Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some say the last mile of a journey is the longest. In his worn and shabby coat, and with a heavy step echoing how tattered he felt in body and heart, Bilbo could agree. He made his way up the hill with a large wooden chest tied to his back, a small pack of dwindling supplies and only the thought of his chair and his bed kept him from collapsing to the wayside in the buttery afternoon sun. There was still a short way to go though, and true rest at the end – rest his body was desperate for. So, he trudged past surprisingly quiet fields and even an empty market place.  Bilbo spared a vague thought to wonder if there was a party or some other occasion that was drawing the hobbits away from their normal afternoon pleasures of tea and conversation. He lumbered laboriously on.

It was around then, during that brief thought, when he saw his mother’s favourite settee trundled past him down the hill. Bilbo froze, and called out a moment too late to stop the pair of Bricegirdles making off with his mother’s bedroom divan, merely catching the yelled response that they had bought it at the auction fair and square.

His strides became decidedly shorter and certainly faster as he pounded up Bagshot Row and around the corner, reaching Bag-End to catch view of the soft-beaked crows plucking the flesh off the carcass of his home with raucous caws and flashing talons.

On the day that Bilbo Baggins returned to the Shire, it was to find his home invaded and everything he held dear put up for auction. A drawn sword and some adventurous words later, he was left with a mostly-empty Smial, a basket of hot food from Mrs Gamgee, weary feet and an even wearier heart.

For the first week of his return Master Baggins, bearing a walking stick in a manner so adventurous it might has well have been a sword, made his way around the green hills of Hobbiton. He stalked from one smial to another, hunting down the listed names of successful bidders to restore his home to a condition similar to the way he had left it one year ago.

What had been a moment of change and daring in his life now left a memory of little humour in the wake of the completion of his contract. Against the abandonment by the dwarves he held so dear, little could bring solace as the spring wind chilled the morning, carrying imagined traces of snow from mountains too far away to see. It was a wind cooler than the one he raced when he left last year, but warmer than the one that brought him home again.

Dubbed ‘’mad Baggins,’’ he was shunned. Hobbit kith and kin neither sought his company, nor called on him with their past regularity. His dwarves had turned their backs; Gandalf was off doing… whatever it was he did in-between causing trouble… possibly causing other kinds of trouble. Bjorn was a mountain range away, and so was every elf whom he called friend, and who called him friend in return.

Instead, in the green and beating heart of his homeland, he was more alone than ever. Until, of course, he remembered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was just after second breakfast, with that peculiar, languid stretch of warmth and comfort spreading through the household. A golden ray of light bathed the newly cleared kitchen table. For once there was no chore to undertake, and no meal to cook as the last was just done. There was no need to rush off and, best of all – with the fauntlings on a trip to the nearby fields to learn their green tales– no rush of tiny, fluffy feet galumphing across the immaculate parquet hallways.

Mrs Gamgee breathed a deep sigh, a contented sigh of life’s satisfaction. Deeper than the satisfaction of the morning though was the knowledge that somewhere, not too nearby, Lobelia Sackville-I-Wish-I-was-a-Baggins was seething, foiled in her grasping endeavour. Bag End was restored to rightful hands and now, for the first time in a year, Bell Gamgee felt she could enjoy the sunlight and jaunty breeze of a chilly spring morning.

Of course, that was when a visitor knocked at her door. Her kitchen door.

Bell tsked, but rose to answer, only to halt abruptly when she realised the knock had come from the back door. Only the very intrusive or the very familiar visitor – sometimes both in one person – came to the back door before reasonable visiting hours! Bell gathered up her most disapprovingly polite smile and swept open the door.

“Good M- Oh! Mr Baggins!” The ice melted into honey and her face softened. “Hamfast is just getting ready and will be back at fixing that fence of yours today.” The wretched thing had been knocked over after a year of disuse and a hasty escape by a fleeing crowd a few days before.

“Good morning… Mrs Gamgee.” The hesitance there, so unlike their story-telling Mr Baggins, struck her into pausing. Bilbo Baggins. Run off with some scaffy dwarves in the middle of the night and returned to become a warning tale to every fauntling tempted to do the same.

She’d heard already, down in the market.

“Shame to the family… such a good reputation until now.”

“Mad, I tell you! Swinging a sword and making threats for a right, honest purchase!”

“But nothing to be surprised at, you know,” the barely veiled implication was dripping off the tone, “You know… with that one for a mother.”

Mrs Knobbs had best not hope for any of Bell’s homemade marmalade anytime soon after a crack like that at the sainted Belladonna Baggins! Bell Gamgee grew up Bell Goodchild, neighbours to the Tooks, and Belladonna’s deepest co-conspirator. When her dear friend had moved to Hobbiton she’d come along to see her settled. While there, she had met her Gaffer, and simply never went back. A silly little thing like death couldn’t touch a friendship like that. She wondered what Belladonna would have thought of her little Bilbo’s adventure, then had to catch a snort before it escaped. Belladonna would’ve been after him halfway to whatever dwarfish destination he’d been to, and brought enough supplies for them both.

A gentle cough brought her back to the present. Greeting the worn face there, she couldn’t help but consider the vibrant gentlehobbit of a year ago. After all, she’d been holding him firm in her memory far longer than the waif-like apparition that now haunted her back step. Even his voice seemed thin.

“You’re looking well Mrs Gamgee. I’m awfully sorry to disturb you this early in the morning.”

Bell tapped at her curls, her lips pursing for a moment as she took in the worn face before her. More lines and less meat than any respectable hobbit should carry. He seemed almost faded in the gentle sunlight. Bell ushered him in, waving the apology aside.

“Nonsense, Bilbo dear. You couldn’t disturb me if you tried!” His brows lifted in simple amusement, but he didn’t argue. “Now what can I do for you this morning? Have you had second breakfast yet? Would you like some?”

She gestured at the table. There wasn’t anything much left there, but there was more on the stove and in the pantry. She was the mother of six healthy faunts – one always made extra. He took a half step back and placed a hand to his stomach. He turned… green. Distinctly green at the gills, shown quite clearly by the wretched pallor of his face.

“No! No, thank you but… I’m making something… light. For my stomach. I’m afraid after everything, I’m having trouble getting it to settle. I just wanted to ask if you have any of your – uh – famous ginger preserves? I thought I might try some on a scone or two.”

Bell laughed out, the sound ringing, “Ginger preserves on scones! Now Mr Bilbo, that wouldn’t be any good to settle a turned tummy! The only reason to have ginger scones is… is…”

The thought caught up to her and she froze. The moment seemed still, hanging in a fragile balance like a storm waiting to break. For his part, Bilbo broke eye contact, finding the wood of her kitchen floor suddenly fascinating; he even took the time to dig at the edges with one toe. For all his previous pallor, he was finding colour enough in his face now.

“My mother used to tell me that your ginger preserve… helped. When she was. Um. Unsettled.”

Bell Gamgee reared back, reassessing his pale, clammy skin, aversion to her offer of food and – most tellingly – his hunched posture. She stepped forward, placing a hand tenderly against his arm. “It did. She needed a bucket of it every month when she was… when you were still...” She swallowed hard, her heart breaking for the miserable figure of her dear friend’s only child.

Mr Bilbo had been on an adventure. “Do you need ginger preserves, Mr Bilbo?” She asked meaningfully.

At the gentle touch he looked up and met her eyes. There was a sheen there but no more than that. He swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Yes please, Mrs Gamgee. I think I might be needing buckets of it myself. Just like she did.”

Bell Gamgee saw in his face that Bilbo had not missed the stories of Mad Baggins either. Judged and socially maligned for daring to chase after whatever, or perhaps better whoever, he had all those long months ago. Her gaze darted from his shadowed eyes to his sunken cheeks, to his thin wrists and then down to his flat belly. Even in early months, it was far, far too flat a belly. It couldn’t have been a long time since… then again, he’d been very ill; Yvanna keeps a seed asleep until the field is ready, after all. No good trying to grow a crop in a lean winter.

She stepped into his space and wrapped her arms around him. Her voice cracked as she whispered “ginger snaps. Your mother preferred it mixed with dough and made into ginger snaps when you were seeding inside her. Oh, my Bilbo. My little acorn.”

It had been a long time since she’d called Mister Bilbo that old name, and longer still since he’d accepted it without complaint. Age and the natural changing of their relationship over the years had relegated that little custom to the fondly remembered past. She felt him tremble in her arms, tiny shudders running through him, and for all his tears hadn’t fallen, she had no such reservations. Belladonna and Bungo gone, family embarrassed and all alone, battered by life and his travels. It broke her heart, and as she held him, she cried for them both.

But she was a Gamgee, and a Gamgee always had matters in hand. For moment she pulled Bilbo closer. Then she snatched a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped off her nose even as she reached into the cupboard and pulled one of the bottles there.

Grabbing a basket, a fresh loaf and a small pat of salted butter she popped it all into the basket. “You go home and rest now. The preserve with bread will be good enough for right now. Eat what you can and I’ll get to work on some scones and biscuits and we’ll see which you like best. Just because your mother-” She sniffed, pushing thoughts of Belladonna never meeting her grandchild to the back of her mind. Forget the Bagginses and the Tooks; she would be grandmother enough for both kin. “Well. You’ll see which works best for you.”

Bilbo, taking the chance to draw himself together, took the basket. His voice was heavy these days, so he tried consciously to lighten it. It wasn’t his best effort. “Oh, thank you Mrs Gamgee but the jar is more than enough-“

She rounded on him like a goosed cat. “Bilbo Baggins, I made every ginger preserve and biscuit that saw you into this world; I’ll be damned if I don’t do the same for your babe. Now get back to Bag End and get some rest before you fall over! I’ll be over soon as I can with more.” She shooed him away, chasing him out of the small smial and towards the larger one up the hill.

It was slow in coming - all the way up the hill and in his kitchen door before it curled in like a contented cat - but Bilbo smiled. It felt like the first honest smile since the fresh snow lit the ground where Thorin had fallen, before everything had gone wrong for that final time in their great quest. That is, before healers and a miracle brought Thorin back from the gates of Mahal’s Halls. Before King Thorin Oakenshield, Scion of the line of Durin, decided he no longer wanted a damaged hobbit.

Still, Bilbo smiled and placed the basket on the table. He rested a hand on the still-sunken curve of his belly. His hand trembled, a shudder of fear at what was to come, not least of which was worry that his lack of girth could harm the little life there. Hopefully, he’d be able to keep something down now long enough to replenish his previous, healthy stature. Bilbo shook his head, grimaced at the basket and moved to fix himself a plate of fresh bread with ginger preserves.

==========

A short while later, with the cheery mid-afternoon sun warming her cheeks, Belle Gamgee was elbow deep in dough, and miles away.

“I’m all set for the day, my lovely!” Hamfast’s robust timbre preceded him into the kitchen. “Oh, lovelies from my lovely! What a treat!”

Like a viper she struck. The wooden spoon whistled with a speed that would have made an archer jealous. As fast as that, the seemingly innocuous implement gained a malevolent kind of sentience and met flesh on her husband’s hand. Hamfast yelped, yanked back his hand from the biscuits on the tray and cradled the injured appendage to his chest. Belle didn’t even look up, her mind far more occupied with the unmarried gentlehobbit next door. Well, on him and the disreputable, dishonourable and - most importantly - disappeared wretch who’d left him alone at a time like this!

“They’re not for you, Hamfast. They’re for Mr Baggins.”

“Mr Baggins? But they’re my favourite, my morning blossom. You know that.”

The wooded spoon did not yield its vigil. He could tell that, regardless of his wife’s focus on her cooking, it was watching him with all the deathly nonchalance of a hawk on a fencepost. Warily skirting the estimated range of attack, he peered over his beloved’s shoulder to see what she was concocting for tea.

“Ah! Scones! Yours are the fluffiest and most delicious scones this side of the Party Tree, Bell. Are those for -um, well, that is to say, I could perhaps have- just for my tea, that is…”

“They are ginger scones Hamfast, and not for you. Mr Baggins is… expecting… these scones.”

At last she popped the second batch into the oven before turning to face her husband. He sputtered his outrage at her denial of one flaky, delicious, hot-from-the-oven, butter coated scone. As he was a hobbit, after all, this sort of distraction was to be forgiven; in his desire to convince the love of his life and keeper of his hearth to part with the mouth-watering morsel, he missed most of her response. Until he registered that the lovelies he wanted for his tea were, in fact, ginger scones.

He caught up after a moment or two as he watched his wife use the honey dipper and the last of the breakfast honey to drizzle a thick layer of gold over the scones. “Honey! On ginger scones! That’s an abomination my precious. Why, they’ll taste… they’ll be… did you say Mr Baggins was…?” Hamfast’s voice trailed from pleading revulsion to gentle confusion.

His wife side eyed him. “Expecting, Hamfast. Scones. Ginger ones.”

Hamfast collapsed into a chair, disbelieving, his eyes wide with shock. The normally taciturn hobbit, for maybe the first time in his life, felt betrayed by his natural disinclination towards expression. He searched for some way to convey his feelings on the matter. “But… but he’s so thin.”

Bell shook her head and took up a basket to start packing the scones in. After she’d taken them up to Mr Bilbo, she’d start another tray of snaps and a bit of tea. He should be able to handle some stew by dinner if he had the scones soon. “Very thin, Hamfast. It’s a shame and a sin, it is.”

“He came back alone,” Hamfast said slowly, patting at his pockets. He pulled out the old cob pipe that he used for everyday purposes. One end found his teeth, and with the motions of long years of habit he settled it there for a comfortable channel of thought. He knew better than to light it in the sacred space of Bell’s kitchen.

“Exhausted too, Hamfast.” Belle’s mouth was pinched.

“He was travelling alone, in winter…”

Belle snapped the pantry door closed with rather more vigour than might be considered polite. Her voice turned frigid. “It’s the only way to arrive in spring, my dear.”

Hamfast Gamgee rose abruptly. He needed air. And room to think. Suddenly, the kitchen seemed wretchedly cold, and he needed the sun to chase those thoughts away.

Outside in his beloved garden, he found a seat on the small half barrel at the kitchen door. A trail of smoke rose into the air, unheeded. Hamfast’s thoughts never raced; he was not that sort of hobbit. Instead, his thoughts moved with the methodical stability of a plough turning a field, considered and inevitable.

He was not a very educated man, but he was a practical one. There was no mother or father to see to Mr Bilbo, and the Bagginses had done little enough for their kin as far as he was concerned – except perhaps Drogo, who’d helped him to see to Bilbo’s tenants while he was away. There was no one to chase down the errant father and insist he do the proper thing. In fact, there seemed to be no father to be chased down, either. Becoming a Widower-before-marriage would be a tricky thing when Mr Baggins’ scandal was so well known. This gossip was on everyone’s tongues, and sharpening those tongues with every word.

All alone... Not so anymore, really. Hamfast took a deep draw on his pipe. The embers flared, and dulled, and he rose from his seat. He tapped the dottle into the flowerbed and pocketed the empty pipe. The child would come soon, surely, but then what? Nothing but simple Gamgees to call friend, mocked and ridiculed every time he and the faunt went out the door? For Mr Baggins, such a future was possible - even likely - but no decent hobbit would ever wish such on a fauntling. Hobbits were by nature a family-oriented sort: you cared for your kin’s well-being. Fauntlings were blessings and not to be used as weapons in social scandals; not until they were of age, at least. Shameful thing, that.

Trudging back into the kitchen proper, Hamfast made for the pantry. “Mr Baggins been to market yet?”

His wife shrugged from where she was scrubbing at a baking tray. “Not since he’s been back, I expect. Not a proper visit at least.”

Hamfast moved to the row of hooks and the coats hanging there. “I expect the Bag End accounts are still open. What with him being returned and all.” He retrieved a note from a well-worn pocket. The heavy paper was stamped with the Baggins acorn sigil, permitting him to buy on behalf of Mr Bilbo’s needs.

“I expect so,” she replied neutrally. His wife could tell he was not pleased. Understandably. There was still the matter of how this sorry circumstance had come about and who was responsible, but those were matters of speculation, and not matters of doing. Hamfast might not be a hobbit of great action like some, but he was one who could see to the doing of that which needs must done. He’d leave the moral outrage to the Missus. Without another word, he took his hat from the stand and a sack from the larder and made for the market.

Belle watched him head down the lane, a small, proud smile on her face. “Good man.”

==========

A short while later, Hamfast Gamgee was waiting at yet another stall for his packages to be wrapped. The sack was largely empty still. He’d made enquires and perhaps should have gotten a list from his wife, but still…

“There we are! Broccoli, spinach, dried beans, lentils… oh! is Mrs Gamgee in the family way again then, Mr Gamgee? Congratulations.” Mrs Proudfoot smiled, packing the pile of greens carefully into the sack. Hamfast, for his part, kept his face placid, not rising to the conversational gambit, but simply said, “No, no. Not Mrs Gamgee.”

Daisy Proudfoot hesitated for a moment before shrugging and preparing more fresh vegetables. Perhaps, then, it was a for a recipe. Still, she looked at the package under his arm. Herbs and the like; she knew who’s stall they had come from. Still, peppermint and slippery elm bark were not commonly used together in any recipe she could recall.

“Soup then maybe?” came from the empty stall next over in the market. Paupa Brandyback’s hands didn’t stop as he cleaned and wrapped a large piece of fish for a later order. Few lingered over the fish monger’s stall to chat; he was used to receiving his conversation by proxy from his neighbours.

“No, no. Not for us.” Daisy handed him back the sack and instead of the handful of coins she expected, he presented a letter. “The Bag End account. If you’ll give me a receipt, his solicitor will settle the bill in the usual way.”

For a second, Mrs Proudfoot paused. They’d been renting their farm from the Baggins estate for so long that they barely considered it as belonging to the Gentlehobbit of Bag End. She knew the solicitor though, and knew he would pay promptly. For all that they’d been allowed to slip the rent a time or two in a thin year, Mr Bilbo never weltched on his own paying.

Still, Daisy Proudfoot eyed the pile of vegetables in the sack. “Um, these aren’t for…? Perhaps… for Mr Baggins?”

Hamfast shrugged. “His pantries are empty after he’s been away, I’m afraid. Nothing left fit for a mouse.”

“Huh!” Paupa shrugged, “No wonder, it’s been a year. He’s lucky that they weren’t ruined with a mess of spoiled food.”

Hamfast sighed and accepted the sack and receipt. Leaning over to sign it, he coughed lightly. “Yes well, there are hands seeing to that now. But he’ll be needing it back full, especially what with his… condition.”

Both vendors leaned in close enough to almost topple their stands. New gossip of the up-to-now reclusive Mr Baggins! And on a quiet market day to boot! “Condition?” Daisy enquired delicately.

Mr Gamgee nodded absently before freezing. “Ah, I forgot the ginger. We’ll be all out now after the scones. I don’t suppose you would mind changing the total, would you?”

“Ginger scones?” Paupa’s wife, who till now had been quietly twisting twine at the back of the stall, sat up straight. “Ginger scones? But he’s so thin!” Her scandalised face peered out from behind Paupa’s shoulder.

“And? What’s that to say about ginger?” Ignored by his wife and wilfully uneducated in their young and thus far childless marriage, Paupa looked to Gamgee in confusion.

A moment after Mrs Brandybuck’s squawk, Mrs Proudfoot had gasped and looked to her friend. “Can’t be, Marigold, he’s too thin. It wouldn’t take. No one could carry through and look like that.”

“Look what you packed and say that! Why, Mr Gamgee, is Mr Baggins expecting?”

With three sets of eyes on him, Hamfast inspected the pebbles between his toes with the same care he’d give to new leek shoots. “The ginger please,” He said with finality.

The mixed gasps were enough of a response. Mrs Proudfoot grabbed a bushel of potatoes and, after a pause, some fresh eggs as well, shoving them carefully into the bag. “No, no, no, not as thin as he is! The babe could be lost. Here, you take these too. No charge! And I’ll have my Pansy come by with some things. Some good cottage pie will put weight back on those bones! Why, poor Mr Baggins, with never a cruel word for anyone.”

Paupa was surprised when his wife, not to be outdone, pried the wrapped salmon out of his hands and shoved it at the Gaffer, “Oh my, does the family know yet? Terrible, just terrible!” she lamented, tutting. “Poor thing. And traveling in winter on some scraggy pony, with not even a decent cart as shelter? Take this. Some nice fish will do him the world of good. No charge!”

“No charge?” Paupa’s outrage was swiftly quelled by his wife’s sharp elbow. “Right… uh no charge. Because….?” Mrs Brandyback rolled her eyes and poked the back of her husband’s head. “Because if he doesn’t put on weight he might lose the baby, you daft fool. And he’s your cousin!”

“Baby? What baby? Bilbo’s having a baby? Since when?”

His startled cry drew the attention of a passer-by and they lingered close. “Bilbo? Baggins? With child? From who?”

“Who knows? He’s been away. Here Hamfast, send him these and let him know we’ll be by later with a nice package for him.” Marigold Brandybuck tucked some fillets into his coat pocket.

“Oh, poor thing.” The baker from two stands across had wondered over. “And he almost lost his home, too! Could you imagine? Coming back, widowed-before-marriage and no home to come back to! What a near horror! Let me get some loaves for him. You can take them with you, if you’re going.”

As soon he was back at his stand, and as Hamfast left the fresh goods row, he heard the baker’s customers enquiring why he was being so generous, probably in the hopes that it would spread in their own direction. As Hamfast walked, it seemed that the gossip was starting to outpace him.

“Never you say? How ever did he survive?”

“Poor thing, and all alone! Shameful what his family’s doing, turning their backs on him like that.”

“And then he said ‘Mad Baggins,’ and I almost gave him one right in his nose! It’s not proper talking like that about the poor soul after such a journey. And expecting, too. Can you imagine!”

“Of course, it was the Bracegirdles running off with his things. Shameless; glad I never married into the family. But weren’t you at the auction too?”

“What? Me? Never! I was only there to -uh… to stop it, of course. I tried to speak up but no one would listen. Dirsten was worse! He bought two end tables!”

“Only because I didn’t want those nasty Sackvilles to make off with his things! I was a friend of his father’s, after all and it’s my duty to help him. I’m only, well, having them repaired. They were damaged. I was planning on returning them soon as they’re done.”

“Make sure to stop by this afternoon with some apples, then!”

“…some lettuce…”

“…some pies….”

“Have you heard…?”

“Do you know?”

“Terrible shame!”

“And the father?”

“Must have been a dwarf.”

“A Dwarf?!”

“Who else?”

“Dwarves…”

 “…Dwarves.”

==========

Goody basket packed and stew simmering on the stove, Belle Gamgee was leaning in the kitchen window at Bag End. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go in, rather that it was such a good reason to get Bilbo to lean out into the sunshine as they spoke. If it also happened to let her keep an eye on him until enough food passed through his lips for her liking, she surely hadn’t planned it that way.

“And you remember, soon as Gaffer comes back, to make some tea with it and sip on it tonight. Slippery elm and peppermint will calm your poor tummy so you can eat and sleep comfortably.”

“Yes, Mrs Gamgee.”

 “And have an early night, Bilbo Baggins. No reading till dawn anymore.”

“I’ll try, Mrs Gamgee.”

“I’ll be by later with some of my oldest and we’ll give Bag End a proper seeing to.”

Bilbo felt the unfamiliar curl of his lips again and took a sip from his glass to hide it. More food entered his severely shrunken stomach, which seemed to be remembering the pleasure of fullness. Surely a few more bites would do well. “That’s really not necessary. I’m quite capable of seeing to it.”

Just then a loud knock echoed through Bag End. The sound was so unfamiliar that Bilbo startled. Ironically, the last unexpected knock had come during a meal as well. Bilbo pushed the thought away, along with the familiar hurt that accompanied it. Bilbo looked at Belle before stepping away to peer at the door.

Belle, for her part, leaned around to see if she’d be able to catch a glimpse of who it was. Bilbo, no longer concerned with the kind of manners and proprietary that once ruled his life, merely glanced at her before moving to let in whoever was demanding entry.

She might not have seen who was at the door but Belle did see the gaggle of women making their way up Bagshot Row, arms full of pots and bowls and even small bundles of pastel coloured cloth. She felt a terrible premonition as to why they might seem fixed on the smial at the top of the hill. She turned back to find Bilbo returning to the kitchen, the one person he’d wilfully let into the house following behind him.

“…can’t thank you enough,” he was saying. “I’d heard that you did what you could for my estate while I was away.”

Drogo Baggins followed behind his cousin, his face drawn. “It’s alright. I can’t say I approved but you’re family, Bilbo. I’m just so sorry I couldn’t stop the auction. I would have, if I’d known.”

Bilbo shrugged. He had wondered why the Bagginses hadn’t put their collective foot down, or even seen fit to show up. “What brought you today then? Uh, scone?”

Drogo’s cheeks pinked at the offer before shaking his head. He did tip his head in greeting to Belle. “Mrs Gamgee. Apologies for the interruption.” He sighed, “I am sorry Bilbo, but the news has travelled very fast since cousin Aster was in the market this morning.”

In tandem, Belle and Bilbo froze before sharing a look. “Oh?” Bilbo inquired politely.

Drogo shuffled uncomfortably, his face turning an interesting shade of puce. “Well, Grandmother has said to tell you… well, that is to say… you’ve been invited for tea this afternoon.”

Drogo darted forward, catching his cousin, who had faced a dragon eye to eye, and whose knees had just given out on him.

“No!" Bilbo gasped reflexively. "Tea? At her own home? Alone?”

Drogo sat beside him. “Not alone, at least. And I didn’t see them taking out the Skye china, so there’s that, at least.” He patted his cousin’s hand soothingly. “But yes. I suppose congratulations are in order. Over the um, the baby. Not the tea.”

Belle gasped, shaking her head frantically. “Bilbo, Hamfast wouldn’t have said a word. You know he doesn’t hold with gossip!”

“Cooee! Mr Baggins, are you home?” The shrill call echoed unpleasantly around the corner and into the open kitchen window. “We’ve brought you some things for the little one!”

Belle flinched. “He never was the most subtle of men, though.”

==========

Across the grand expanse of Middle Earth, over the invaded and occupied caverns of the Misty Mountains, past the ever-lightening breadth of the Greenwood, looming above the great Lake bordering the city of Dale, sat the Lonely Mountain. There, called Erebor by some, was an ancient and once grand city, being made grand once more. Among the travellers, refugees, soldiers and home-comers were thirteen heroes among the dwarrow. The leader and King to all those within the mountain was one of the Line of Durin, first and greatest of all their race, he who was born to lead and fallen to strife for most of his two hundred years. He had lost and then regained his home, kin, love and mountain kingdom. His mind was seized by gold in a grip that tightened and eased like the tide.

This tide was on the ebb. Cracks were forming in the clammy hold that gold and wealth kept on this mind. Once again, this mind drew strength from pain, old and familiar companion that it was. Where friends and advisors could not dent the curse of his blood for more than a day, now pain and panic wrenched into the heart of him.

The gold sickness did not simply weaken to allow rational thought for a few short hours. Instead, it broke. It broke under a crushing sense of loss; a sense of loss for something so small as to be worthless, but tied to a greater loss than he could imagine. On the edges of Thorin Oakenshield’s thoughts were panic and loathing and fear. In one moment, as he was surveying the wealth of his kingdom, the ever-growing glint of golden splendour, his fingers tracing the shapes of countless treasure, he stumbled.  Thorin stumbled, and the little trinket slipped from his grasp and fell into the shining hord below.

He scrambled through mountains of gold and jewels, tearing at the spot beneath his feet. The empty handkerchief lay discarded there like a rag in his desperation to find the treasure that it had concealed. His breath began to sob from exertion, his wounds pulling and his newly-set bones screaming fiery objections. Terror clawed at his throat as his hands grew chilled and his skin stretched and parted under the fevered digging.

It was gone. All that he had left that mattered was lost into the wealth of a thousand kingdoms.

It was a tiny thing, really. One small thing, tied to the memories that were all that he had left of a light in the dark days. Lost; a tiny brass button embossed with an acorn.

And, through growing horror and a loss deeper than the Lonely Mountain itself, Thorin Oakenshield was at last truly free.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: “When the rocks start to roll downhill, it’s time to be elsewhere lad.”

“Have you heard…?”

“Do you know?”

“Terrible shame!”

“And the father?”

“Must have been a dwarf.”

“A Dwarf?!”

“Who else?”

“Dwarves…”

“…Dwarves.”

Just more than halfway down the gently meandering aisles of the Hobbiton marketplace was a dwarf. He flattered himself that he had good ears, and had an even better, unseen sense for reading the lay of the land. He smiled politely at the suddenly distracted hobbit across the table; she parroted his greeting, but her eyes were already darting away, and her pointed ears practically flapped towards the growing hubbub in the market, where a few stray words from increasingly strident voices were drifting down.

He handed her her change and the spade she’d purchased. As soon as she moved away - towards the growing murmurs, he noted - Garrak Tramson turned to the sturdily-built racks behind him and started packing away his wares. He’d emptied the entire shelf into the boxes waiting alongside and had started unlatching the mechanism that stopped the whole thing from folding up when Nel, his apprentice, finished a set of forks he’d been set to sharpen, and noticed his unscheduled industry.

There was a pause as his apprentice seemed to look around, no doubt trying to figure out why they were closing up shop in the middle of a market day. “Master Garrak?” Nel sidled over and watched for a moment as the shelf was deftly folded and his teacher stood, hefting it over into his hands.

“Time to go, lad.” With no more than that, Garrak turned to the second shelf, deftly lifting their more expensive wares and carefully wrapping them. Best to pack them first; deeper in the wagon meant theft was less likely. The halflings were more inclined to steal your lunch than a trinket, but once they left these lands all bets were off.

“For the day?” came the cautious query.

Garrack took the lad’s delay as a chance to pack the wrapped packages and squirrel them away on the back of the small wagon, poking some straw around and rearranging some lashings, making them invisible and even less likely to disappear. “No lad,” he grunted. “We make for Bree. If we push, we can be there by tomorrow night. My cousin is working the smithy. He can see us a bunk until we know where to next.”

Back to Ered Luin perhaps, or even… “Erebor maybe. The caravans are moving again.” A sharp pang of nostalgia lanced through him at the thought of his once-upon-a-time home. A tiny, nigh-extinct flame bloomed around the foundations of the hard labour of his current life, hawking his hard-made goods. “You’re too young to remember it lad, but if you ever saw the market halls there…” He sighed, and for a moment heard again the crash and ebb of a thousand voices bargaining, arguing, shouting and whispering, filling the grand market cavern like a tidal rush. “You’d be ashamed you ever thought to call this country fair a market place.”

He gave the lad a quick smile and pushed a small, heavily strapped iron box into his empty hands. “Stow that under the seat, there’s a good lad. If all else goes, we’ll need that.”

“But we only arrived last week!” Nel exclaimed, his hands automatically securing the box while thinking of the pretty hobbit-lass with the wild chestnut curls from the Green Dragon. Only that morning, she’d sent him the cheekiest smile and most mischievous dimples over breakfast. He’d looked forward to the chance to see if she still smiled like that when she wasn’t working.

Garrack’s smile turned knowing and his eyes rolled at the besotted look on the boy’s face. “And we’ll be leaving this week. Today, in fact. We’ve made fair coin and I’ll not throw good gold down a dead shaft when we could tap sweeter veins, lad. You’ve not been about long enough to know when it’s time to leave a place before the hospitality runs thin!”

As he spoke, his voiced had not risen, but had grown increasingly stern. His movements remained slow and steady – in no hurry to draw any eyes with hasty actions; hasty movement looked guilty, and as the talk was spreading faster than any wild fire he’d ever seen, Garrack was less and less inclined to see halfings, and rather more inclined to see wargs sniffing out blood from injured prey.

“I don’t understand! The Shire’s been good to us!”

No matter how long you’d lived under the open sky, there were some things no dwarf ever lost. So, no matter what his mind told him about the steady depths of rich loam beneath them, when he felt the faintest tremor from a growling depth of rock far below, Garrack froze. He looked up to see Nel had done the same, but without deep-mine experience the boy seemed confused at his own instinctive reaction. Glancing surreptitiously around, he saw the hobbits hadn’t even noticed, moving about as if their day had not just been punctuated by unnumbered tons of earth twitching and shifting deep below like the tremble of a moth’s wing.

Garrack swallowed and stepped carefully closer to his stall, packing quicker now. No hobbit that walked passed approached but there were several raised noses clearly meant for his notice. Nel moved to him, hands clenched uneasily. The boy opened his mouth and Garrack sighed, suddenly fisting the scruff on Nel’s chin and leaning close.

“Listen lad, when the pebbles start rolling down the mountainside, you don’t ask questions. You grab what you can and make for Bree. Understand?” The gruffness of his voice brooked no argument and his less-than-savvy apprentice finally nodded before moving to help pack up the cart.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“What do you mean we’re running out of food?”

Lord Nurim, fourth in his line to lead the council of Ered Luin, stood forward, his arms bracing his considerable muscled bulk on the grand council table. He loomed now over Talak, head of the Merchants’ Guild. Unlike the rich – and, more importantly - practical browns of Nurim’s dress, Talak looked very much like an oversized grape lined with fur. He wore the golden key of the grand market on a chain that itself dwarfed the man’s amble brown beard. The intricate braids that, according to rumour, were redone every morning seemed to pull back, trying to hide behind one of Talak’s chins as Nurim’s own neatly trimmed Firebeard locks shifted in for the kill.

A fading ember did not, however, become the head of the Merchants’ Guild without a touch of real heat. “Well, what is it you want me to say, my Lord? I can’t exactly take back the truth!” His third chin wobbled defensively as he swallowed.

Nurim collapsed into his chair, rubbing at his greying temples through the thick braids holding his hair from his face. “Half the damn Longbeards are already in Erebor, and the other half are packing to leave within the month. The Blue Mountains will be at safe capacity and without overflow, for the first time in two generations, and King Thorin has generously offered to continue his support of Thorin’s Halls even in his absence. Princess Dis left this council with the understanding that we would be able to continue without them as we did before their unfortunate arrival.” He glared at the Master of the Stores, who studiously failed to meet his gaze. “Could someone therefore tell me how, with a full quarter less population, we are still somehow eating ourselves out of house and home?”

A cacophony of excuses broke loose in the room, each voice trying to blame another and offer the most reasonable and self-excluding of explanations. “That would be because there is no longer any food coming in, my Lord.” Berrin, Captain of the City Guard, was the one to finally break through the din.

He paused at this; not for the message per se, but for the speaker. She was far from lovely: a tall and somewhat thorny female with plain, sharp features and closely cropped locks. Only the top of her mane had been allowed to grow long, and even that was braided down her back. Scars painted her skin almost as thickly as ink, but there was a calm patience in her gaze, much like a warg at rest. A female at work was strange; one working as a guard was stranger, and one on a Kingdom’s council seat was absolutely unheard of. But still, as much as he made sure his unspoken disapproval very clear when others were watching, in private, hers was an opinion he greatly valued and - more importantly - trusted. She would never have gained the seat without the personal endorsement of Captain Dwalin, and he was very grateful that, before the Captain himself had run off, the man had left the city’s safety in her very capable hands.

“Explain, Captain.”

The braying ceased, everyone straining to hear a reason for the dilemma clean of politic and intrigue. For all the flaws of her gender, Berrin was unquestionably direct. “Every day, maybe a hundred cows die for Ered Luin; so do a flock of sheep and a herd of pigs and the gods alone know how many ducks, chickens and geese. Flour?” She scoffed. “Eight tons, and about the same amount of potatoes, and maybe twelve tons of barley.”

In the ringing silence she leaned forward, shaking her head. “Every day, four thousand eggs are laid for this city. Every day, tens, dozens of carts and boats and barges converge here with fish and honey and apples and olives and eels and quail. And then think of the horses dragging this stuff, and the windmills... and the wool coming in, too, every day, the cloth, the tobacco, the spices, the timber, the cheese, the coal, the fat, the tallow, the hay… every damn day!”

The silence was strained now with disbelief. Even Talak, whose job it was as the Head of the Merchants’ Guild to know these things, who could tell you the gold quotas, taxes in twelve kingdoms and average out the price of a dozen reams of silks of different qualities, swallowed hard. He didn’t want to think of how many of those things ended up on the tables of those in this very room. Especially since, as well as they were coping in the end, there were still many lean and worrying days between summers for the average dwarf. It was a good thing, he thought privately, that the Longbeards were leaving before the tide of good fortune turned on them.

Berrin met Lord Nurim’s astonished gaze. “Look, I didn't particularly want to know this kind of thing, but once I started having to sort out the everlasting traffic problems, these were the facts that got handed to me. And let me tell you, traffic has gotten very light coming into the city the last day or two… almost non-existent. A Kingdom like Ered Luin is only two meals away from chaos at the best of times.”

“Four months, actually.” Melin, a rather thin, decrepit dwarf looked up from the tome in which he had been rapidly scribbling. His neighbour glanced over to see the meticulous handwriting of the Keeper of the Treasury, having made exact notes and calculations based on the numbers the Captain had just reeled off. “And that’s if the Erebor caravan leaves on schedule, and we begin rationing within a fortnight.” The man rolled his words in a peculiar, lilting way that left a short, sharp whistle to slip out between his whiskers with each sibilant.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Nurim spoke, slamming his hand onto the council table for emphasis. “Then why the hell don’t we have food coming in?” The deep breath hadn’t helped so much as tied boots of running to his voice and let it loose across the room. Collectively, around the table, everyone swallowed. Well, almost everyone. One didn’t swallow, but as his chair sat empty, this was a technicality. A shadow detached itself from the wall, and spoke. “Well, that’s because the haflings aren’t sending it anymore.”

Umbar was also slight for dwarf, but where Melin was frail, he was lean, like old leather stretched over bone and wrapped in a motley collection of browns and greens. His chin was bare and most of the table forced themselves not to look away, for to look on a shaven face was nearly shame in and of itself. If it weren’t for the intricate spirals rising along his neck, it would be too much to face – shaven, but not shunned. Bare faced by choice. But then again, their discomfort might have been why he did it in the first place.

“But we have contracts. Ironclad contracts!” Talak squawked, outraged.

“Hobbits don’t have much use for iron, I’m afraid.” Umbar sneered at the oversized grape looking to be juiced on his golden stool, and turned to address only those he considered worth a damn. Unlike the council collective, he came from bastard stock, common as mud and married common as dirt. Loyalty and skill kept his seat safe; he didn’t need his arse on a cushion to keep his place for him. A voice like a slicked blade flickered out. “Only thing we could get out of them was to talk to the Old Took, but he’s in the heart of Tookborough and we can’t seem to get back into the Shire anymore anyway.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Airn, son of Nairn, spoke up at last. The head of the Miners’ Guild didn’t have much care for food and the market, and never had a worry beyond arguing a bigger share of winter quota for them that deserved it, working hard in the deep down to keep the wheels of the Blue Mountains turning. He was a Blacklock, showing it proud in the thick curls that almost overwhelmed his face but for the glint of squinting eyes therein. No one had the stone sense he did, and the mountain seemed to whisper all its dirty secrets to him. And, quite frankly, he’d rather converse with stone and rock than in dwarrow halls and with the dwarves that filled them.

He neither picked at his nails nor stared at the table like some of his fellow councillors, but listened intently. His boys worked hard, and to work hard they needed food; they needed drink to spend coin on; they needed the wheels to keep turning, and if some above ground – here he snorted ironically to himself - shits were getting in the way of that… “Why are we letting some little creatures’ whims keep us out? I thought they didn’t know how to fight!”

“That would only matter if they were the ones keeping us out,” Umbar responded, unwilling to raise his voice to meet the other councillor’s belligerent challenge. He frowned though, the lines of his face pulling, and seemed almost embarrassed to go on.

Nurim looked about to press the issue and as the other dwarf parted his lips, the Spymaster got it over with. “No one is keeping us out. Not directly. But no matter what road, what shortcut or pasture my people take, even ones they’ve used before… within minutes they’re dazed and aboutfaced, with the Shire behind them.”

“Witchery!” Berrin growled out the word with all the venom reserved for an offer of a bribe. “Bah, damned halflings.”

Voices around the table erupted once more, yapping demands, ideas and accusations in equal measure. Nurim sighed, scrubbing his eyes tiredly as he leaned back. The Spymaster’s explanation made no real sense, but he knew how little the Spymaster cared for being told he could not go where he wished. It was unlikely that he’d left any avenue unexplored. “What we need is some information,” he sighed. “We need to know what is going on, and if no dwarrow can tell us, then perforce we need a hobbit.”

It was not immediate but around him, those nearest took in his words and went quiet. Like a school room with teacher’s eyes on them they nudged those next to them, and passed on his words. Those nudged the next and the next until the entire table was facing him. “Surely in the entirety of the West, there must be some hobbit still willing to speak to us? An entire race does not turn their favour overnight!”

The dwarves mulled between themselves, each wanting to assist but unable to contribute.

“Come on,” Nurim demanded, “We have herders, we have a few farmers. Someone must be friendly with the hobbits!” The lingering moment was broken at last by Talak. “Isn’t Trask the mushroom farmer married to a hobbit?”

Blinking awareness started to emerge as those there tried to pull the image of a mushroom farmer to the forefront of their memory. For most there was a dull lack of regard. Why would men of their status care for a simple mushroom farmer, after all? After a moment though, the trickle of an old petition came to a few minds - a request for spousal invitation for a residency of some kind.

After a second, Nurim remembered, eyes lighting up. “Oh yes… the hobbit with the… with the, um…” His hands curved halfway down his beard as though he was holding a fair-sized melon in each. The dwarves surrounding the table chuckle at the bountiful, well… bounty of the halfling women.

“…the what, Councilman Nurim?” Berrin's cool query scotched the masculine amusement, leaving shamefaced silence in its wake.

He didn’t dare turn. He could hear the arched eyebrow in Berrin’s voice, and the not so hidden axe asking for a careful reply. Dammit, he could remember the days when women wouldn’t be allowed in the council chamber without a crown.

He coughed, dropping his hands, “with, hopefully, some perspicacity.” Drumming the table, he coughed again. He could still feel the ice of her gaze. Turning to an aide lingering nearby he waved a hand. “Tell someone to bring the hobbit married to Trask the mushroom farmer.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They heard her long before they saw her. Coming down the corridor was a voice that would have rattled the glass in windows if there had been any in the council room.

“…bossing your way into my home at dinner time like a bunch of thugs! And you! You are kith to my own husband! You’ve eaten my own food, Thrall, and yes, sat in my sitting room too! Now it’s herding me down the corridor like a cow to the parlour!”

The busy scolding was followed into the council chamber by the halfling herself. She waddled awkwardly through the door, the only part of her more impressive than her much-appreciated assets was the bulging belly that entered the room before them. The entire package was round: round apple cheeks, round chestnut curls, round chest, round stomach and round, ranting mouth raining vitriol on the infantry line that followed. The soldiers walked shoulder to shoulder, shuffling abreast, moving forward with the inexorability of a landslide, herding her into the chamber as they blocked the entirety of the corridor behind without laying a finger on her diminutive person.  

The one on the end, Nurim couldn’t help but notice, was the one most determined not to make eye contact as she listed his many, deeply personal faults - some of which caused the surrounding dwarves to pink in shared embarrassment.

“…the next time you forget your own mother’s name day, you back-stabbing, ill-shorn wretch!”

With this parting animadversion on his character and morals, the lady dismissed him as an enemy soundly thrashed, and swung around with a precision impressive in one carrying such front-heavy momentum. She regarded the room, and the council held its collective breath for several uncomfortable moments. The halfling drew herself up to her full, not very significant height. “Well! Aren’t any of you going to offer me a chair? I’m pregnant!”

There was a mad scramble in the room to be the first to offer up their chair. Of course, it was Umbar who simply slipped his own forward, the thing being unused as it was. He took the opportunity for motion to circle behind the diminutive creature, careful of the large hairy feet, to stand out of her direct line of sight. Nurim caught a flicker of thieves’ cant Iglishmêk as the Spymaster subtly questioned another one the guards, his eyebrows rising as the guard responded in kind. He tried to follow the reply, but the rapid, slick flick of fingers – much faster and more abbreviated than standard Iglishmêk - was quickly replaced by the realisation that the entire council was scurrying around this halfling and the guards hadn’t laid a finger on her. In fact, they seemed inclined to stay as close to the door as possible.

Umbar seemed amused as he stood well back of the firing line, propped comfortably against a wall. Coughing to hide his amusement, Nurim refused to be cowed by the tiny hellion and addressed her with firm patience. “Madam, thank you for coming today.”

She ignored him, glaring at the unadorned seat before looking to the guards and then the councilmen themselves. The glare intensified as she crossed her arms and stared at the chair as if it had personally offended her. For a long moment, they all stared blankly at the empty seat before realisation dawned for Nurim. He found himself moving before thought had properly caught up, darting forward to remove his own chair’s cushion and placing it on the cold, carved seat.

Without uncrossing her arms, the hobbit rounded the chair and collapsed into it. She stared at them, staring at her, before abruptly bursting into tears.

“What are you going to do to me?” she wailed, tears hanging like diamonds on her lashes.

Every unmarried male in the room shared a look of pained desperation in the face of feminine tears; the married ones simply winced and refused to make eye contact lest she sense weakness. One and all, however, they looked to Nurim, desperate for the council head to earn his keep and take the lead. As a craft-wed politician, though, he was at a loss. Consoling a female, let alone one who was pregnant and crying, had rarely come up in his life. Her heaving seemed to slow as Berrin stepped forward, placing a goblet of water on the arm of the chair. The hobbit picked it up and sipped at it, still hiccoughing.

Bless the Captain, Nurim thought fervently. He made a silent promise to give her a raise, and support her opinions more in the near future.

“We aren’t planning to do anything to you, madam.” Yes, yes that seemed right, one woman calming down the other - that would work. “We simply need to ask you some questions.” Berrin’s calm good sense seemed to be making an impression.

The wailing eased to a sniffle and then a sniff as she looked up at the rather large woman. “Questions?” The voice, so loud on entrance, was surprisingly small now. She managed to sound curious and at the same time imply – quite unfairly, Nurim thought resentfully -  that she was relieved to know that no one would be bringing out the hot coals and spikes.

He took the opportunity to intercede, stepping forward. “Yes. Yes, uh, um… madam…?”

A watery smile greeted him as she bobbed in place. “Peony nee-Bricegirdle.”

He smiled in return, a politicians smile. “I am Lord Nurim Firebeard, head of this Council. I apologise for summoning you so precipitously, but we have some questions and you are the only one in the entire mountain who might be able to assist us.”

She pulled a dainty handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Tucking it away, she sipped on her water again. “Well my Lord, I don’t know how I could possibly help, but I shall try.”

“Marvellous” he said, rubbing his hands. Progress at last. “If you happen to have any contact with the Shire, we would appreciate you finding out for us anything you may regarding the delay in delivery of the shipments we were due to receive. We uh,” his eyes darted to Umbar leaning against the wall, “are struggling to ascertain the reason they might have stopped, you see.”

The blank disbelief that met his enquiry made her eyes look rounder than ever. She blinked, her curles bobbing as if denying that he could be so simple. “Of course they aren’t going to send you anything! We can hardly expect to deal with dwarves after what you did! Why, the whole Shire is in a perfect taking about it!”

Nurim’s eye twitched and he rubbed at it distractedly. How the hell did she know, cooped up as she was in the mountain, and pregnant to boot? “What we did?” he asked with forced patience. “The Blue Mountains have been the most generous of neighbours and allies to the halfling nation.”

She snorted. The woman snorted at him, actually snorted! “Not a candle to Rivendell’s generosity,” she replied smartly. As one, everyone in the room twitched, and he could feel the annoyed tension building behind him. “They don’t call us halflings, for a start.”

True as that might be, it was nothing in the face of the growing aggravation the tiny creature was provoking. “Whatever was done to offend, we would most sincerely apologise, given the chance.” His words were clipped and precise.

She snorted again. Twice! He’d not been snorted at twice in the last decade. Did the woman not realise the stature of those in the room? Who it was she spoke with?

“No. It wasn’t you who did it, so what possible good is an apology?” She shook her head disparagingly. “It was kin of my kin you know, and a simple apology wouldn’t mean anything.”

Behind him another voice spoke up, the head merchant’s voice rang out. “A gift perhaps, to show our apology to the wounded parti? Surely a dwarven gift would-“

“Excuse me very much! You can’t bribe your way into forgiveness! That’s disreputable, it’s conniving! It’s- its…“ With all the grace of a beached whale, she tried to raise her awkward bulk out of the wooden chair. Very much like a beached whale, no matter how she heaved and levered herself, she was going nowhere unaided. Heaving a sigh, she flailed briefly, then subsided, her voice plaintive. “Somebody help me up.”

Even as she spoke, three guards moved forward to assist her only to leap back again in shock as she took a swipe at them. “Not you! I don’t know you! Don’t touch me!”

The dwarf on whom she had been raining particular abuse stepped up to her, and placing his hands delicately on her waist and arm, lifted her with easy familiarity into standing once more. In the ensuing silence, a brief but still faint ruckus could be heard in the distance.

She gave the supportive hands a friendly pat and smiled up at the guard. “Thank you Thrall.” A second later she smacked his hands away with a resounding thwap. “Now get off of me, you treacherous knickerbocker!”

His patience at an end with this foolish female, Airn erupted. “We can hardly apologise for something we don’t damn well understand, halfling. Now calm down, be rational and explain what this is all about!”

It was with surprisingly good aim that the heavy goblet flew towards Airn’s face. It was only the reflexes born of a lifetime of training that allowed Berrin to intercept the missile; she didn’t catch it so much as interrupt its laudable trajectory. Absorbing the force of it knocked her knuckles into his cheek and set him to swearing. The rest of the council was still, eyes wide as the halfling suddenly burst into tears once more. “I am calm!”

Thrall had darted forward almost as soon as Airn had spoken, but stopped short when the ready missile was launched well ahead of any attempt of his to intercept it. Now he merely shook his head in defeat, face buried in his left hand and said sotto voce “Well done my Lord; exactly the right thing to say.” And then, slightly louder “Peony, could you try not to have me arrest you?” He caged the halfling’s fluttering hands, stuffed a hanky into one stubbornly clenched fist, and patted it soothingly. At least a hanky wouldn’t do much damage.

With the notable exception of Umbar, who was curled into the wall, trying not to collapse with his supressed laughter and who seemed to be greatly enjoying himself, the council turned to Berrin, hoping that she could shed some light on this inexplicable feminine hysteria. As lost as the males, she returned to each a quelling look, daring anyone to insinuate by direct inquiry that shared reproductive biology meant shared mental instability.

Even as the guard spoke, the door was flung open – deferentially, of course – and yet another person bounced into the chamber. The dwarf that rushed in was sturdy and handsome enough, although a little soft around the middle. He darted in, ignoring the council. “Peony, love! Are you alright?”

He snatched her hands from Thrall, anxiously petting at them. At her dewy-eyed assent, he rounded belligerently on the council. “I demand to know on what grounds my one has been detained!” His outrage trembled his voice almost as much as his trepidation even as Peony dumped Thrall’s hanky on the floor, reached to him and stole his handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. Having thus soothed herself, she shook her head. “I’m not arrested! They just had some questions.”

At the farmer’s straight look, Nurim nodded his head, exasperated with hobbits in general. “Yes, madam, exactly so. If you could share what has happened, we would gladly cease imposing on your time and person.”

She looked at them, truly startled, one arm still holding her husband’s hand as if the dwarf was keeping her stable. “You mean… you really don’t know?”

Nurim wondered if it was possible to actually bite through steel; right now, he felt that he might make a more than passable attempt. “No,” he said slowly. “We have no idea what we have done to offend, madam.”

She blinked again, more horrified than disgusted at this ignorance. “Well, if you don’t know then I’m not going to tell you.” She declared with perfect clarity.

There was an instant uproar and Nurim, finally losing his grasp on his civility, bellowed like an injured bull. “And why in Mahal’s Halls will you not?”

Peony sniffed – a sound distinctly different from her previous, damp sniffle – and crossed her arms over her ample bosom, turning her face away. “It wouldn’t mean anything if you didn’t figure it out yourselves. If you must be told what that wretched dwarf did, it might be false sympathy. We won’t be fooled again,” she declared, and clearly considered the matter done. The hobbitess had had enough, and moved, with all the grace of a beached whale, towards the door, ignoring her husband. Trask, who was simultaneously exchanging hurried words with Thrall in Khuzdul while the council rose in uproar, vainly tried to forestall her.

At the sight of most of the room nearing apoplectic temper, Trask tried to intercede, cajoling. “But my love, there are so many wandering dwarves nowadays. My jewel, could ya just tell us which dwarf? Just a hint precious, anything. Where, who, any little detail to help us understand.” The besotted dwarf inched closer to his determinedly waddling wife. “Please my Pearl, just… uh a hint? For the council… for me…”

She looked at him with a loving smile, kissed his cheek fondly and murmured “No!”

Seeing that none of the guards were moving to stop her, she made for a door even as her husband drew himself up. “No, see here Peony! I am your husband and demand you speak to us!”

Thrall winced. He didn’t have enough hands in which to bury his face at the clearly panic-fuelled idiocy that erupted from his best friend’s mouth. Even by hobbit standards, Peony was a wilful female. She spun with the first touch of grace she’d shown since entering, fuelled by pure rage. “Demand? You’re demanding? I demand you not speak to me in that tone! I am your wife, not your mule! Bad enough you defended him!”

She froze, then straighted, brushing down her skirts and calming with the most suspicious speed possible.

“…defended…?” Her husband’s brows folded into puzzlement. She’d received a letter and they’d argued so badly he’d spent half the night unpacking her things as fast as she could throw them into her bags. He still didn’t know what set her off so badly, only that he’d mentioned how grateful the Mountains were to King T- “No!” His eyes widened, searching hers frantically.

Seeing she’d shown her hand, she looked away, gritting her teeth so hard it felt they might splinter in her jaw. “Fine,” she snorted. “So you know it was that Oak Branch scallywag. Fine.” It very obviously wasn’t fine, but she knew that Trask would clarify for the rockheads in the room.

Nurim sat up suddenly, electrified. “Oake branch?  Oakenshield? You mean King Thorin?”

Her knife-sharp gaze fixed on him. “That treacherous, heartless, murderous lout you call king, yes. He has betrayed kin of my kin. We will not be fooled again!” For such a fragile little thing she projected an air of viciousness rather well.

Berrin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Murderous?’ She flashed Iglishmêk at Thrall, who just shrugged helplessly.

 At the table, Melin leaned over to Talak, confused. His whisper carried along with the faint whistle of air between his front teeth. “She’s not a noble of some kind, is she?” The Merchant, refusing to take his eyes from the opera unfolding before them, shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

Melin sat back. “Then what’s this we she keeps throwing around?” he demanded of no one in particular.

They were distracted by Airn standing and slamming his fist to the table hard enough to crack the wood. “Watch your tone and words carefully Madam!” he growled, his face still throbbing from Berrin’s unintentional backhand. “You speak of our king-”

“Who’s king? Not my king! Hobbits know no silly king to tell them what to do and get away with murder and worse!” She bit back at the incensed dwarf, seemingly uncaring for the other’s size.

Having dismissed Thrall, Berrin’s eyes sought out Umbar. Her hands flashed again, demanding ‘what murder?’ of the one person in the room who might know. He raised his eyebrows sardonically, replying ‘I’m more in the business of doing than solving such things.’ Then, more sombrely ‘if I knew, we wouldn’t be here, would we?’

Meanwhile, oblivious to this exchange, Trask stepped forward, making conciliatory gestures at the council while his face paled beneath his beard. “My Lords, she doesn’t know what she’s saying, she’s upset, you must understand.” He gestured expressively around his waistline.

Thrall really didn’t know how his friend had survive marriage for as long as he had. He glanced to the powder keg in a maternity dress, watching her fuse burn as her husband tried to play peacemaker; as his friend simply picked up a shovel and dug the hole deeper still.

“My jewel, you cannot say things like that of King Thorin in King Thorin’s own halls. We are in dwarven lands, and he is our great king.” He smiled at her, hoping that she would subside in the face of logic.

Instead of the expected explosion, Thrall was surprise to see a smile as sweet as wasp honey. “Oh? Thank you for explaining that to me; I didn’t know. I’m glad you told me I was not allowed to speak of that traitorous swine that way here.” Her smile faded and her eyes hardened. “So, I’ll go to where I can speak of him. MY MOTHER’S!” With that, she turned and stormed emphatically through the door, her voice betraying the oncoming tears. As she turned the corner, she threw back to her husband, “You are welcome to accompany me or not! As you like, I’m sure!”

Trask darted forward to the door, swearing under his breath and then calling to her, “My jewel? My Pearl! Givashel? I’m sorry! Come back. Please my love, don’t leave!” Leaning out the doorway he frowned, looking left, then right down the two ends of the corridor. Swearing again, he leaned back through the great doors. “I’m sorry my Lords, but she is my one!” With that he nodded and looked to his friend. “Thrall, you take the left, I’ll take the right! We’ll see if we can find her before she reaches the gates.” The two rushed out, Thrall looking to Berrin for a lenient nod first.

Lord Talak dabbed at the sweat on his oversized brow before frowning and asking the question still not answered. “But what did King Thorin do?”

Berrin and Umbar shared a long look. The spy strolled out, murmuring something to the outer guards before returning after a few moments. “Not sure where she disappeared to. I’m going after them. On the off chance that farmer gets into the Shire, I want to know.” A moment later he too was gone.

Silence settled over the chamber; eventually, Berrin spoke. “Did anyone else notice her throwing around accusations of murder?”

Several members of the exalted council squawked in outrage, while others demanded an explanation. Nurim scowled heavily, distractedly tapping his fingers on the embossed armrest of the great seat of the Council Head. One could not simply accuse a king, nor could one speculate without just cause; moreover, not even the ancestors would forgive such an accusation levelled against the saviour of the Dwarven peoples. It would be unforgivable indeed to voice such base allegations… but nobody had ever said anything about writing them down. Nurim rose and cleared his throat. “I shall repair to my study to pen a letter to the Lady Dís to apprise her of this baseless slander.” He bowed, and made a rather more hasty than stately exit.

The remaining council members sat, pondering the events of the morning. How had one such tiny, insignificant creature overset their morning, and reduced their normal, relatively tranquil meeting into such a farce?
How had a race of such significantly insignificant creatures reduced their hallowed halls to such straights in so short a time?

The head of the stores frowned. “Are we sure they aren’t magic?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The echoes of the song lingered in the still air of the clearing, the magic carried in the notes winding through leaf and tree. The ageless voice had dropped away, but its echoes drifted though the wood beneath the artisan’s delicate hands, following the path laid down by the ancient art. Shifting wood with both magic and limb, easing it into place and calling its form from the roots up, the artist lingered. Calloused fingers guided a chisel and took long minutes to shave a fraction of a sliver away, leaving the shining pale weirwood smooth and even, unable to prick or splinter.

The solid curve of the heavy haunches rose up from legs folded in to create a gentle rocking. The roots twisted away even as he placed the last touches, inspecting every inch of the product with a thousand years of wood-crafting skill; ensuring that this piece, commissioned and prepared with a full winter’s focus, was a mastery of perfection. His apprentices held back, some clearing shavings with their hands while still others gently strummed the closing notes of the spellwork.

Following the line of the back up to the strong neck, twisted to overlook the babe, the great antlers lofted in guardianship of the most precious slumber there. A throat cleared behind him, but he didn’t have eyes to turn now, not even for his lord. Dark hair slipped over the wood, finding not a single rough spot on which to tangle as the master craftsman finally reached the deep, empty hollows that marked the eyes of the noble face.

The bassinet was small in all, by the standard of an elf; big enough for one of their new-borns but it would quickly be outgrown. Still, the slight size of the bassinet, juxtaposed with the mighty elk that guarded it, gave it a certain delicacy, gave strength to the lightest flow of the wood grain. He stood back at last, and almost immediately the golden robes of King Thranduil glinted beside him.

“Well done.” The sleek, cultured voice spoke its praise slowly, with the weight that only a King could bring to bear.

Reawin, master of the Greenwoods Carvers, faced his Lord to gauge his reaction. Not for Thranduil the fondness of inspecting a satisfactory commission, but a saudade gaze that lingered on the stag’s face, modelled on the King’s own fallen mount, looking so near life as to be reborn.

Catching himself, Reawin stepped back, bowing deeply as his apprentices tapered their playing to an end. “It is done, my Lord.”

“No. It is pleasing, but not yet done.” Thranduil’s own hand slipped across the warm, even grain before reaching in to lift the pillow - so small it could only be used as decoration for most elves. He gestured imperiously behind him, and his aid handed him a shimmering cloth; a soft cloak, made by the lady Galadriel herself for his son’s hundredth birthday when the boy barely reached his father’s knee. Thranduil crooned softly as the cloth moved and the thread rewove itself without stiches, enclosing the small pillow. For now, the fabric felt cool, but would warm, or cool as needed, soothing against an infant’s skin.

Placing the cushion into the crib, it sat as a mattress, awaiting the halfling babe who was yet to enter the world. Standing back, Thranduil took in the sight of it and slipped from his robe two stones, his mind set even as his fingers were reluctant to part with just these two. Reaching forward, he clicked them into the empty, hollow eyes of the stag, overlooking their tiny cargo and setting the crib to motion with the gentle force of it.

The stones shimmered to life with a soft flicker of starlight. A great white stag, overlooking a weirwood crib, with stones of starlight for eyes – a fitting gift for one named elf friend.

“Now it is done. Pack it well, for we leave within the week.”

*************

Bilbo and his grandmother faced off across a table set with white linen and West Farthing china. Her voice was gentle and even pleasant as she supervised his Aunt Violet reaching over to pour the first cups of tea. The woman was old steel: steel in her hair, steel in her veins and steel in her eyes, no matter that it was wrapped in silks and lace. The matriarch of the great Baggins clan ruled over the family with a light but firm touch, her hands like iron on the reins of the family affairs.
Her skin, though wrinkled, was still fine and pale, hinting at the beauty time had begged to ease. The loss of her love was second only to a love of her family and name. More than a gentlehobbit, more than a Grand Dame, more than a skilled politicker of social waters… she was Grandmother Baggins. Unquestionable, unchallenged and without patience for foolishness or failing.

Her voice, still strong despite her age, floated with the steam of the tea kettle, as if asking after nothing more than the recent blooming in his garden. “So, tell me Bilbo. When did you decide to drag the Baggins name through the mud?”

Bilbo regarded her evenly, pausing to sip at his tea, not even blinking as the battle lines were drawn. “I don’t know grandmother,” he replied pleasantly. “When did the Baggins clan decide to take up pig farming and leave me to the cold of the stye?”

Around them, the family went quiet, as perfectly still as portraits. Nobody wanted to move lest they become caught in the crossfire.  Tea dripped into saucers and hands were held looming over tea cakes and sandwich corners; as a collective the table swallowed hard, unbelieving. Bilbo had taken very much after his father, inheriting the calm steel spine of the Baggins, but he had undeniably inherited his tongue from the dreaded Belladonna Took.

Bilbo smiled at Grandmother Baggins, all teeth. The battle was joined.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: “Throw it all overboard.”

“Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace hath brough me safe thus far,
And Grace will lead me home.”

The traveling coat Thorin had worn for the journey had been his only treasure for almost sixty years; patched and worked and kept serviceable through sheer love and effort. It was sturdy and warm and nowhere near the comfort or luxury of those that had been caked with dust and abandoned in Erebor. He wore it in until it was a second skin, until it grew tight on his shoulders, stretched as blacksmithing went from a favoured craft to his daily toil. Leather that had worn to silky suppleness had survived rivers, spiders and worse now lay in scraps somewhere in the vast treasure halls, lost amidst the roiling avalanche caused by the wyrm’s writhing.

His new coat was warmed by layers of softest wool and brocade. Each panel had been crafted and overseen by guild masters and comrades alike. The Ri family had made sure that every stitch and stretch of cloth was perfect, from the pockets to the silver buttons to the trustworthy straps. Still, he felt that - despite its comfort and its warmth – that it was a pale echo of his old cloak, for all that Dori managed to replicate the design and colour. It was made soft, but not in the way of leather straps moulded to the folds and dips of his body. It was made warm, but carried none of the trusted weight of a wolf pelt and dense, felted wool. It was made strong, but it was untried and untrusted. This coat carried no memories of dashes in the dark, of merchant route night watches or of the soft dirt of Beorn’s Garden as it shielded two bodies from the soft, dew-damp grass.

Pulling fast the last of the buckles, Thorin breathed freely for the first time in months. Free of the mithril crown and golden thoughts. Free to undo harm done and to find his home again. Home in the heart of a simple hobbit without whom his great mountain seemed bare and intolerable. Thorin moved to the wardrobe, pulled out a small pack and fastened Orcrist to his back. The new straps creaked but at least the weight there was a familiar comfort to him.

This would be a soft journey: no orcs or elves to avoid and no mission to keep secret, and with renewed trade between the kingdoms, the roads would be a safer option than troll-ridden countryside or goblin infested tunnels. Not to mention the renewed treaty meant little chance of being trussed up by spiders and locked in a filthy tree for untold months. Then again, did he trust the wretched elf king any more than the spiders of the woods? For now, it seemed he had no choice. A kind spring would see him back in the Shire by summer if he pushed hard. Perhaps a season at most; traveling alone would speed his journey. He could push himself harder than he could demand of others, with little chance of the troubles certain blood relations attracted.

A lingering caress prickled through his memory as he turned one last gaze onto his kingly quarters. For a moment he saw another bed, dusty and neglected but sturdy enough to bear their weight; he heard soft gasps and felt the warm curve of lips against his neck. The moment passed, overwhelmed by another, by the damp grip so tight it almost ripped skin, of hands grasping at his wrist and terrified eyes begging him not to let go.

Shaking his head, he thrust back the cold rush of shame threatening to choke him. There was much to feel shame over, but he had to try; he had to try to convince his One that they were not over yet. That he would strive for all the long years of his life to make amends if only given the chance, just a moment of a chance. He had to believe that they could be saved.

Clutching the strap of his bag, Thorin’s head bowed as he gathered strength. He went now to face something far worse than some dragon. Pulling on his gloves, he glanced to the water clock mounted on the wall. It was well before dawn, early enough that the guard change was still a little while away and those on duty had greater concerns than their King’s night-time wanderings. He would be able to slip to the stables relatively unremarked and after a few minutes to saddle his pony he’d be on his way and clear.

Without the council’s meddling, without a horde of followers, without hours of explanations and well on his way to Bilbo. Dís would keep Erebor well in hand in his absence. She had yet to crack his skull for far worse than an unannounced absence, he thought with sour amusement.

Striding to the door, he cracked it open. The guards on the corridor would be a minor inconvenience. They were there to protect the royal quarters, not the royal personage.  Widening the gap just enough to slip through, he peered down the corridor to the guards’ posting, frowning when he couldn’t see them. Where in the seven hells were they? As irritated by their absence as he would have been at their presence, Thorin ground his teeth at the deserted hallway. Deserting their post was unheard of. They were meant to be Dwalin’s best and most trusted, meant to guard his family!

“Plannin’ an early mornin’ picnic are we, yer Majesty?”

Thorin froze, biting back a curse as the looming figure of his cousin appeared, axes on his back and a suspiciously pack-shaped lump at his feet. For a long, drawn-out moment they watched each other before Thorin, with the nonchalance of a one-handed market thief, pulled the rest of himself through his door. He closed it quietly before learning back against it and meeting the captain’s eyes once more. Dwalin had matched his pose against the wall opposite.

A long moment of silence stretched between them.

“Dwalin.”

“Thorin.”

“The guards?”

“Told ‘em to take a break. Figured you’d be shite at slipping past.”

“Slipped past them enough in my younger days.”

A snort and a grin, “Nah, you didn’t.”

Thorin tensed, confused about the comment. “Course I did.”

“I followed along. Made it easier than dealing with your pouting princeling face.”

Thorin felt warmth flood his face and limbs in an echo of remembered embarrassment. He pushed it back now. “Well, I’m no longer a young dwarf.”

“Nope.” Another grin. This one spreading to borderline smirk.

Another long moment of silence. “I can take care of myself.”

“Course you can.” The dripping sarcasm coated the walls and floor.

Thorin felt the matching grin on his own face split to become a thing of teeth. “Well, since you know that, then you can rest comfortably in that knowledge.

Dwalin stepped away from the wall. “Comfortable enough, thank you.”

“Go away. That’s an order.”

Dwalin snorted. “Don’t see no crown on that empty skull of yours.”

The veil of friendly banter thinned. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I’m a night owl,” he spat back. Both men sizing each other up and wondering which one was going to break first as they battered their wills against each other like Bhirhül rams.

The blade thin drawl tore through the space between them. “If you two are quite done, the guards are on the stairs and will be here in three minutes.”

Both turned wide eyed to see Nori leaning out of a deep shadow at the end of the corridor. “And as amusing as this is, we need to get going before they get here.”

Ducking back into the dark corner, past where the corner should be, Thorin and Dwalin looked to each other. Tension melted away in the usual way between the two of them and they turned to follow the thief, Dwalin scooping up his pack in an easy motion.

“How the hell did you find out anyway?” Thorin tossed at his cousin. He’d been so careful, after all.

“I told ya, yer not subtle Thorin. Haven’t been in the treasure room all week according to Gloin and told Dori to oil your traveling leathers for ‘sentimental reasons.’ I imagine the thief knows the same way.”

They both flinched, startled, as the thief in question, who very clearly had ducked away, spoke from behind them again. “Royal Spymaster thank you. The thieves are in the tax office. Now could we move along plea-”

A door opened in the passage and a black moustache leaned out, annoyed. “What in the hells is going on out here? The princess is tryna sleep!”

Bofur blinked at them. Dwalin noted he wore his hat even with the dressing gown wrapped around him. Thorin blinked hard before he noted the door Bofur was leaning out of. It was his sister’s.

“What the hell-!” he hissed vehemently.

Nori shushed him quickly, pointedly glancing behind them. They didn’t have time for Thorin to throw his toys about his past 180-year-old, mother-of-two, widowed sister and the company she kept in dark hours.

Thorin stooped down, moving to hiss instead of shouting, out but was interrupted as Bofur’s sleep-heavy brain caught up to what and who he was seeing. Taking in the packs on their shoulders and the flight in the dark of night, he brightened. “So we’re goin’ now then?”

He grinned widely and his thoughts raced as he glanced behind him, but the whisper hadn’t roused Dís. He held up a finger, legs wanting to move even as voices started echoing up the stairs and down the passage. “Go ahead. I gotta get my things!” He pointed a thumb behind him back into the room and addressed Nori. “I’ll just use the passage in here, aye?”

His face near split with joy, he pulled back into the royal bedchamber. “I’ll get Bifur and Bombur an’ meet you in the stables. Bombur’s been needin’ to collect ‘is missus from Ered Luin.”

Thorin’s temple pulsed, the simple excitement of slipping out shifting to rage at meddlesome companions and no one, absolutely no one remarking on the fact that Bofur was apparently comfortably sleeping in Dís’ chambers. He turned on Nori. “What fucken passage-”

Nori planted a hand in the small of his back, along with Dwalin’s and shoved them forward, hard. The voices were getting louder. “No time. No time, need to get moving aye. Don’t want anyone waking up and finding the King sneaking out of his mountain.” He shoved them again and Thorin, seething, looked up to see a tapestry that had survived even the wyrm’s prolonged infestation. The great and heavy weaves depicting Thráin I the Old discovering the mountain that would be their home. They hit it and he felt the cloth give under his hand, sinking in where there should be wall. Thorin looked up at the space, stunned.

He and Dwalin followed the thief into a passage behind the edge of cloth and the same throbbing temple he’d had at Dís doors seemed to transfer to Dwalin as he hissed at Nori softly in khuzdul, the guard waving a hand at the unknown tunnel into the Royal apartments. The whispering grew into outright bickering and their volume rose as they slipped further down the tunnels.

They followed Nori through a network of tunnels, the darkness meaning little to dwarfish eyes. They followed him, twisting and turning through narrow courses and tilted grounds. Thorin could smell it before he saw it: the musty warmth of straw and - less pleasant - fresh dung. The scent of the ponies and a few Bhirhül.

Nori pressed against a notch in the stone door, and it swung open to reveal the lower-level stables closest to the main gates. Thorin shook his head. They’d been there but a few months and the thief danced through the walls like he was born in them.

The stables were hushed at the late hour, save the soft noises of the sleepy, contented animals chewing cud and resting. He heard the cadence of Kuzdhul and followed the others to find Bifur holding the reigns to several saddled ponies, murmuring softly and stroking the mane of the biggest one.

Thorin exasperated raised a hand in greeting. “Bifur.”

“My King. We’re ready here. Granite just don’t wann’ leave his fav’rite mare is all. She’s foaling.”

Taking the reins of the dapple-grey mount, Thorin thanked him with a nod. He’d planned to take his own pony from the Royal stables, but realising now that it would be attended, he grinned. Around him the others were tying their bags and checking their mounts’ tack. The unprompted loyalty meant more in that moment than he had words for.

“Aye, leaving your One is a struggle, but you’ll be back soon.” Thorin gently tugged the pony’s forelock before hitching up his own gear.

A sudden bustle on the stairs brought a ruckus diving through the straw and soft glow of lamp light. Bombur tumbled forward, landing in a heap as Bofur, Oin and Dori landed atop him. “Excellent! We’re not too late then!”

Through the dark of night they slipped away, down quiet paths towards the distant dock. The lights of Dale shone on the water some distance away.

“Balin, Gloin and Ori are waiting at the old dock with a boat to take us to the Mirkwood. We should be there by morning, before they miss us,” Nori announced.
‘They’ referring to Thorin’s kin. Two short from the company would help this quest; he was not as alone as he had intended but without his nephews things would go more smoothly. Their mother would refrain from flaying him on his return as well. Absconding with her sons twice in one decade was a bit much.

The path opened onto the old wooden dock where they had landed so long ago. This time, it was no rowboat awaiting them but a large vessel, the likes of Bard’s old ship. Barrels lined the sides and the hold below was open and ramped for the ponies. The dwarrow dismounted and Thorin strode forward, spotting Balin and Ori at the foot of the ramp. Deep within he could hear Gloin’s voice, haggling a price with an unsympathetic ear.

Balin’s kind eyes met his as their arm’s clasped. Thorin spoke first, “Didn’t expect you here. Any of you.” They shared a look older than the boat beside them. One of warm trust and loyalty between companions.

“I knew he’d knock you out of it. There’d never be any keeping you out of the Shire afterwards. Not without Bilbo here.” Balin’s voice creaked. He had his own shame from that long ago day, banishing the hobbit with barely a word from their king, obeying an order given in madness. “We would never let you go alone Thorin.”

Thorin smiled. “And I am glad for it. Didn’t think I would be. Thank you, old friend.”

“If you’re done with your tea party, move.” Dwalin drawled before pushing past his cousin and headbutting his brother in greeting. “Bifur and the goat thief’ll get the ponies settled. Then we can shove off.”

“That is vicious rumour and was never proven,” Ori sniffed, offended on his brother’s behalf. “My family has a long history of caring for Bhirhül, I’ll have you know.”

Leaving the mild bickering behind, Thorin boarded, striding across the deck to the far side. He faced the mountain, saw its bright, massive torches lighting up the night sky. Home. It meant so much to him, to his very bones. But deeper than his bones there was meant something more: his One. His Bilbo.

Dwalin stepped up beside him, dropping his pack on one of the apple barrels.

“What was that? Was that you Fí?”

The two Dwarves froze, looking down. The apple barrel next to it responded, “Shut up, we’re hiding remember you idiot.”

“Was that the signal? Uncle Thorin will be so surprised!”

“Ssssh! Not till we leave. Shut it!”

Uncle Thorin was indeed surprised. And very, very annoyed at the fact that these two idiots had all the tact and intelligence of their damn father’s family.

“Don’t tell me to shut it! You shut it!”

He looked at Dwalin. Dwalin looked back at him. They both nodded. Dís was young, she could have more sons.

“These apples are rotten,” Thorin growled. “Throw them overboard.”

As one, they each put a boot on a barrel and shoved hard, sending them careening across the deck towards to end of the ship. The barrels yelped loudly, heavy thudding and jingling to be heard as they rolled, scattering apples across the deck. A pair of hands shot out of the open end of each barrel. “Uncle no! It’s us!”  Fili and Kili spilled dizzily onto the deck.

Thorin sighed, burying his face in his hands. Above them, unnoticed, a weary raven winged its way towards Erabor. It had come from the far east, bearing a distinctly accusatory letter.

Xxxxxx

Tea was sacred to the Baggins Clan. All hobbits enjoyed tea, but to the Baggins family, Tea was both ritual and a careful dance of familial ties and status. In the smaller close-knit families, it was time to catch up and share in the warmth of new cake recipes and stories. When guests arrived, it was a chance to show favour and the well-bred manners the Baggins were famous for. When the grand family gathered it was always over Tea before hardier and more substantial meals.

Tea could heat emotions and cool blood. Invitations could show favour or call rebels to heel. Tea was the event of contrition and reabsorption into the family fold. It was a calling to those attending, both audience and participant, to the ritual dance of wit and unparallel decorum.

And no Tea was as honoured or feared as the daily gathering of Grandmother Baggins. Rosemary Baggins had been the matriarch of her family for close to fifty years now, and a high-ranking daughter and wife before that. The gentle family inhabited Bagshaw, one of the first of the great Smials built after hobbits first settled the rolling hills of the shire, and for which Bag Hill itself was named.

An invitation to Tea, among the sprawling Baggins clan, was a welcome honour… in theory. In practice it was a subtle prodding for the happenings in one’s life, interspersed with some far sharper strikes at missteps and disapproved decisions. Grandmother Baggins prided herself on her soft touch, even if that lace glove encased a steel fist. And it was by that fist she guided the Baggins Clan, keeping their reputation and standing in the community above question.

The Westfarthing China Set was the third best set the Grand Dame owned. It had been passed down on her mother’s side of the family for generations, and was a delicate white bone china, hand painted in blue with pastoral scenes of a riverside picnic. It was elegantly decorated with flowered vines circling the creamy white saucers. A wide brimmed teacup matched a round bellied pot and accompanying sugar and milk pots. Serving platters and two cake stands completed the set, but were clearly later additions by the shade of the white, clearer and brighter than the pot and cups.

Bilbo knew for a fact that it was a sixteen-cup set. There were fourteen people at the table. He looked down at his own cup, presented on his arrival. It was from a collection at least three sets down from the Westfarthing china. It could have been worse though: it was still bone china. It wasn’t the porcelain Skye China and at least there were no obvious cracks or chips. He sighed internally – so it wasn’t to be immediate repudiation from the family then, at least.

He reached for the nearby platter, selecting two scones as all the family around him passed trays and cake dishes around the table while daughters and daughters-in-law circled the table with juices and water pitchers, filling cups before finding their seats. Aunt Violet, Bungo’s younger sister and Grandmother Baggins’ eldest and most favoured daughter, fulfilled her role as hostess perfectly, pouring tea for her guests.

Next to him, Drogo seemed tense, stirring at least two more spoons of sugar in his tea than he was known to usually allow himself. His eyes dipped across the table to their grandmother, who had yet to offer more then a general greeting for the table as she spoke with Aunt Violet. She was carefully selecting tiny, delicate pastries from the plate being offered to her. Everyone else had been served, and were politely waiting, with their tea gently cooling, while Aunt Violet served her mother.

The light chatter around the table filled the space softly, as no one was quite sure of the tone of the meal as yet. Across the table, her selection made and with a hand still strong beneath the soft skin and wrinkles, Grandmother delicately stirred her tea four times, counter-clockwise, before gently tapping her spoon, precisely twice, to the edge of the cup.

Every small gesture was crafted to increase tension - and frankly fear - in the younger, to-be-censured hobbit. A year ago, it would have had the exact effect that Grandmother intended. A year ago, Bilbo had not outfaced trolls, goblins and dragons. A year ago, he had not gained and lost kith with fourteen of the most stubborn creatures to walk the earth. A year ago, he had not felt his heart broken in a way he could never recover from. Now, as Gandalf had once promised, it was a very different Bilbo who had returned to the Shire. Mad Baggins they had called him; a stain on the family. It turned out they were right in a way, he thought as he sat, a small discomfort in his core. He was mad. But not insane. No, instead it was an anger that was taking root. It was a cold anger, and it was done with the offenses of the world. What did he care for her disapproval? The fear and bubbling panic faded, and he felt his lips tilt in a smile. He began his own careful gestures over the ritual preparation of his tea, stirring his spoon clockwise as he waited patiently for her first strike.

Drogo froze uncomfortably as the nervous tension seemed to slip away from his cousin. Something else took its place, and he forcibly stopped himself from shifting in his chair like a chastised faunt.

The Grand Dame of the Shire placed the spoon down in the saucer and took a small sip of tea before launching her first sally. “So. Tell me Bilbo, when did you decide to drag the Baggins name through the mud?”

Bilbo regarded her evenly, pausing to sip at his tea, not even blinking as the battle lines were drawn. “I don’t know grandmother,” he replied pleasantly. “When did the Baggins clan decide to take up pig farming and leave me to the cold of the stye?”

Around them, the family went quiet, as perfectly still as portraits. Nobody wanted to move lest they become caught in the crossfire.  Tea dripped into saucers and hands were held looming over tea cakes and sandwich corners; as a collective the table swallowed hard, disbelieving. Bilbo had taken very much after his father, inheriting the calm steel spine of the Baggins, but he had undeniably inherited his tongue from the dreaded Belladonna Took.

Bilbo smiled at Grandmother Baggins as a dragon smiled, all teeth. He didn’t need his sword for this fight. He had sting enough on his own.

Grandmother froze for a fraction of a moment before her eyes narrowed. She took a sip of tea to cover her lapse and met her grandson’s eyes for the first time in a year.

“Abandoned? When you sit here in the heart of your family? What dramatic nonsense.”

“Oh? Did I imagine chasing my silverware around Shire after coming home to an auction and sale? Or Gaffer Willowfeather carting my mother’s dower chest down the Bywater?”
Bilbo considered the small cucumber sandwich and decided his stomach would not rebel, taking a delicate bite as his grandmother chewed on his words. “Not one word to my solicitor, not one Baggins there to protest, not one visit in the weeks since. What would you call it then, Grandmother?”

The old woman lowered her teacup with a very solid ‘clink.’
“A lesson. A lesson to not just yourself, but to any fauntling fool enough to follow in your example.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to cut in on her ‘lesson,’ but she didn’t let him. “A few days for the fuss to settle, and it would have been dealt with. Quietly and without spectacle. But you flaunted yourself around the Shire with a weapon, making an exhibition of yourself. You have brought this embarrassment on yourself, young man.”

Bilbo’s toothy grin widened. “I learned many things that day Grandmother. Including who my family is.”

“And who would that be, exactly? Your missing dwarfs?” A delicate sneer painted her powdered face. “How many of the ruffians were there?” Her eyes flicked downward to his belly, hidden beneath the pristine tablecloth.

Bilbo froze in shock, going cold. His mind flashed to the memory of another battle. One quite different, but no less great. Of being dangled from a mountain ledge by a heavy fist at his throat, not knowing if at any moment he would drop. Of friends turning away from him, leaving him, dismissing him from their very sight. He paled and his hands trembled sharply.

“Grandmother!” Drogo exclaimed.

Grandmother Baggins scoffed. “We are your family, Bilbo. And you have placed us in a very difficult position.  Rumours are already flying concerning this foolishness about us turning on you. I will not allow the Baggins named to be further sullied by your folly.”

A year ago, when news had arrived that Bilbo, her dearest Bungo’s only child, had absconded from his duties and the life of a gentle hobbit of Bagend, she had been furious. As soon as news came that his estate was up for sale she had begun making enquires. When Bilbo had returned so thin, in a wretched state and waving a sword, she had very clearly made her disapproval known. She’d ordered the distancing of the family. Yes, he was Baggins and her favourite grandson, but until the rumours died down, until he began to act and carry himself with contrition for his folly and disobedience, that stain would not be allowed to spread to others. His mother would carry the smear to the Took side of Bilbo’s bloodline and until the time was right, Grandmother Baggins would wait to bring him back into the fold of the clan. Until, that is, this morning.

She sniffed daintily, taking another sip of tea. “You will, of course, remain here for your pregnancy. We will see to your comfort and care. You will want for nothing.” She paused to eat a pastry, and the family followed suite.
“And a ring, of course. Wild tales of dwarves aside, a baby out of wedlock is not to be thought of. Better we inform our friends of your marriage and the father’s death. Widowed-before-marriage will be tricky, but we can outpace the rumours well enough.”

As she spoke, the story began flowering in the minds of those at the table, who’s lips chewing now would chew fat with others in the Shire later.

“Something suitably tragic to draw attention away from the timing. If you have some trinket it would aid in the-”

The only thing louder than the crack of china was Violet’s gasp at the act itself. Drogo cursed softly and snatched for his handkerchief to wrap Bilbo’s quivering hand. “Tragic? I’ve had a little too much tragedy of late Grandmother. There’s no space left for more.”

Grandmother Baggins observed the broken teacup and the spreading spill on the white linen before eyeing her eldest’s only child. “Another lesson is needed I see, you dramatic child. Enough, Bilbo!”

Bilbo, still trembling, shook his cousin off and quickly and efficiently wrapped his bleeding hand himself. The cut was long but shallow, and hardly worth note compared to past hurts. He stood abruptly. “Yes Grandmother. It is enough. Enough of this farce!”
Bilbo met her eyes from across the table. There, she saw a seed, planted by a loss so deep it almost took one along into the darkness. She’d felt that loss years past when her husband left her for the Green Gardens of Yavanna.

“Tea is not done-“ she sputtered, but he interrupted.

“Enough of false manners and this nonsense.” Bilbo turned to his aunt. “Thank you for the invitation, Aunt Violet, but I’m afraid I simply have more important matters to attend to than trying to court favour with someone who has none of mine. I have a nursery to plan and arrangements to make.”
He forced a smile to the table before looking at his grandmother once more. “Goodbye, Granny.”
Bilbo strode from the room, his dramatic exit ruined by the knowledge that somehow, he had mimicked the technique of a dwarven king.

Drogo dabbed his mouth politely and stood, giving an apologetic look to his mother before following his apparently suicidal cousin from the room, Not speaking lest he draw his grandmother’s further ire.

Rosemary Baggins coughed out her outrage as her daughter quickly patted her back. The other guests abandoned their plates and cups, trying to gauge how to react. Violet was shocked, however, to see the slight, pleased tilt to her mother’s lips. “Cheeky bugger. He’s cultivated some steel!”

Taking a long sip of now-lukewarm tea, she frowned before glancing down the table at the 13 remaining pairs of eyes watching her. “Close your mouths if you’re not going to fill them!”

The rest of her clan snapped their eyes forward and slowly, the murmur of conversation picked up. They wouldn’t dare discuss what just transpired in range of her sharp hearing. “Violet, get me more tea. This tastes rotten when it’s cold. And clean that mess, will you? The blood will set in the linen and then you’ll have to throw it out. And someone call for Poppy. That boy is not getting out of being a Baggins so easily!”

Xxxxx

Dís had woken alone.
Contrary to popular and public belief, this was not a common event – outside of the few months her brother was traipsing across multiple kingdoms.

She had been ten when the dragon came, barely a babe, and most of her life was sharing a bed with her mother, or Frerin or a cousin as they struggled to survive. Even after settling in the Blue Mountains, it was not long until she met Víli and was sneaking him in through the window. Thorin slept either deeply or not at all, and it was hardly a difficult endeavour.

She’d lived for fifty years with her One, waking up beside him… and occasionally both waking beside Bofur if the evening had gone well. When Mahal had called him, she shared her bed with her heartbroken sons. Her sons had grown up and found other comforts, but she and Bofur had never fallen out of the habit of comforting each other. She and Víli had been each other’s ones, yes, but Víli had been Bofur’s unrequited. Only he knew the absence that Víli had left in them both, and only they two could try to patch that hole even a little.

This morning though, she woke alone. Dís sighed, and rose. The day was moving on, early morning as it was. She rang for a servant to send for her handmaiden, Melis. She was Gloin’s wife and should be up by now, sending Gimli off to lessons and seeing her husband off to the treasury. The two women had been friends for as long as Dís could remember and no one was better suited to her confidence, even if the term ‘maiden’ was no long as accurate as in their youth.

Dís dressed herself slowly, still not used to the novelty of the privileged royal wardrobe, and began brushing out her thick, still-dark hair. As she began a braid, a knock on the door announced Melis with their morning tray. “Morning Dís!” Melis sang out, already bustling forward to put the tray down. “Morning Bofur!” She called out in the direction of the bedroom door.

“Sssh, are you mad!” Dis híssed at her. “Do you want the whole mountain to hear you?”

Melis scoffed slightly and took the brush from Dis. “You really need to stop using such simple braids. You are a princess of Erebor. Who cares who warms your bed?”

 Dís snorted in response, hands already moving to butter the rolls and add some of the rich honey and cheese for them both as the other woman’s hands were busy with her hair. “I’ve been doing my hair this way for years and you speak as a dam without brothers. Besides, Bofur’s not here. He must have gotten up early for something.”

“I’ve been fixing it this way for years.” Melis mimicked, half-mocking, giving a tweak to her friend’s royal ear before sitting herself down and grabbing a roll. She took a large bite. “Is your brother in the treasury again? Gloin darted out in the middle of the night. Said he’d be safe and would see me soon. Some clandestine nonsense again, no doubt.”

Dís looked up from the correspondence her sectary had left on the edge of the morning tray. “What do you mean? I haven’t heard anything about some event.” Her eyes softened, worried. “Thorin’s been out of that damn golden tomb for a week now. I thought… I thought it was over.”

Melis covered her hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just that lot up to their usual tricks. I’m sure Thorin’s nowhere near the treasury. He’s probably with those scoundrels of yours.”

Dís sighed but remained tense. She reached over and rang a bell. A servant bobbed in almost immediately. “Call for my secretary, will you?”

Melis grabbed a second roll but made for the bedroom to straighten things up before they left for the day. Dís lifted the first of the letters, scanning through it, arranging them for her responses. All went well until the last letter, come via raven from Nurim and Ered Luin. She sat straighter; this should have been delivered on arrival if it had come by raven!
She quickly unrolled the scroll, reading it fervently. She stopped, blinked and read it again more slowly.
At the final line, her hands began to shake, and she began heaving in slow, deep breaths.

“…and as it stands, the refusal to parlay or even entertain any envoy has become a vital issue and so it is with all respect that I must delicately broach the subject: has his majesty, King Thorin I of Erebor, in fact murdered or attempted to murder a halfling recently?”

There had been a halfling in the party. Boggins or something, according to Kíli. She knew that much, but the reclusive creature was gone by the time she’d arrived to Erebor. No one would speak of him and the only time she’d tried to mention it to Thorin, he’d raged so wildly, lost in madness, she’d fled to fetch her sword. When she’d returned, he’d locked himself in the treasury and hadn’t emerged for nearly four days.

Her secretary entered and she didn’t even pause. “Where is my brother. I must speak with him at once.”

Her secretary was a professional, so his voice barely wavered as he announced with aplomb “his majesty seems to be absent at this time, mi’lady.”

Her eyes narrowed and his hands trembled slightly. Most feared the king and his temper, but he had served the Lady Dís long enough to know that the true danger was when the normally-calm, even-tempered Durin princess became annoyed.

“I know that he is absent from this room,” she purred silkily. “Is he absent from his rooms? From the royal apartments? From the throne room…?” She paused, making deep eye contact with her now-pale secretary. “I am sure that you could fill a library with the list of places from which my brother is absent. What I wish to know…” here she stalked towards him, circling him as she spoke. She came to halt barely a breath from the secretary’s nose.
“What I need to know, right now, is where. He. Is.”

Dís released him from the pressure of her attention, in order to begin pacing. Melis had mentioned Gloin was up to something, and Thorin had probably been roped in. “Ask Dwalin,” she snapped over her shoulder. “He’ll know where he is. Probably some silly trip into a deep mine or something.”

The sectary swallowed hard. “The Captain of the Guard has not been seen either, my lady.”

Dis stilled, turning to face him again. “Balin, then.”

The secretary avoided making eye contact. He stared straight ahead, wondering if this was what it had felt like when facing down the dragon. “Um…” he coughed apologetically. “Lord Balin has not checked in with us this morning as yet, Princess.”

Dis placed a hand slowly and carefully on her dressing table. Her voice slowed and she maintained deep breathes. “Oin then, or Ori. Ori practically lives in the library.”

The secretary felt a bead of sweat slip down his forehead. He didn’t dare move to wipe it. “He um… I checked both, Highness. Lord Dori as well, when I couldn’t find Lord Balin. The Ri home is sealed and the servants have been put on long leave.”

“Bombur.”

“Not in the kitchen, Highness”

Dis began rubbing at her temples, trying to soothe away the headache forming there. “Bifur?”

“Nowhere to be found, and the stables are um… emptier than they should be.”

Deep breathes were becoming heavier as she tried to slow the blood in her veins, the fire in her spine spreading to every limb. “I don’t suppose there is any point asking about Nori?”

The man was so startled. In his offense, he forgot himself and met her eyes “The spymaster my Lady?!”

Dis closed her eyes, trying to maintain a shred of decorum. “Where. Are. My. Sons.”

The secretary shuffled in place, his innate instinct for survival screaming at him to run. “Um, my… I mean, that is to say… my apologies, your majesty,” he whispered brokenly.

“Bring me Dwalin’s second. NOW.”

The man bobbed his head and scurried out, clutching at his beard in a way her hadn’t since he was a small child.

Melis came bustling out of the bedroom. “Did you see this?” She asked holding out a small box. “It was at your bedside. With a note.”

Dis strode to the woman, snatching the note from her as Melis laid the box on the table. Dís snapped her attention to Melis when she gasped. When Dís saw what had caused her friend’s reaction, her cheeks spilled with crimson at the sight of the very familiar and very accurate object in the box. There was a small switch on it. She reached out as if in a trance, but wasn’t fast enough to stop Melis before the other woman had flipped it.

A loud, obtrusive buzzing noise filled the chamber as the box began to shake, vibrating slowly across the table. Both women stared at the box’s slow migration across the table. “Well. He really is a talented toymaker isn’t he?” Melis giggled, delightfully scandalized.

Dis slammed the box closed and stuffed it under the nearest cushion to get it out of sight, where the infernal buzzing caused the cushion to jiggle merrily on the seat. She read the note.

‘Off to the Shire. Back in a few months. This should keep you company while I’m gone. – B’

Dis dove for the box. Last night’s fire was still hot enough for her intended purpose. Melis lunged forward and caught it up first before her lady could make a decision she would definitely regret later.
“I’ll just put this away until you’ve calmed, shall I?” She slipped through the bedroom door just as the Lieutenant entered, his helmet under his arm, and snapped a smart salute.

“My Lady, we are searching the mountain and-“

“My brother and his company of idiots are on their way east,” she snarled. “They can’t have gotten far. Saddle some ponies and bring them back. In chains if you must.”

“The lieutenant shifted slightly. He’d been married long enough to know when a dam could not be reasoned with, but that did not absolve him from trying. “My lady, he is the King under the Mountain. If he decides to order me, I cannot force him back.”

Dis stalked her way to the insolent dwarf. She spoke slowly and clearly so that not one word, not one meaning could be misconstrued, each word clipped out with every step closer until he was leaning back. “He cannot be King under the Mountain if he is not, in fact, under the Mountain. In chains, I said, if you have to!”

He swallowed heavily and stuttered out, “B-but my Lady-”

A jewelled hand reached out, fisted around his gorget and yanked him down so that he was bent awkwardly to bring him to her eye level.

“I AM KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN NOW!” he felt drops of spittle hit his beard as Dís roared  her claim.

He stumbled away when she let him go, shoving his helmet on his head. “Y-Yes my Lady- uh, your, um your Majesty! At- at once, your Majesty!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Home is ahead

Bard buried his face in his hands. The divan he was sitting on was lush and comfortable, and had been so for the three days he’d been sitting on it. When the King of the Mirkwood had heard that Bard and some of his folk were on their way to negotiate potential trade agreements with those west of the Misty Mountains, his elven majesty had nonchalantly invited himself to join them. Bard’s strong desire to not offend his neighbouring monarch, he reflected, was the single greatest motivating factor in his agreement. Well, that and perhaps the chance to get some advice on the business of being a monarch at some point on the journey.

“Absolutely not. The hem is worn.”

Ducking under the moonlight fabric wafting across the room, he regretted agreeing with every breath in his mortal body. The problem with immortals - the real problem, he thought irritably - was that they didn’t recognize that time did not move as slowly for anyone not a damn elf!

“No. The colour is awful.”

Dragging his hands through his hair, he fought back a scream. Three days. Three days of sitting on elegant chairs and being plied with delicate wines and dainties after already extensive and extended discussions of their own treaties between Dale and the Mirkwood, taxes for the River Gates, of being yanked from court to garden and back. At last, with the politicking done, anyone else would have been well on their way. Instead, he found himself growing roots in Thranduil’s own dressing wing for yet further discussions, feeling like a week-old fish on a banquet table while the Elven King packed more clothes than any living being should own, and with nothing left to say.

He could scream, certainly; but he had no more words.

The slender figure leaning on the arm rest beside him radiated bored amusement. Ageless as was most of his kind, Galion had served King Thranduil’s house since the King was no more than a little shadow in King Oropher’s cloak. He had seen the king of the Greenwood run through the woods of Doriath, as young and foolish in a way that most now only remembered of Prince Legolas. These millenia of service gave him the enviable status of being one of the few beings yet living who couldn’t be bothered to fear the temperamental king. His mahogany hair slid across his immaculate tabards as he glanced at their guest’s nearby goblet. “More wine, my Lord?” Galion drawled softly.

King Bard, Dragonslayer, transferred his glare to the elf beside him. This one had been no help at all as others ran back and forth, packing trunks and cases as fast as Thranduil could throw the items out. “Can’t you do something? Aren't you his… his… valet or something? This is ridiculous!” he hissed, fingers clawed and tense in the voluptuous fabric beneath him.

His own advisor, in spacious, comfortable rooms far from here, had been clear that they couldn’t afford to anger the elves; that the escort to the farmers in the West, hobbits and the like, would be far safer under the accompaniment of the elves. But at this rate they wouldn’t leave the Greenwood before winter.

“Steward, actually.” Galion shrugged gracefully, watching Thandiul discard another yet another scarf, one he’d worn constantly the year before, then went back to idly inspecting his fingernails “A servant should not command a king. I serve this house and its head.”

The dry look the human gave him made him laugh. “Besides, it wouldn't help.” He gestured at the whirl of heavy silks across the room. “King Thranduil is fighting a battle. It wouldn’t do for us to distract him from his personal dragon.”
Bard snorted disbelievingly. He looked pointedly at the stack of crates, the ransacked wardrobes and drifts of inexpressibly valuable fabrics that had fallen victim to the mercurial king’s temper.

A flash of disapproval crested the wood elf’s face, like a shadow of something lurking in deep water. After a tense moment, he flicked his fingers dismissively at the muttering human. “Fashion is a type of battle; it wouldn’t do for our king to be seen in rags as he crossed the kingdoms outside the Greenwood for the first time in… many centuries.”
Galion trailed off thoughtfully, switching to evaluating the admittedly recently elevated human king with mild judgement. After a moment of watching the human king grow slowly more and more agitated, he chuckled and tipped his head, drawing his dark eyes deliberately from the human’s boots to his hair tie. “If you like, I could prepare some things for your own… hmm. Everything.”

Bard went still, turning slowly to Galion, cursing the blush he could feel spreading across his cheeks as he became aware of the steward’s heavy gaze. Galion slipped off the armrest to sit beside him, both of them ignoring, from practice, Thranduil striding back into the dressing room, attendants aflutter in his wake. Bard’s mouth dropped open to say… something, as the room suddenly felt warmer than it had any right to be. He tensed, horrified, as the elf slid forward.

Galion inched closer as he spoke. “Some dove grey perhaps. Or red. A deep red would suit you very well.” His voice dropped to a low rumble as his lips curled slightly upwards. Bard shifted back until he hit the arm rest. “No! No. Um, thank you but I’m fine. I have clothing enough for our journey.”

Galion leaned close, a slow breath leaving his lungs, as he reached to brush across Bard’s knee. “Really? You’re drowning in browns. They swallow you.”

Bard pressed close to the constraining arm of the divan, fighting not to let his shoulders hunch up to his burning ears. “No. My, my wife made them. They are sturdy enough for the journey. I have a wife,” he fumbled compulsively.

Galion’s slow grin spread as his eyelids drooped gently. Light fingers trailed higher on Bard’s leg. “So do I. She likes to share… clothing.”

The king of Dale levitated over the armrest and behind the couch, heavily flustered and somewhat terrified by the less than subtle implication. “No! No thank you. I don’t think that would suit me at all. I don’t want more clothing!” He had heard rumours of what some dwarves and elves did without women around, but never had he felt a taste or even curiosity for it. Now though, he found himself discomfited by the forward seneschal.

Galion held his gaze for a long, sultry moment longer before he collapsed in laughter. Very inappropriate laughter. “Peace! Peace King Bard. I only jest. You looked vexed.”
He snorted delicately before refiling the man’s goblet and standing to pass it over. “It was only a little joke.” He waved his hand, dismissing any offence with the gesture. “If you looked any more sour you could have fermented half the cellar.”

Bard took the goblet and swallowed, eyeing the elf suspiciously even as one of the attendants scurried out of the dressing room in tears to the sound of more crashing and displaced cloth. Bard bit back a growl of frustration. "You mean to say he's making us wait here while he fusses over scarves and trews?"

Galion draped himself bonelessly across the divan, unperturbed. "He has his reasons. Best not interrupt without cause.”

As Bard stewed in his own thoughts, he couldn't help but glance repeatedly at Thranduil, who was now examining a jeweled necklace with a level of scrutiny usually reserved for pressing matters of state. The elf king's attendants flitted around him, offering various options for accessories with varying degrees of deference.

Galion, apparently having taken a sudden vow of silence on the subject of Bard's own wardrobe, instead returned to his observation of his own lord. He picked up another delicate goblet and swirled the deep red wine within, admiring the play of light on its surface.
A small eternity later, Thranduil finally seemed satisfied with his choice of adornments, waving off one of the attendants who returned to the room proper to fetch another travelling case.

As she passed the great chamber doors, angular movement caught his attention. Galion locked eyes with the Captain of the Guards. Standing abruptly, he strode to the door, abandoning the divan and the human skulking defensively behind it. The two spoke rapidly in the rippling elvish tongue as Bard, for the hundredth time that day, reconsidered the company of elves in general - and the Mirkwood contingent specifically - in the most colourful words he could think of. In his head, of course. Despite some prevailing opinions, he was neither simple nor rude enough to say anything aloud.

Galion gestured the captain forward, ignoring the elf’s hesitation. The elf was new in his role but old in his experience of the King of Mirkwood’s temperament.
Galion turned from the dithering Guard Captain and casually started picking things up off the floor. A pile in hand, he laid deftly folded scarves over the back of the divan. Hands occupied, Galion casually and loudly informed the room: “King Thorin Oakenshield is apparently at the border of Mirkwood seeking passage on the main road. He’s heading to the Shire.”

There was sudden silence from the dressing room.

“He requests an audience to petition the King’s permission to pass through.”

King Thranduil, Elvenking and King of the Woodland Realms, sauntered out of the dressing room, heading for the door. He paused beside Galion, chin tilted proudly. “And he is taking a full royal contingent?”

Galion shrugged, tucking the pile of folded cloth into the crook of his arm. “No my Lord. Only a small, rag-tag group. Possibly prioritising speed of travel.”

Thranduil considered his steward coldly, assessing his suddenly demure stance beside the human. After a moment, his face relaxed and he eyed Bard and the half-raised goblet disdainfully. “If you are quite done with your dalliance, we will be leaving. Gather your people.” He turned in a heavy rustle of silk, and strode for the stables and his mount.

Bard sputtered furiously, his eyes popping in offence at the implication that he was the one delaying them, and not the foppish king. “So, what?” he snarled. “After all that, he’s not bothering with any of his precious wardrobe?”

Galion merely shrugged one slender shoulder and began folding another drift of clothing. “I’ve had him packed for weeks. I knew eventually he would wish to visit the rangers and the young Prince.”

“Then why waste everyone’s time with this ridiculous parade?” Bard swore and thumped the goblet down onto a delicate table and turned for the doors himself. He would make his way to his own chambers and be rid of this damn frippery.

Galion’s next words stopped him. “My lord hasn’t been beyond the bounds of the forest since he brought the remnants of his father’s army back from the battle of Dagorlad - some three thousand years ago. Except for that little contretemps at Erebor, of course” His smile dimmed. “I told you he had a battle to fight. When you’ve done something long enough, lived in your safe place, then leaving it, travelling through places you no longer know or remember can be terrifying. Even with your heart wanting to make the journey, your flesh pulls at you to sit. To wait. To stay. It’s far safer, easier, to throw around your wardrobe while you build your courage.
Galion shook his dark head, and placed an elegant hand on the man’s arm, leaning close to the human king and giving him a wink before the blushing Bard stumbled back out of reach.

“But a little push never hurts. After all, I would never allow a bunch of rock heads to beat him there.” Galion’s deep, liquid laugh hastened Bard through the door.

Laughter ebbing, and realising that the Captain of the guards was still waiting and that the King had issued no orders, Galion sighed heavily. After all, he would be acting in the king's stead in his absence. He silently admired the Captain’s sheer stoicism; He stood with perfect posture and commendable discretion, waiting to be dismissed. “Let them through the border and lead them through the woods.” The Captain nodded sharply, and turned to leave. He was halted after a few strides by the Steward’s thoughtful voice carried by the vaulted halls.
“Captain? The long way round.”

It had been a long time indeed since he’d had to play a more appreciable role than being the minder of the head of their noble house. Now, as the king hurried on his way, he would keep the great realm until his return.

As Bard made his way to his assigned chambers, the words of the amorous elven steward echoed in his head. He couldn't help but feel a strange mix of empathy and frustration towards Thranduil. It was true, leaving one's comfort zone, even for a king, could be a daunting prospect. The sheer weight of responsibility, of duty, often shackled even the mightiest of rulers.

Once in his chambers, Bard wasted no time shedding the elaborate elven attire he’d been gently bullied into wearing. He exchanged it for the familiar, practical garments he was more accustomed to. He glanced around, confirming that everything was in order for their departure.
Soon enough, the rest of their company joined him, looking just as relieved to be quit of the elven palace. They swiftly gathered their belongings and made their way to the stables, where their horses were prepared for the journey ahead, fresh and eager for the road.
As they made their way towards the Mirkwood Palace’s gate, they rapidly caught up to the elven envoy, and King Thranduil’s impossibly imposing stag. Bard couldn't help but feel a sense of renewed urgency; the news of Thorin's approach had added a new layer of complexity to their mission. He needed to ensure that their paths would cross in a way that would benefit all parties.
Bard moved to ride beside Thranduil at the head of the column, his mind churning with plans and contingencies. He knew that the coming encounter with Thorin would shape the future of their kingdoms, and he was determined to make it a success.

With renewed determination, he focused on their path ahead, ready to face the challenges and opportunities that awaited them beyond the bounds of Mirkwood. The fate of their kingdoms hung in the balance, and Bard was determined to seize this moment and shape their future for the better.

_____________________________________________________________________

Cordelia Took and Poppy Baggins had the misfortune of sharing the same birthday. More specifically, the same birthday party. That is not to say their kin had gathered to celebrate their birth; rather, at the engagement party of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, where both clans gathered to share food and uncertain congratulations, both of their mothers had gone into labour.
Poppy had been born first, arriving promptly before tea. While the midwife was still crooning at the newborn, Delia’s papa had lost his waters and she’d followed an hour before midnight.

With them was born a rivalry to shake the lands themselves. The girls fought over birthday party guest lists, shopping tastes and, of course, words. What followed was sixty years of competitive birthdays, snide comments and a river of vitriol and bad sentiment between them. Made worse was that both had felt called to study midwifery for their respective clans and both were made to study under old Echinacea Brownlock.

Once they had finished their apprenticeships, and were skilled midwives in their own right, they had mutually decided they were matured enough to stick to their own green lanes and pretend to not notice each other when they happened to be at the same party. The only exception was after Enchinacea’s passing - Delia’s third pregnancy and Poppy and her wife’s seventh and eighth. No need to involve a Brandybuck midwife, after all.

These careful orchestrations of interaction had ensured a peaceful enough truce in Tuckborough and Hobbiton. Until now.

“Cordelia.”

“Poppy.”

Both women stood facing one another, neither willing to take a hand off the green gate of Bag End.

“You’re looking well for your age.” Poppy's smile was all teeth.

“Thank you. I’d say the same but I see you’re still having the problem with your hair. I could suggest some things.” Cordelia replied, knives in her eyes.

Poppy snorted, “No dear, that’s just what clean hair looks like. When you aren't so busy, you could see to yourself.”
Poppy's fingers twitched on the gate, her knuckles turning white as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Well, not all of us can be blessed with your… unique taste, Cordelia," she shot back, her voice dripping with barely veiled sarcasm.

Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I'm sure it's just a matter of preference. Some might find your… eclectic choices charming, to be sure."
The air around them seemed to crackle with tension, and the birds in the nearby trees fell unnaturally silent, as if sensing the impending storm.
“You’ve been busy?” Poppy said, gesturing at Cordelia’s wrinkled hem.
“Busy enough, thank you.” Her grip on the fence tightened slightly. “But not too busy for family. The Took sent me personal-like.” She tried to jerk the gate open, but Poppy shoved it closed again.

“Well, isn’t that nice. Always nice to see a grandfather checking in for the first time in years. But no need; Grandmother Baggins has sent me to see to the next Baggins bairn.”
This time Delia snorted, “Well, if it was just a Baggins babe, I’m sure you would be able to handle it. But what do Bagginses know of mixed babies, dear? As traditional as your experience is.”

That hag! Poppy almost took a step forward and nearly a fist forward too. Just because there had been a few half-hobbits in the Tooks' long, long history meant nothing in the big picture and Cordiela knew it!

Instead she turned smug. “Oh, a half-human faunt might be a tricky thing I’m sure, but luckily I see to the Bagginses, the Sackvilles and Bricegirdles. One of my second cousins is due by a dwarf any day now. So I have everything in hand.”
Delia glared hard, about to cut back at the insufferable woman when a scuff on the roadside caused them both to turn and see Mr. Baggins himself storming up the hill, head down and red-faced, smoke practically pouring out his ears.

Bilbo was seething. He felt fit to bite straight through his pipe. Unlit, not smoking it, was as comfortable as chewing on a stalk of grass. Still, he stalked up the road to Bag End, burning with rage.
How dare she! How dare they!

Tea has not gone as expected. In the heart of him, he had felt the shiver of trepidation at the invitation follow him to his seat at her table. All of that was out the window now that he had lashed out at his grandmother. Still, he did not regret it. Who did the old gorgon think she was, making demands as if he was her property, as if hers was the only voice that mattered? Never again. Never again! He was tired of the whims of entitled dolts dragging him into messes. He neither needed or wanted their intervention after they had left him to stand alone to defend his home. Family only when it suited wasn’t family at all.

“Bilbo!” A duet rang out. Looking up, he froze. A different kind of tension shot down to his toes as he faced Poppy Baggins, his father’s younger sister-in-law, and Cordiela Took, his mother’s second cousin’s child, bearing down on him from his own front gate.

Shit. They had the high ground.

“Aunt Poppy. Mistress Delia… wha- what are you doing here?”

Both women took in the sweat on this brow, the slight tremble in his limbs and the redness of his face. Throwing a look to each other, a silent agreement was reached; a truce, for now. More important matters needed to be dealt with.
As one, they released the gate and stepped forward. “Here to see you, dear,” Cordelia crooned. “And to check on how the babe is doing.”

Bilbo froze, his mind still racing from his confrontation with Grandmother Baggins. He felt a sudden, deep sense of foreboding as he faced the two formidable midwives. It seemed the universe had conspired to bring him face-to-face with the same two women who had once been the bane of his mother’s existence.

Remembering Belladonna's favourite tactic, he stood straight, adjusted his waist coat and ignored the question entirely. Bilbo dipped his chin, a charming smile gently lighting his face. "I’m sorry, what a terrible way to greet family.” He looked coyly up from under his lashes. “Good day, Aunt Poppy. Aunt Cordelia."

"Good day, Bilbo" Poppy replied, her tone warm but with an edge that hinted at their history. "We heard about your return and thought it best to offer our services. After all, it's been quite some time since we've had the pleasure of welcoming a Baggins babe."

Cordelia nodded in agreement, her gaze sharp. "Yes, quite some time indeed. Your wee one being a great grandchild of the Old Took, I hurried over as soon as I could. Your dear mother would be thrilled, I'm sure." She threw a smug glance at Poppy. “I know she was excited when I midwifed for your birth.”

Bilbo's heart pounded in his chest. He could sense their underlying rivalry, the unspoken competition to be the favoured midwife this Shire. But he wasn't about to be drawn into their games.

"Thank you both for your kind offer, but I've already made arrangements," he replied, his voice shaking. "I have a trusted midwife from Bree." Whom he would shortly be reaching out to. “No need to take you from your own homes and families, after all.

Both women stopped short, clearly taken aback by his response. They were not accustomed to being denied, and less accustomed to accepting it. Belladonna might have outmaneuvered their attempts to help her further conception, but that didn’t mean they were unaware of her machinations.

Delia and Poppy exchanged a knowing glance. Delia spoke with a sternness that brooked no argument. "Bilbo Baggins, we've been midwives for nigh on five decades, and we've seen enough babes born to know when someone is in need of assistance, whether they'll admit it or not! You might be a Baggins, but you're not beyond our care."

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, feeling like a cornered rabbit. "I appreciate the concern, truly, but I assure you I've been managing quite well on my own."
Bilbo couldn't help but feel a mixture of exasperation and gratitude. They were certainly persistent and most certainly unwelcome, but there was a genuine concern in their eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
"I appreciate your concern, truly," he said again, "but I have everything well in hand. My health and the baby's are just fine. I've been taking good care of myself, and as I mentioned, I have a trusted midwife attending to matters."

The women eyed him skeptically, clearly not entirely convinced. They had seen their fair share of expectant parents, and they knew how important it was to have skilled and experienced support during such a time. Yavanna had blessed their race with fertile fields and the means to nurture them, but even the sweetest gardens needed guiding hands. And with Belladonna’s struggles an open secret, Bilbo’s apple could reasonably well be expected to fall close to her tree.

"Dear, we understand that you have your own arrangements, but we are here to help. It's not a burden to us, it's a joy," Cordelia said gently.
"We just want to make sure everything goes smoothly for you and the little one," Poppy added, her voice softer.

Bilbo sighed. He couldn't deny that their intentions were good, even if their methods were a bit overbearing. He looked between them, searching for a compromise. Finding none, he decided that being assertive had done him good service so far.

"I thank you both for your concern, and I appreciate your offer, but I must say good day.”

With that, Bilbo side-stepped their belled skirts and strode towards Bag End, leaving the two midwives standing on the hillside, momentarily defeated. It would be beyond the pale for them to insist any further. It would be rude; and that simply was not acceptable.

Bilbo’s stately departure lasted him to his front gate. Leaning over to unlatch it, he staggered, snatching at the gatepost in a moment of dizziness.

Poppy appeared beside him, plucked the pipe from his lips and checked it before it disappeared into the rouches of her skirts. For all his being an only child, he knew better than to have it lit. She tucked her arm under his elbow and encouraged him to lean on her as she moved them up the garden path. “Bilbo, everything else aside…” She hesitated, and her free hand tucked a golden curl behind his ear. Her hand fluttered across his face before settling against his cheek. She touched her nose to his and smiled softly. “Everything else aside, you won’t take us away from family; you are family. We’ll be here with you, even if you think you don’t need us. You are in a dangerous state right now, and we need to see you and the baby, both.” Poppy pulled back slightly, her thumb caressing his cheekbone. She suddenly frowned, displeased at its prominence. “ How have you been feeling? When was the last time you ate?”

Before he could answer her, Cordiela pushed aside his other arm and riffled through his jacket pockets for the house keys. The two women strong-armed him into the house, effortlessly handing him off between them as they whisked him inside, divested him of his jacket and settled him in a chair. “Never mind.” Cordelia appeared with a slice of bread and some cheese. “You can eat again. Yvanna knows you need it. A nice salad next, I think.” She eyed the scanty fruit bowl, dismissing its contents as insufficient.

“And a good warm broth.”

“And a bath.”

“But not too hot, dearest.”

Bilbo groaned as the door to his smial closed behind them, succumbing to the women taking charge of his life in a manner he had thought he might have avoided. Perhaps the wilderness and rugged roads were not so bad after all.

_____________________________________________________________________

Some few hours and a hearty meal later, the ladies had quite made themselves at home. Bilbo was feeling the edges of a headache from their fussing and had begged off to the parlour for some time alone while the Aunties were busy being busy deeper in the large smial. Their bantering and muttering had tapered off some time ago as they bestowed their esoteric feminine rituals upon the heretofore bachelor household.
Bilbo sighed deeply, hoping that just being still and calm would stave off the threatening throb behind his eye. It was nice, he admitted grudgingly to himself, not to have to think about what to do next for a little while.
He settled more deeply into his armchair, vaguely wishing for his pipe. For a while, Bilbo simply sat in his home, and let himself be.

The quiet sanctum of Bag End was indecorously shattered by a persistent, insistently sharp knocking at the door. Bilbo's heart clenched in dread as he recognized the strident voice that followed. "Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins! I know you're in there. Open this door this instant!" The doorknob jiggled threateningly, rattling and clicking at him accusingly.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was not a welcome guest at the best of times; this was far from the best of times. Bilbo took a steadying breath, willing his subsiding headache not to return. He heaved himself up and crossed to the entryway, taking a moment to brace himself for the tempest about to befall him, and opened the door.
Before the green door completed so much as a quarter arc, Lobelia swept inside, her eyes burning with accusation. Her presence seemed to fill the space, demanding attention. "What do you want, Lobelia?" Bilbo asked, his voice laced with weariness.

Lobelia's gaze bore into him, a mixture of indignation and frustration. "What do I want? I want to know why you think you can just run off and leave me behind like some market-day trinket!"
She didn’t wait for his response but marched herself right into the parlour, settling there like she belonged, like she hadn’t tried to steal his whole life out from under him while convincing everyone of his ‘death.’ Bilbo followed behind her. His brows furrowed, voice sharp with disbelief. "Forgotten trinket? Lobelia, you tried to steal my home and sell off my possessions. I hardly think that qualifies as being left behind or forgotten!"

Lobelia's cheek flushed puce, and her voice rose in shrill refute. "I did no such thing! You left me with no choice; you were always the favourite, always the one everyone adored. Well, not anymore. Bag End should have been mine!"

Bilbo shook his head, his own emotions roiling with confusion, exhaustion, frustration and hurt. "You can't honestly believe that. And besides, Bag End was never even yours to begin with." He followed her from the parlour into the east hall, and from there to the atrium, and finally to the study, all the while keeping an eagle eye on the whereabouts of her hands.

Lobelia's entrance into Bag End had been accompanied by an air of condescension and entitlement that could have filled the hallways. She surveyed the cozy space with a practiced, evaluative eye, her face morphing into a veneer of polite interest at the keepsakes, relics and remembrances from his journey. "Well, Bilbo, it seems your taste remains as charming as ever."

Bilbo's gaze moved over Lobelia, thoroughly taking in her overwrought attire. “Thank you my dear. I will admit that though you thought yourself forgotten, I simply took my inspiration from your timeless charm and your effortless good taste in making even the extraordinary seem positively commonplace." Bilbo smiled agreeably, leaning against the door frame while Lobelia stood in front of the window.

A beat of silence hung between them, tension simmering beneath the surface. Lobelia's dark eyes narrowed. She examined his cluttered desk, her quick fingers flitting as she spoke. "I do wonder how you managed to fill this place with such an eclectic assortment of trinkets. One could almost mistake it for a collection, if one had such an imagination as we all know you do."

Bilbo arched an eyebrow, his tone mild. "Oh, I've always believed in cherishing the small treasures that life has to offer, wherever they might be found. I’ve learned to appreciate beauty in utility, and elegance in simplicity."
A bark of brittle laughter punched from Lobelia's pinched mouth. "Simplicity, dear Bilbo, is a luxury not all of us can afford. Some of us must make do with what we have."
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed, Lobelia. One must certainly be able to make do with what one has. And yet, we mustn't underestimate the value of resourcefulness. It's a skill I have had to learn that has served me quite well."

The exchange continued, each barb delivered with a veneer of politeness that thinly veiled the underlying animosity. Lobelia's comments about Bilbo's gardening prowess were met with remarks about her enthusiasm for fashion. They danced around each other, trading insults of subtlety and decorum.
As their verbal sparring escalated, a strange sort of camaraderie began to form. They were, after all, two sides of the same coin, bound by shared history and the peculiarities of their family. The insults, while biting, were also a familiar form of communication between them, a way of establishing a delicate equilibrium in their relationship.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving Bag End bathed in twilight, Bilbo and Lobelia found themselves locked in a battle of words that was as much a testament to their shared, familiar and familial past as it was an expression of their differences.

Lobelia's eyes glinted, settling on the smooth lines of his waistcoat. Bilbo could almost see the moment that she decided to really sink her teeth into the real reason that she had come. Her lips pursed in distaste. "Well, you have returned home in the health and spirits exactly as might be expected from someone who associates with creatures of such, hmm, stature."

Bilbo's cool gaze met hers, unwavering, though his earlier defiance from his encounter with his grandmother began to smoulder dangerously. "Ah, you’d be surprised what stature lies in those beyond the fields and farthings of the Shire. You went quite as far as Michel Delving for your trousseau, didn’t you?” Bilbo continued smoothly. “All the way from Hardbottle. Why, that’s almost half as far away as Bree. They are almost foreigners, being so far to the north and out of the way of things."

Lobelia recoiled, her fan snapping fretfully against her palm. Her brittle titter gained a cruel edge. "Oh, I'm sure they have a lot more… underneath. Enough to tempt you into running after them, clearly,” she sneered. “After all, there are certain… benefits one would wish to secure for one’s lineage-” her eyes slid covetously over the silken silver waterfall of the mithril shirt draped across Sting’s scabbard before dragging up from Bilbo’s feet to his face. “And other inheritances one wouldn't wish to bestow upon their offspring."

Bilbo straightened languidly from his slouch, his lashes dropping coyly. “Is that what it is, my dear? Jealousy? You always were prone to it. Or is it… envy? Tell me, how is dear Otho? You have been married for some time now after all. His tomato crop was never the most abundant, but the family had hoped that, if nothing else, you might assist him that much. Shall we be seeing an increasing yield this season, do you think?” Bilbo smirked, watching her flush violently. Her lips thinned away and her nostrils flared white, but she did not respond, seeming to grasp for something to say.

"You seem to underestimate the strength and resilience that runs through the veins of the dwarves, my dear. They possess a depth of character that few can match." His smile dropped away, and he matched her sneer. “In verbiage that may resonate with you, they are as deep and rich as gold, if you put forth the effort to find it.”

The tension in the room crackled, the air thick with their restrained fury. Lobelia's gaze bore into Bilbo's, her tone dropping lower, laced with malice. "I quite understand, cousin. It is, of course, a comfort to me that the great Gentlehobbit Bilbo Baggins is indeed a mortal creature as the rest of us, and has a price for his honour; It's only a pity that no hobbit could foresee it being quite so earthy, really. One can only sympathise with the challenges your child will face, being so caught between two worlds. Never quite fitting in. Though, of course, your self-sufficient experience will stand you both in good stead in the long, no doubt lonely years ahead."

Bilbo was steady, unwavering in the face of Lobelia's provocation. "My child will have the privilege of experiencing the best of both worlds I can provide, a richness of culture and perspective that few can claim. And they will do so with the love and support of those who cherish them."

The exchange left a bitter residue in the air, a reminder of the sharp edges that could surface in their interactions. Lobelia's words were barbed, canny and designed to wound, yet Bilbo stood his ground, a pillar of strength and conviction. In the end, it was a battle of ideals, of two vastly different perspectives on life and family.

Breaking eye contact, Lobelia latched on to the next insinuation her mind could summon, looking to break her host’s aggravating, unflappable calm. She smirked, her words dripping with scorn. "Well, quite the scandal you've become. One can hardly keep track of all your... companions. Word is there were upwards of a dozen of the curs that slunk in, bold as you please, right through this very front door. It's a wonder you even know who the father is."

Seething, Bilbo furiously stamped down his flaring temper. Dealing with Lobelia was as much moral as it was mental - whoever lost their temper first lost more than just the argument. He felt suddenly sick; all the years of this, sparring and sniping and backbiting, suddenly it was no longer an annoyingly amusing pastime. He was tired, and for the first time in all their contentious years of bickering, he quite abruptly found himself to be done with it. "I assure you, Lobelia, I am well aware of who the father is. Unlike some, I don't view my relationships as disposable when they no longer benefit me"

Lobelia tittered derisively. "Oh, Bilbo my dear, you've always had such a penchant for the dramatic, haven't you? Always craving attention, even if it means ruining yourself in the opinion of all your friends, and making yourself the contempt of the world! Of inviting scandal and disgrace to our noble family. Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? For what? For the upstart pretensions of a vagabond without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, Bilbo Baggins, you would not wish to debase the sphere in which you have been brought up!"

Bilbo grasped the rapidly fraying threads of his temper desperately. "At least I have the courage to live my life authentically, rather than indecorously patronizing others from behind the grace of my husband’s family name, on behalf of those who hold me in contempt!” He flared at her.

Bilbo felt a momentary panic, mentally cursing his loss of control. Sensing an opening, Lobelia pounced with all the accuracy and ruthlessness of jackal on a newborn lamb. "My husband courted me for years. What can you say of your little dwarf friend? Did it take more than a coarse offer of a romp for you to lose all sense of propriety? Of the dignity due to our family name? It's not surprising, really. One can hardly expect loyalty from a man of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and so wholly unallied to our family or to our people!"

He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he didn’t care about winning this game. "Whatever his connections may be,'' he snarled, “if I do not object to them, they can be nothing to you. Thorin has shown me more loyalty and kindness than you could ever comprehend! He stood by me, defended me, unlike those who claim to be my family!"

Lobelia surged forward, going toe-to-toe with him. “And where, precisely, is your loyal dwarf now Master Baggins? Even so, where has he been on your long journey home!”

It was like he’d been slapped. Lobelia felt a chill down her spine as Bilbo stepped back. In the fifty two years of their lives, he’d never stepped back for anything but a moment of calm, to regroup. She blinked, confused and at a sudden loss. His golden curls bounced as he shook his head almost involuntarily. He stepped back again, nearly collapsing onto the arm of a chair.

Lobelia’s gaped. She could argue with him, insult him, verbally eviscerate him, but softness, nay - defeat; these had never been part of their language. “Bilbo, I… well.” she sniffed, looking away, snapping out her fan and fluttering it, “Well… Well, you could hardly expect loyalty from someone who would stoop so low against you as that.”

Bilbo did not look at her. The force was gone from his voice. The weariness there seemed to creep to all parts of him. "My choices are mine to make, Lobelia, and I won't be shamed for them. Unlike you, I refuse to let societal expectations dictate my happiness."

“Happiness! Happiness? You call this happy?” She snorted, and sat. “I’ve known you for a long time Bilbo; this is not you happy.”

Again the two sat unmoving, unmoved and still in the golden rays of dusk.

“I was.” He whispered.

The moment lingered only shortly before it was again abruptly broken. Lobelia huffed, agitatedly flipping her fan. "You always were a self-righteous, insufferable know-it-all. But you were also the only one who would actually argue with me instead of running away, crying or ignoring me. You were the only one who treated me like an equal. And then you were gone, without so much as a note or a by-your-leave, and I was left with no one. You left a year ago and were just… gone. And now, even returned, sitting in your own book room, you are still gone! I want my friend back immediately!"

The revelation hit Bilbo, simultaneously fast and slow, like a landslide and like being kicked by a pony. He… had never seen this coming. Lobelia's confession struck him dumb in an instant, illuminating a side of her - a side of their dysfunctional relationship - he had never truly considered. It was a strange epiphany, one that left him feeling oddly touched but left him spinning and unmoored, suddenly swimming where a bare moment ago he had been on solid ground.

He looked at her, shocked, a little thrown and honestly somewhat resentful. In all the decades of their contentious lives, the one word he would never, not once use to describe them was ‘friend’. Not through childhood when she followed him like a horrible little leech. Not when he rejected her (politely, then less politely, and then finally outright rudely) as she tried to force a courting on him, nor when she made him come with her to buy her wedding dress as her bride gift. Not when they fought as children, or fought as teens or fought as adults. Not when pinches and kicks became stinging words and they each followed gossip of the others with care, to be used the next time they saw each other. Not when they bumped into each other at the market, not when she insulted his party clothes, not when they attended weddings or birthdays or teas, not when he declined luncheon at her house and definitely not when she invaded his Smial every time she was in Hobbiton to steal his-
Dear Lady. Dear Green Lady, they were friends. Absolutely against his will and without his knowledge, they were friends.

"Lobelia, I... I didn't realize," he stuttered, but she cut him off. "Of course you didn't. You were always so wrapped up in your own world, you never bothered to see what was right in front of you. But now you'll have to listen. You chose to come back. You chose us. You're not going to just abandon me. We're family, whether you like it or not. Which means you don’t get to lie to me about being ‘happy.’"

She gestured to his midsection, “About any of… that. They are part of you, and I will be in their life too,” she said, half promise and half threat. “Someone has to teach them to consider the honour and credit of our family, after all.”

Bilbo nodded, dazed, a newfound understanding settling over him. This was the closest she’d get to showing affection, to an apology, he supposed. "You're right, Lobelia. We are family, and I shouldn't have left like that. I'm sorry."

Lobelia's resentful countenance grudgingly softened, and she released a long sigh. "Well, it's about time you admitted it. Why do you have to be so difficult? Life would be so much better if you were more obliging. Now, let's get things sorted out here. I won't have you turning Bag End into a shambles while I’m not here to supervise."
Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath, outrage lashing to the tip of his tongue.

“Bilbo, darling, your bath is ready!” The call came from deeper in the home.

“And dinner will be done shortly afterwards!” followed loudly from the kitchen.

Lobelia frowned. “Starting with explaining why you are so special you require two midwives. Really, cousin, the drama never ends with you!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Garrak Tramson had reached Bree, and had set his apprentice to helping in his cousin’s forge. Nomadic as the last 200 years had been for Garrack, his cousin had been lucky enough to settle successfully in Bree and open a shop. His cousin, a stocky dwarf smith with a full, golden beard that sparkled with intricate beads, braids and subtle oils, sat comfortably in the corner of the cosy workshop. The aromatic scent of smouldering braziers and the rhythmic hammering of steel surrounded them, providing a soothing, familiar backdrop to their conversation.

"So, cousin," the smith began, taking a sip from a well-worn tankard, "what news have you from the Shire?"

Garrack grunted, leaning back in his chair. It was sturdy, meant and made for dwarrow - he didn't fear letting bear his weight lest it collapse beneath him. "Not much good, I'm afraid. Rumour’s going round the Hobbiton market of a dwarf doing a halfling wrong and they’re all in a stir about it. They're not too fond of dwarves in general these days."

The smith nodded, face solemn.. "That's not surprising. They are fussy little creatures, but harmless. They need our wares and services too much to be outraged for long. I’m sure it will pass soon enough."

As the conversation progressed and they settled in to swap real news, the door swung open and a halfling woman strode into the shop, her skirts swishing softly about her calves. She had an irritable air about her, though her round face was pleasant enough. Beside her, a young child clung to her skirts, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"Good day Mrs Proudfoot," the smith greeted her warmly. She was a frequent patron of his wares - she had told him she sent items of his crafting as gifts to family in the Shire. She was an excellent - and prolific - customer. "How may I help you?"

She wasted no time. "I'm here to collect the order I paid for a fortnight gone. It's taken long enough."

The smith nodded, moving to a nearby shelf and retrieving a wrapped package. He unfurled it with care to reveal a beautifully crafted frying pan, its handle adorned with delicate, swirling patterns. The smith's chest swelled with pride. He'd crafted that pan with great care, ensuring it was both functional and aesthetically pleasing. He rolled it artfully to display it in the light from the rolling door, and presented it to her.

"A fine choice, madam. This pan is to the highest quality, sure to serve you and your family well for many years to come. It is a work which I am proud to have grace your home.”

The woman took the pan in her hands, turning it this way and that to inspect it. After a long moment she looked up at him, her expression darkening in a manner which must be familiar to any artisan who dared offer their craft to the public.

"This is... this is shoddy! I have never seen such sub-par workmanship!" she exclaimed, her tone incredulous.

The smith's goggled, completely taken aback. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the woman, displeased, had tossed the pan, with enviable and slightly formidable accuracy, straight into a nearby scrap bin with a resounding clatter and an outraged screech of “It’s trash!”

Both dwarves stared, wide-eyed, as the pan clanged against the metal scraps and cast-offs, the bin wobbling ominously. In shocked silence, as one, they turned their eyes back to Mrs Proudfoot as the pan settled with a resentful clatter among the discarded odds and ends. The young child at the woman's side looked up at his mother with wide eyes, clearly unsure how to react.

Without another word, she turned on her heel, took her child’s hand, and strode out of the shop. The bell above the door jingled aggressively as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Once the pair were gone, Garrack and the smith exchanged bewildered glances. The smith stared blankly at the space between the door and the scrap bin, and Garrack became aware that in his stupefaction, he had spilled his beer down his front.

Outside the smithy, having marched with great fanfare and finality down the street and around the corner, the hobbitess turned to her child and smiled gently at him, petting his hair out of his face. She nudged back towards the smithy door. “Be a good boy and go back and fetch mummy’s new pan, Folco.”

The boy grinned at her, spinning and rushing back into the shop, giggling wildly the whole length of the street. Outside the door he collected himself, puffed himself up and made his face look like when Da thought the Big Folk were cheating him at cards.
To renewed dwarven astonishment, the door swung open once more and the child reappeared, a look of mingled suspicion, determination and bravado on his young face. He scurried over to the scrap bin and, being too small to reach in, simply pushed it over and carefully retrieved the frying pan from its depths. Seeming to feel their baffled observation, his eyes darted between the pan in his hands and the dwarves. He licked his lips before straightening, lifting his chin impossibly high and declaring loudly, “It’s trash!”

With that, he swung it onto his head like a makeshift great helm, stuck out his tongue triumphantly and scurried back to the door, the bell ringing once more at his exit as he went back out to rejoin his waiting mother.

The dwarves stared, stunned and silent, as the child strutted from the shop with his spoils. The workshop returned to its previous state of controlled chaos, but the incident lingered in the air, a strange blend of bewilderment and slight horror hanging in the.

"Well, I never," Garrack muttered, stung. "I've seen my share of picky customers, but that takes the cake!"

The smith chuckled uneasily, still eyeing the upheaved scrap bin. He should weight it on the bottom, he thought vaguely. He’d had no idea it would tip so easily. "Aye. I don't think I've ever seen someone take such offence to one of my creations."

As they cleaned up the workspace, they couldn't help but discuss the peculiar atmosphere that seemed to shroud the Shire.
“I can’t help but think, cousin, that they are not, in fact, going to be getting over whatever this is anytime soon.”

_____________________________________________________________________