning him—and, it seemed, ruined his reputation in the process.

There was no doubt as to why all the dwarves doubted his word, given that, from their perspective, Bilbo had already done just that.

“Well, I appreciate that very much, Balin,” Bilbo said. “In fact, considering the opinion you held of me—the opinion Gandalf had helped shape—you have been very kind and helpful toward me.”

Balin cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing, before the dwarf stood up and said, “Well, it seems I must be going now. Matters to discuss.”

Bilbo watched—vaguely amused—as dwarven subtlety was once again on full display.

Dwarves.

1. Nori

“Ah, Bilbo, I didn’t know you still had any pipe-weed.”

Bilbo, puffing on his pipe, blew a perfect smoke ring before turning his gaze toward Nori.

“I didn’t,” Bilbo replied. “I’m afraid it didn’t survive the quest this far.”

“Then what are you smoking, if you don’t have pipe-weed?” Nori asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t have pipe-weed,” Bilbo answered calmly. “I discovered that Gandalf had made me out to be a Sackville of the worst sort. He doesn’t deserve to smoke the Shire’s finest Old Toby.”

Nori chuckled, sitting down beside Bilbo. “Can I have some of that Shire Old Toby? I’ve never tasted it.”

“Good heavens, have you been smoking Men’s weed?” Bilbo wrinkled his nose, disgusted by the prospect. “Goodness, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone but Gandalf on his worst days.”

Nori snorted in amusement, then said, “I’ve tried stealing from the wizard before, but he has eyes everywhere.”

“Nah, he just wasn’t expecting to be robbed while Balin was explaining the importance of honesty on a quest like this.” Bilbo blew a smoke ring before passing the pipe to Nori. “That’s the only reason you can’t get past his guard. Gandalf isn’t omniscient; you just have to wait for the right moment when he’s distracted to take what you want.”

Nori took a drag from the pipe, then murmured in appreciation. “Well, you hobbits have a real knack for pipe-weed. I don’t think I’ve ever tried anything like this.” Nori looked dejected for a moment. “Not that I’d know anything about having a knack for something.”

“Beg pardon?” Bilbo asked, blinking in surprise. “From what I’ve been told, dwarves all feel their calling.”

“To create.” Nori practically snarled, his voice thick with scorn—scorn directed, it was clear, at himself. “And I do not have the hands for creating.”

“But you have hands suited for thieving, and you have put them to clever use, Master Nori,” Bilbo said. “Thorin might need someone who can see and hear what others miss when the dwarves return to the Mountain. I do not know how similar dwarves are to Men or Elves, but discord exists even among hobbits, where we need not worry about wars or laws.”

Nori flushed and lowered his gaze. “I appreciate that, Bilbo. Not many see it that way.”

“Well, that is their failing, not yours,” Bilbo said. “You are truly very clever, Nori, and I am certain that the Company, at least, knows it now.”

1. Ori

Gandalf could talk all he liked about using Good morning to start a conversation, but at least Bilbo only said it once per conversation. Moreover, people didn't have the automatic urge to distract Bilbo with something shiny just to escape him—unlike Gandalf, who had repeated Good morning at least five times to Beorn, only to be brusquely ignored.

“You know, you ought to look for the answer to your own question,” Bilbo said to Gandalf, intent on sketching Beorn’s house along with their host and his marvelous creatures. “Did you mean to tell him he’d have a good day? That it was a day when we all ought to be good? Or were you simply feeling particularly good about yourself?”

“B...being polite to our host was just good manners, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said irritably.

“And you were afraid.” Bilbo nodded. “Not that it made much sense; he’d certainly come in during the night and seen us there. He doesn't strike me as the sort who cares about etiquette—he would have thrown us out, at the very least, if he’d wanted to.”

“You... ah, you knew he’d seen us and didn't say anything?” Gandalf asked, staring at Bilbo in shock.

“You didn't ask me,” Bilbo said calmly. “You ought to know that Baggins only speak when spoken to, and only when they have something sensible to say.”

“You... ah, well...” Gandalf stammered. He was saved from having to find a reply to Bilbo’s perfectly logical statement by the arrival of Ori, who sat down in front of Bilbo with some kind of hesitation, yet firmly.

“Master Baggins, may I have a look at your notebook?” Ori asked, his ears still flushed, while the Company cast astonished glances his way. 

(Bilbo would only discover that later, but in that moment, Ori was acknowledging Bilbo as a master scribe, asking to examine his work so he might emulate it.)

“Ah, certainly, here you are.” Bilbo took the notebook from his pocket, offering the booklet to Ori. “Mind you, it’s only a draft—just to keep track of everything that happened.”

“Yes, it is beautiful writing,” Ori remarked. “It’s incredible that it has survived so long.”

“Well, that’s all thanks to the ink we hobbits use.” Bilbo smiled. “The Baggins, in particular, created this black fluid that, once dry, never fades. When my mother married my father, you know, Elrond asked my father for the recipe so he could use the same ink for Elven writings.” Bilbo huffed.

“A perfectly reasonable request,” Gandalf interjected—he who had asked Bungo for the very same thing and been refused without hesitation.

“Oh, stop it.” Bilbo snapped. “The recipe belongs to the Baggins and only to those they call family. You and Elrond may have been close friends of my mother, but you weren't family—not even to her. Share the recipe? Bah! Not even Rosa Baggins—whose only fault was marrying a Sackville and producing someone capable of looking at a Bracegirdle and deciding to marry her—ever revealed the recipe to her husband or son!”

“It’s a senseless tradition,” Gandalf said. “Elves live forever; they need to be able to maintain their writings without having to copy them every few years just to preserve them.”

“They can come up with their own recipe, just as the Baggins did before my father’s time.” Bilbo huffed. “Share the recipe—ha! As if we were some foolish, senseless Bracegirdle.” 

(Bilbo would have shared his recipe with Ori, making him blush, but at that moment Bilbo could not have known that.)

1. Dori

“Master Baggins, if I may…” Dori came up beside Bilbo that evening; and, knowing that dwarves were not given to subtlety, Bilbo surmised that Dori had seen the two younger brothers speaking to him and decided that Bilbo deserved a conversation.

He could hardly fault him for that, considering how often he had done the same with Drogo and anyone else who happened to be conversing with his younger cousin.

Dori had taken Bilbo’s coat, along with a needle and thread, and turned that heap of rags back into a proper coat.

“Master Dori, it’s simply astounding!” Bilbo’s jaw dropped as he gazed at his coat, now worthy of the name once more. “Truly, that is very, very kind of you.”

“It’s nothing; I’m a tailor—it stands to reason I’d mend the coats,” Dori stammered, blushing slightly.

“Well, no one forced you, yet you did it anyway,” Bilbo said. “And it’s not just a matter of the trade; this is looking after all of us—the most fundamental form of caring for someone.”

Dori blushed even deeper before replying. “Well, someone has to do it.”

“I am grateful that it is you,” Bilbo said.

1. Gloin.

“And no one was as beautiful as my light, my wife!” Gloin was saying, making the dwarves around him groan.

Confused, Bilbo looked at Bofur, who was sitting beside him, seeking an explanation.

“Gloin loves talking about his wife and son,” Bofur explained. “So much so that everyone knows them both.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard about them,” Bilbo mused, frowning. “That’s a shame, really.”

“You want to hear about Gloin’s wife and son?” Dwalin groaned. “Lad, it’s torture!”

“I’m a hobbit,” Bilbo reminded the dwarf. “And hobbits love family stories.”

“Really?” Gloin’s face lit up, a flush spreading across his cheekbones. “Then come here, Bilbo! I’ll show you my wife and my little Gimli!”

Without waiting for further invitation, Bilbo was only too happy to join Gloin and hear the story of Gloin’s romance with his wife, and of little Gimli’s bravery.

“It’s admirable.” Bilbo sniffled after Gloin finished explaining that it was for them—as well as out of loyalty to Thorin—that he had set out; restoring Gimli’s ancestral home would be a noble deed on Gloin’s part. “Gimli is truly lucky to have a father like you, Gloin.”

The flush on the dwarf’s cheeks only deepened.

1. Bifur

Mirkwood was dreadful, and Bilbo almost wished the eagles would return and drop them right in front of the Lonely Mountain, sparing them those last few days of walking.

A tap on the shoulder made him turn; Bifur—the dwarf who couldn't speak Westron and stuck to Khuzdûl—made a universal gesture asking if Bilbo was all right.

“Oh, right, it’s just… the forest is sick, and the air is horrible to breathe.” Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “The rot is so advanced. And so widespread. I’m surprised the inhabitants haven’t gone mad.” Bilbo looked around. “And the lack of life here doesn’t surprise me. Animals are too wise to stay here.”

Bifur grunted—a clear sign of someone wanting to offer support, even though he hadn't the faintest idea what was going on to begin with.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Master Bifur.” Bilbo smiled, relieving him of the need to try and lift Bilbo’s spirits with clumsy gestures.

Bifur pressed something against Bilbo’s chest; surprised, Bilbo grabbed it to see what it was.

A wooden carving of a dragon was staring back at him.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo said, looking up at Bifur, before his eyes widened at the dwarf’s refusal when he tried to hand it back. “Is it for me?”

Bifur nodded enthusiastically.

“I love it.” Bilbo smiled, forgetting for a moment the poison that permeated the air around them. “Thank you so much, Bifur.”

Bifur’s smile could have lit up that dark corner of the world. The blush didn't hurt, either.

1. Thorin

Thorin Oakenshield was a problem.

Bilbo had realized this the moment he saw him—striding in like a tragic king from legend—though that impression had been somewhat dampened by his incredibly rude manner of speaking.

Unfortunately, Bilbo hadn't anticipated saving the dwarf's life and forging a deep friendship with him—a dwarf who possessed a dramatic flair for gazing determinedly into the distance, catching the light of the sun, the stars, the moon, or even a mere candle, all of which made him look incredibly majestic and—for lack of a better word—regal.

But Thorin was determined; he possessed an immense sense of duty and responsibility regarding his undertakings, even when weary or wounded. He was brave and fiercely loyal—an incredible leader whom others followed out of trust rather than fear. He was proud, yet Bilbo had learned there was no arrogance in him.

And beneath that tough exterior lay a hidden but immense tenderness—so profound that Bilbo wondered how he managed to conceal it at all.

Unfortunately, Thorin also had a knack for making Bilbo lose his temper in ways no one else had yet discovered or tested.

“You know you don’t have to do everything right now, do you?” Bilbo asked. “Or that you don’t have to be the one to do it?”

“My people have waited long enough to return home,” Thorin said—his deep, grave voice failing to impress Bilbo in the slightest, given that the dwarf was currently lying in bed, wounded from battle.

“I’m not saying nothing should be done; I’m saying you don’t have to do it,” Bilbo clarified to the dwarf, who seemed to lack any common sense.

That was precisely why they had wanted a Hobbit: they needed at least a shred of intelligence on the mission. And so, Bilbo was not surprised to find that the contracts Thorin was reading—brought by Dwalin, who had been sent by Dori, who in turn had taken the papers written by Ori in Khuzdul at Balin’s dictation—were actually written by Bilbo himself; he could very well have summarized the whole thing for Thorin and spared him the strain on his wound.

Oin might have resigned himself to the Durins’ poor performance as patients, but Bilbo would not allow the foolish dwarves to die of their own absolute and boundless stubbornness.

“They are my people,” Thorin said. “I cannot let them down again.”

“Let them down?” Bilbo blinked. “You haven’t let anyone down, Thorin. You are the one who made their return home possible.”

“I don’t even have the Arkenstone anymore—the very promise that drove us on this quest.” Thorin sighed. “If everything isn’t perfect, I fear they will ask for a better ruler.”

“They already have the best ruler, and they couldn’t ask for another,” Bilbo blurted out, feeling even more hurt than before; he had thought Thorin was just being a typical dwarf, but instead, he was merely revealing his endless guilt. “And you don’t need some wretched Arkenstone; you didn’t even need it to drive the dragon out of the Mountain!” Bilbo went on. “The Arkenstone was just a stone that you dwarves imbued with the power to establish the right to rule. It has no value other than what you all give it! And, well, there is an incredible feat now that grants the right to rule all on its own. You led twelve dwarves across Middle-earth and reclaimed Erebor! With a host of eyes on your trail!” Bilbo huffed. “Only a fool would doubt you as king.” Bilbo finished his outburst, blinking at the flush spreading across Thorin’s cheeks.

“I…” Thorin paused, clearing his throat slightly. “I deeply appreciate your words, Master Baggins. You… your help was essential in reclaiming the Mountain,” Thorin said, clearly struggling with the words. “Do not underestimate your importance.”

“Oh, well,” Bilbo murmured, flustered—as often happened when the stoic King Under the Mountain paid him a heartfelt compliment—“I had promised to bring you all home, you see, so that is simply what I did.”

“There is nothing simple about what you did,” Thorin corrected him, his voice steady despite his flushed cheeks. “But I shall always be grateful that you did it.”

“And I, that I did,” Bilbo murmured, confessing it like a secret truth. “Always.”

Thorin’s smile was simply beautiful.