Archive of Our Own

“It started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope…”

It was still strange to Bilbo how at peace he felt living under the mountain. As a hobbit, a child of the earth, he had thought he would grow rather sick of not seeing the sun, or not being able to feel the summer rain on his face, or the soil beneath his feet. Yet, ten years after his adventure, after the journey to Erebor was over and the kingdom reclaimed, Bilbo remained a resident of the mountain, and a loved one at that. 

He was Erebor’s Minister for Agriculture, in charge of the alliance with Dale’s farmers and ranchers with whom Erebor received their main income of food. Though he had also taught the dwarrow who were happy to learn how to tend to gardens, creating a beautiful greenhouse inside some of the upper rooms of the mountain where the light could peek through the ceilings with the help of skilfully placed mirrors. Bilbo held other titles too: Lord of the Mountain, Dwarf-Friend, and, most important of all, Prince Consort. 

Erebor, in some ways, was a home that Bag End never was, not since his parents had passed on, at least. Sure, Bilbo still made sure to travel back to the Shire every few years, if only to ensure that his family home had not fallen into the hands of the Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo had signed over ownership to his young cousin Drogo Baggins, who had wed his love Primula Brandybuck and had a young son of their own. He knew they would care for Bag End with the love it deserved. 

For now, Bilbo was content to stay under the mountain with his family. Just like every morning, Bilbo had woken up to a kiss on his forehead, gotten dressed in the finest hobbit-like clothing that side of the Misty Mountains [courtesy of a wondrous seamstress in Dale], and strolled down to breakfast in the Company’s common area. The table had already been set, platters of fresh bread and fruit and meats ready to be eaten. Everyone else seemed to already be there tucking in, light conversation echoing throughout the chamber. 

Bilbo took his usual seat to Thorin’s right, in between the king and the princess Dis. His arrival didn’t go unnoticed, “good mornings” being sent his way. Thorin pressed a kiss to his love’s cheek in greeting, his new beard tickling Bilbo’s lips. The king had grown it out for the first time in a long time, no longer in mourning for his lost kingdom and displaced people, and if Bilbo was being entirely honest, it only made him more handsome. 

As he was helping himself to a slice of toast, the doors opened once again and in bounded Kíli, dressed in his summer furs with his bow hanging loose in one hand. “A letter for you, Uncle Boggins!” he called out, stopping momentarily to wave the letter in front of the hobbit’s face until it was taken from his hand. 

“Oh, it’s from the Thain!” Bilbo grinned, pulling open the seal enthusiastically, “one of my cousins must be getting married.”

“It was nice of them to send you an invitation,” Dís spoke. 

“Well, our weddings in the Shire are grand events which last well over-...” Bilbo trailed off, abruptly standing from his chair and knocking it backwards. He moved away from the table, eyes not leaving the letter as he read on and on for the page. Vaguely he registered someone calling his name, but he paid it no mind. 

He gasped, momentarily faltering as his knees went weak and he had to grab a hold of the wall to stop himself from collapsing. 

A hand grasped his arm, steadying him, and when Bilbo looked up, Thorin was there. Eyes laced with concern, brow furrowed, he carefully cupped the hobbit’s cheek and brushed away the dampness Bilbo hadn’t realised was rolling down his face. 

“What is it?” Thorin asked him, words hushed. The tears grew heavier.

“... I-it’s Drogo and Primula,” Bilbo started, not trying to stop the sob that escaped him, “t-there was an a-accident… they died.”

“... which then turned into a quiet thought, which then turned into a quiet word…”

The bench outside Bag End was still Bilbo’s favourite place in the Shire. He would sit there most mornings and evenings and have a puff on his pipe, reminiscing of time spent in a place far, far away. So much had changed, and yet everything was the same. Same neighbours (though many had expanded their families), same friends (even if there was a lot they had to catch up on), same annoying Sackville-Baggins trying to get their hands on his spoons (Lobelia hadn’t changed in the slightest). 

Bilbo’s departure from Erebor had been difficult and heart breaking for the hobbit, but a promise is a promise and when Drogo and Primula’s little one had come screaming into the world, Bilbo swore an oath before Yavanna to step up should anything happen to the new parents. Tragedy had struck, and Bilbo fulfilled his promise. He made the hard decision to leave the Lonely Mountain and return to the west. 

It had been Tauriel who escorted him back to the Shire; apparently the elven-maid had made an oath of her own before the council and royal guard to protect the members of Durin’s Line until she was relinquished from duty, and that seemed to include those married into the family. Though Bilbo had insisted she return to the east, that the Shire was the safest place he knew of and her services would be of greater help back at the Lonely Mountain. He also said that she was welcome for a visit any time she liked. 

( “You have shown me infinite kindness since we first met, Master Baggins. I will miss you greatly.”

“My dear, you are as much a part of my family as my husband and nephews. I will miss you also, but you are welcome for tea any time.” )

His welcome home had been warm from some and stilted from others. Whispers of the return of “Mad Baggins” were everywhere, but Bilbo had paid them no mind as he made his way to Brandybuck Hall. The gaggles of little fauntlings had come running to him demanding stories, just as they had done on his many summer visits in the past, but Bilbo only had eyes for one. Esmerelda had directed him to the only room in Brandybuck Hall with its door closed, and it took a bit of convincing for the occupant to let Bilbo inside. However, little Frodo - just six years old and already having experienced the loss of his parents - had clung to his Uncle Bilbo and refused to let go until he was being tucked into bed at Bag End. 

He felt out of his depth for a very long time. Bilbo knew nothing of raising a child, and he knew that Frodo needed someone reliable, but he had spent many a night consoling his youngest dwarrow nephew after the horrors of the battle ended and in the past years he had grown into the role of guardian of the two Sons of Durin. He was confident that he could be the uncle Frodo needed, confident that he could fulfil his promise to step up in his cousins’ absence and take care of their young son. 

And take care of Frodo he had. It took a long time for the young fauntling to speak again, to want to go outside and play with his cousins. Hamfast’s son had helped with that, spending many an hour in the garden with his shy neighbour until they were running about the feets of their respective guardians with Meriadoc and Peregrin trailing behind. The nightmares had been fierce and even still troubled the young lad, but with patience and faith they had worked through the harsher times and made it to sunrise.

And even as Bilbo sat on his bench, pipe in hand as the sun rose over Hobbiton, Frodo was out exploring on his own little adventures. He had grown so much in the decade he had been in Bilbo’s care, more and more reminding him of the family he had left behind on his return to the west. It probably hadn’t helped that the bedtime stories all consisted of his wondrous adventure and the friends he had made along the way. It probably also hadn’t helped that over the years those friends came to visit. Balin, Ori, Glóin, Dís whilst on a diplomatic visit to Ered Luin, Tauriel a few times towards the beginning, everyone had tried to make their way over the mountains. Except Thorin, who had a kingdom to rule. And Fíli, who was in training to become King and had responsibilities in Erebor too. And Kíli who hadn’t wanted to leave his brother - and later his wife and daughter - behind. 

Oh, yes; Bilbo was a great-uncle. The letter had been the most joyous news and the portrait of little Ârel sat on his mantle piece. 

He missed everyone, to tell the honest truth. Missed his family and friends, and the mountain. Missed his trips to Dale and his gardens and even his duties. Missed his One with all his heart. Thorin had been heartbroken the day Bilbo left, the day they parted for what seemed to be the last time. He wondered how everyone was doing; there was only so much a letter could tell. He wondered how the greenhouses were doing, how the mines were coming along, how the new generation was growing up. 

Yet, Bilbo had a job to do. He made an oath to his cousins to be there should anything happen. No matter how much he missed home, Frodo needed him, and he was too young to make the journey eastward. A fauntling needed the Shire, needed to know their people and their home. He knew it was no visit, no holiday. Days would turn into weeks and weeks into years, and in the Shire Bilbo would stay. 

“… and then that word grew louder and louder 'til it was a battle cry!” 

There was a breeze around the mountain as Bilbo stood at the grand entrance to the kingdom. His bags were packed, pony ready and waiting with his wagon, but Bilbo couldn’t convince himself to take the reins. Couldn’t will his feet to move. 

He didn’t want to go, but he had to. He had promised. 

He took a deep breath, and turned around. The company had gathered to bid him farewell, all stood silently there. One by one, they approached and said their goodbyes, hugs being shared all around. Many had given parting gifts - a warm cloak, an empty leather-bound journal with his initials stamped along the bottom, a dagger for protection - and they all wished him a safe travel. Bilbo brushed away many tears, and not all his own. Dís had hugged him so tightly Bilbo feared a bone or two had cracked, but he relished in the feeling as he wondered if it would be the last time. 

Finally, he turned and came face to face with Thorin. The king seemed stoic, emotionless with his gaze averted. Bilbo saw right through it, as he always did, and reached to cup his love’s cheek. 

“Do you really have to go?” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo felt his heart clench. 

“You know I must,” he answered honestly. Thorin bowed his head, tears on his cheeks glistening in the early morning sunlight. Bilbo put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, using it to wipe the tears away before slipping it into the king’s hand. Neither wanted to let go. Neither wanted to part. 

Thorin dried his cheeks and eyes, but when he went to give the handkerchief back, Bilbo just closed his hand around the fabric. 

“Keep it,” the hobbit insisted, “you need it more than I do.” Thorin threw his arms around Bilbo and pulled him in tight, face burying in his One’s neck as Bilbo pressed kisses to the dwarf’s hair. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Thorin said after what felt like an eternity. 

“Then don’t,” Bilbo told him, giving the king a smile. He pulled back just slightly, just enough so he could look the dwarf in the eye, “I will be back. I promise, I will return. There’s no need to say goodbye.” They kissed, sweetly and sadly, and when they finally pulled apart it was with reluctance. 

Bilbo reached for his travel pack and hefted it onto his shoulders, taking a few steps to his pony and grabbing the reins. Beside him, Kíli patted his shoulder before climbing atop his own steed. The hobbit paused, then turned back to his friends. 

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End… tea is at four,” he said with a sad smile, “there’s plenty of it. You’re welcome any time.” He turned back to his ride and went to climb up, then paused once more. “Don’t bother knocking,” he added. The smiles his friends gave were worth it.

With a heavy heart, Bilbo departed the Lonely Mountain. Kíli and Fíli accompanied him to Dale, where they met with Tauriel and continued onwards to the borders of Mirkwood after saying goodbyes to Bard and his children. The princes had to turn back at the edge of the forest, their duties in Erebor keeping them from journeying any further, so Bilbo brushed away his nephews’ tears and hushed their cries as they said their farewells. 

By the time night fell, the mountain was out of sight. 

“I'll come back when you call me…”

Down the path of Bagshot Row came a familiar sight, mop of short dark curls bouncing up and down as the fauntling hurried through the gate, right up to Bilbo. “A letter came for you, Uncle!” little Frodo called out, holding the envelope out for Bilbo to take before he hopped up on the bench next to him. In the ten years he had been in Bilbo’s care, Frodo really had grown. His dark hair and bright eyes only reminded Bilbo of the one he left so far away in the east. He accepted the letter, and gasped at the sight. 

“It’s from Erebor!” Bilbo announced, and Frodo’s eyes lit up. The fauntling loved the letters as much as Bilbo did, normally delivered by ravens or perhaps a visiting wizard. 

“Open it! Open it! Open it!” he giggled, leaning over Bilbo’s arm to look at the envelope as Bilbo reached into his breast pocket for his glasses and carefully opened the royal wax seal, retrieving the letter from inside. The parchment was of high quality, ink on the page a royal blue. There were two letters, one stamped with the royal insignis in the corner, and a smaller page tucked behind. 

“To Master Baggins Dwarf-friend,” Bilbo read out from the first page, ignoring the rest of the titles that came after his name, “the Royal house of Durin formally invites you and one guest to the twentieth anniversary of the reclamation of Erebor. The fortnight of celebration will commence on the twenty-third of November, and the King invites you as honoured guests of the Mountain.”

“Oh, please can we go, Uncle? Please, please, please!” Frodo begged, bouncing in his seat, but Bilbo shook his head. 

“Frodo, we’ve discussed this before,” he sighed, “the journey east is very long and very dangerous. If we visited the Lonely Mountain, we could not return to the Shire for a good few years! The answer is no.” He stuffed the letter back into its envelope and stood up, snatching up his forgotten pipe as he did so. Frodo’s face fell, and Bilbo bit back another sigh.

“But I want to see the Lonely Mountain, Uncle!” Frodo cried, hopping to his feet and following Bilbo as he went inside the smial, “I want to meet everyone; I want to meet Uncle Thorin and Kíli and Fíli and everyone else and-”

“Frodo, I said no, now that is enough!” the older hobbit snapped. Frodo fell quiet. 

Bilbo sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Why don’t you go and see if Sam wants to come over for supper? Maybe Merry and Pippin as well?” With a smile, Frodo scurried out of the door calling for his best friend. 

Bilbo felt a pang in his chest. It was lucky that Frodo was so young and easily distracted, happy to go running off on his next adventure with his friends, since Bilbo felt horrible for having snapped at his young charge and needed to sit down. Frodo was always such a good child, he rarely got into trouble and Bilbo never had to raise his voice at the boy, but sometimes he just pushed the wrong buttons through his incessant questioning. As much as Bilbo loved to talk about his journey and share the stories with his nephew, sometimes it was just too much. He quickly put the kettle on the hearth, sat down in his armchair by the fireplace, and buried his face in his hands. 

Hours later, as the sun set in the distance, Bilbo had returned to his armchair. Frodo had brought his friends over for supper and Pippin and Merry had left for home not too long before. From the drawing room, Bilbo could hear his nephew say goodnight to Sam in the garden. He hadn’t done much for the rest of the day, merely sat by the fireplace and reread the letter over and over again, only putting the pages down to refill his teacup or cook for the guests that came over. 

In the ten years he had been back, Bag End had not become the home it had once been for Bilbo again. The walls and halls and rooms were all the same, and yet something was missing. That something was thousands of miles away living under a mountain with his nephews and sister and closest friends. Some days, Bilbo felt envious, or angry, or mostly just sad, but he had made his decision and it is not one he regrets in the slightest. He wouldn’t trade Frodo for the world, even if that world was with the one he had given his heart to. 

He reached for the envelope once more, ignoring the invitation for that beautiful note which had been sent along with it. The deeper blue penmanship, in two different hands with two different signatures, scrawled neatly along the parchment which brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes each time he reread it. 

My Dearest, Bilbo, 

Though I believe I will have heard from you many times before you receive this letter, I hope it finds you well and all is alright in the far west. I hope your neighbours are treating you well and your garden is blooming, and that yourself and little Frodo are happy. Your letters are still the greatest moment of my week, and I cannot wait to hear from you again. 

The invitation is for both you and Frodo. Erebor is throwing a celebration unlike no other, with the entirety of Dale and Mahal-forsaken ambassadors from Mirkwood in attendance as well. There will be feasts and a festival lasting for two weeks, though this time we will be skipping that dreaded play of our adventure. If I never see that over-dramatic production again, it will be too soon. 

We all understand that you may not be able to attend, and as I have said many times, you will always have a home here with us, but we would all be honoured if you were able to attend. The invitation should arrive early enough to give plenty of time for you to make it to Erebor without missing a day of celebration. 

We miss you. I miss you. Miss waking up with you, kissing your forehead before I head down to breakfast. Miss coming home from a long day of squabbling dwarrow to spend the nights curled up in front of the fireplace with you. Miss our trips to Dale and our hikes to the lamppost on the border, and 

I won’t write more, since Kíli asked to write to you as well and I’m sure he would not want to read about that. [YEAH, I DON’T. THANKS UNCLE!]

Uncle Boggins, if you do come for a visit please bring Frodo with you! Fíli and I really want to meet him and show him around the mountain! We also want to see you, of course! We wish we could visit you in the Shire but I won’t leave Fíli behind and he’s always so busy. He keeps trying to apologise for it, but don’t worry, I keep slapping sense into him like you would do!

I love you and I miss you, and I cannot wait to see you again. Even if it may not be for a very long time to come. 

Ever Yours, 

Thorin

And love from your favourites, Kíli and Fíli.

Bilbo set the letter down on the side table. He brushed away the tears and smiled sadly. He’d already sent a raven with a reply, apologising and saying how he would not be able to make it. He promised he would be celebrating along with them, even if he could not be there in person. He knew his answer would break many hearts, but it was the only option. He couldn’t leave Frodo behind nor could he take the fauntling with him. Perhaps if Frodo was older, if he was nearer of age, Bilbo may have made a different decision. 

A presence appeared to his right, and when Bilbo turned his head, Frodo was standing near the rounded entrance to the drawing room, half-hidden behind the wooden framework. He gave a little wave, glancing away just the slightest. 

“How was Sam, my boy?” Bilbo asked him, but he only got a shrug in response. With a silent sigh and his lips turning up kindly, Bilbo patted his knee. Frodo shuffled over and hopped up onto his uncle’s lap, burying his face against the collar of his uncle’s house robe. It wasn’t often they sat like that anymore; Frodo had grown older and soon acted as though he was beyond such “childish” antics, but Bilbo knew that whenever it was needed, a good cuddle in his uncle’s lap always helped solve anything. 

“Is there something on your mind, Frodo?” he asked, patiently waiting as the boy seemed to pause as though thinking.

“Uncle…” he began, only to trail off. He then huffed and pulled away slightly until he was looking right up at Bilbo. “You’re not happy here, Uncle,” he stated bluntly, “you don’t like the Shire. You miss the Lonely Mountain.”

“I am happy, Frodo-”

“Don’t lie! You always lie about it, Uncle,” Frodo told him, “I want you to be happy. I want to see you smile again, like you did for me.”

There was a moment when neither of them did anything, they just stared at each other. There was a look in his nephew’s eyes Bilbo had never seen before, something akin to determination yet laced with a sadness he hadn’t seen since the boy was still at Brandybuck Hall, hiding away in his room. It wasn’t as though Frodo was wrong. Bilbo hated the Shire, hated the looks people sent his way, the whispers of rumours people still spread whenever he went outside or into town, the mutterings of ‘Mad Baggins’ isolating Frodo from some of his cousins who he once played with every day all because of judging parents. 

It was also in that moment, as Bilbo truly looked at his nephew and studied him, that those dark curls and bright blue eyes didn’t seem to belong to the fauntling he had cared for since his parents' passing. Instead, to someone a world away. 

He wondered, however briefly, what Frodo would look like if he had a braid through his hair like his uncle. Like both his uncles. What he would look like in a laurel of silver, or in the forges discovering his craft, or maybe - just maybe - at the right hand of the throne. The faint echoes of dwarrow chanting “Long Live the Prince” rang in his head. 

He reached to brush the curls away from Frodo’s eyes. Frodo’s brow furrowed. Bilbo smiled. 

“Pack your bag.”

“... no need to say goodbye.”

“Just because everything's changing doesn't mean it's never been this way before…”

Departing the Shire again had honestly been a dream come true for Bilbo, though he would never admit it, especially not to Frodo. They’d packed up their travel packs, and whilst Frodo ran to tell his friends of his adventure beyond the Brandywine, Bilbo travelled to find a pony which could get them started on their journey. By the time he had returned, his neighbours and other hobbits from all over were stopping him to have stern words, claiming he was “corrupting” Frodo by taking him away from his home. Very few were on his side with the idea, but no one seemed to understand that Frodo was not like the others his age. Like his uncle, he craved a life of adventure and magic and wonder. 

By the end of the week, everything was ready. Hamfast was going to care for Bag End until they returned - since the smial was still in Frodo’s name, the Sackville-Baggins held no claim over it - and as it was only meant to be a visit to the east, they did not have to pack much. On the morning of the fifth day, the Baggins set out. Bilbo helped Frodo atop the pony, their packs on their backs, and the young boy waved his goodbye to Sam as they went.

By the time they reached the Brandywine, it was midday. They had missed most of the hobbits of the Shire on their passing, except for Pippin and Merry, who had woken up and journeyed to the Brandywine Bridge to wave them off. 

“Bring us back a present, would ya’!” Pippin called after them as they finally left East Farthing and the Shire started to grow farther and farther away, disappearing into the horizon. 

Throughout their journey, Frodo chattered away. Though sixteen, he was still considered very young by hobbit standards, so the child-like innocence he carried was nothing unexpected. Frodo chatted about anything that came to his mind, asking all sorts of questions, like would they get to see the trolls from Uncle’s story, or visit Rivendell, or Beorn’s. Would they be camping every night? Would they fly on eagles too? Or ride in barrels from Mirkwood? Or-

“My goodness!” Bilbo laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of Frodo’s head where the fauntling sat before him on the pony, “all in due time, my boy!”

Bilbo did answer all Frodo’s questions, every time they were asked. Yes, they could visit the trolls, and they would be stopping in Rivendell and Beorn’s. They would probably be camping most nights, but no there would be no eagles or barrel riding, much to Frodo’s disappointment. Nevertheless, they continued on their way and made good time. The April showers had all passed and the weather seemed to be holding, no clouds for miles in the distant skies. 

The journey to Bree was the easy part, arriving just as night was falling. The Men of Bree were always happy to let a hobbit stay in their town, whether it be a visit or just passing through, so it was easy to book a room for the night at the Prancing Pony. A stablehand took their pony for them and Bilbo ushered Frodo into the inn, the two of them finding a little booth in the corner where they ordered some supper. Frodo was too focused on the world around him to eat much, eyes wide as he glanced around at everything he could see. More than once Bilbo had to scold him for staring at other guests, though he knew that the boy meant no harm by it. 

When they finally retired to their room, changing into more comfortable clothes they had brought along, Bilbo tucked Frodo into one side of the large bed. It was only then that the bright smile and awe-filled eyes disappeared. 

“Uncle, I’m scared,” Frodo admitted in a small voice, and Bilbo paused, “will we be safe?”

“Safe? Of course not,” Bilbo told his nephew, and Frodo’s face fell. Only momentarily, however, “we are on an adventure, my boy, and if there is one thing I know, it is that adventures are never safe. But they are fun. They are fun, and exciting, and along the way, you will find-” he stopped, glancing off to the side, to where his waistcoat lay atop his pack. To the little pocket there. “... you will find your courage, my dear nephew. And besides,” a mischievous grin overcame his face, “don’t you want to see the look on your Uncle’s face when we arrive?” 

Frodo giggled. Bilbo finished tucking him in and then climbed to the other side of the bed. They had a long journey ahead of them, but it was going to be an adventure. He could keep Frodo safe, he had faith in that. 

And he really wanted to go home. 

“All you can do is try to know who your friends are as you head off to the war...”

Just as Bilbo had expected, their welcome to Rivendell was a warm one. Lord Elrond opened his home to the two hobbits and made sure they were comfortable. The journey there had been easier than Bilbo had thought, what with the lack of trolls trying to eat them and absence of wargs tracking them down. The worst they’d had to deal with was a ferocious crow who had tried to steal some of their stew. Within a month, the hobbits were arriving at the Last Homely House and heard the fanfare announcing their arrival. Just as he had been in Bree, Frodo was in awe. He had never seen an elf before, let alone an entire town of them. 

They were in no rush to leave. There were still six months until the celebrations would begin, and though Bilbo hoped they would arrive at Dale by early September, there was no point in rushing if it would only end with them getting lost or getting into trouble. Not to mention, there was still the summer rains to take into account. Bilbo did not want to be travelling through the rain if he could help it, as Frodo was still young and susceptible to illness. They would also be leaving their pony in Rivendell, since the steed could not pass over the Misty Mountains, so their path on the other side would take much, much longer. 

As Bilbo had tea with Elrond and his daughter, the lovely lady Arwen, one day, he let Frodo explore. The guards would keep him from wandering to places he shouldn’t do, so he was confident that the boy would be safe. Safe enough that he could at least relax as he conversed with his old friend. Letters were nothing like talking face to face. 

“So, you are returning to Erebor after all this time,” Elrond said with a bit of a smirk as Arwen poured them another cup of tea each. It was a beautiful elven blend of leaves which Bilbo only wished he had some of in his cupboard. 

“Yes, Frodo talked me into it,” he admitted with a fond smile, “I would have rather waited until he was older, but goodness was I miserable in Hobbiton!”

“I know your pain, my friend,” Elrond mused, his eyes falling dark for just a moment before brightening once again, “to be parted from one’s love for any length of time is a hurtful feeling. Cherish it whilst you can.”

Bilbo knew better than to pry. He knew of the fate of Elrond’s dear wife, and knew it was better a subject not brought up. 

“Arwen,” Bilbo looked at the lady who sat across the table from him. She was so much like her father, yet in looks, so similar to the Lady of Light herself. Bilbo greatly admired her, for her pure heart and kindness, yet she refused any titles between them and had greeted him with a hug upon his arrival, “I hear you returned from Lórien recently.”

“Yes! I was visiting my grandmother. I have always enjoyed being there,” Arwen told him. 

“I have always wanted to visit myself; if I had not a deadline to arrive in Erebor by I would consider it. Perhaps on my return.”

“Well, I do hope you plan on letting me know when that is!” A booming voice came, and all heads turned towards the door. There, striding in through the archway, with his grey robes and pointy hat  and staff, was a very familiar and friendly face. 

“Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed, placing his teacup on the saucer and hopping down from the chair. Gandalf approached the hobbit and knelt down to embrace him in a hug. The wizard chuckled. 

“I had just returned after an awfully long time in Rohan, only to be informed that an old friend had gone on another adventure! This time with a fauntling tagging along, and without me!” he said with a raised eyebrow, which only made Bilbo roll his eyes. 

“Had it not been a last minute decision, I would have written!” He insisted as the two made their way back over to the table. Elrond and Arwen greeted Gandalf as the wizard sat down, the waitstaff having pulled up another chair. 

“Yes, young Frodo has already told me all about your journey,” Gandalf told him, and Bilbo’s brow furrowed, “I bumped into him on my way here, and I daresay he has made a couple of friends.”

The door opened once more, and the sight that walked in was one to behold. Frodo, on the shoulders of a man with dark hair. He was too short to be an elf, seeing as how the elf with long blonde hair which walked beside him had a good few inches over the man. Though he did not know the dark-haired fellow, he appeared to wear clothes similar to that of the Rangers of the North who were often found travelling through the Shire. In fact, the more he inspected him, the more familiar he became. The elf was definitely familiar.

“Uncle!” Frodo called out, wriggling until the man placed him on his feet, only to grab both the man and the elf’s hands and drag them over to where his uncle was sitting, “meet my new friends, this is Legolas and Strider!” The two in question gave polite bows.

“Lovely to meet you both,” Bilbo said to them. 

Apparently, Strider was indeed a Ranger and Legolas - who had left Mirkwood shortly after the battle twenty years ago - rode with him as they worked to protect Middle Earth. Frodo excitedly informed his uncle of the daring adventures they went on - “like our adventure, Uncle!” - and neither seemed too fussed when the fauntling kept asking question after question. It greatly amused the other three who sat around the table. 

“We’re leaving at the end of the week. We have to make it over the Misty Mountains before the rains arrive.” The conversation had struck up again easily as Frodo once again got distracted with stories from the Rangers, a fresh cup of tea having been poured.

“Are you taking the High Pass again?” Gandalf asked. 

“That is the plan. It is the only route I know of,” Bilbo explained. 

“I would journey with you,” the wizard said, “but I’m afraid I have urgent business at Isengard and was only passing through today.”

“We have plans to cross the Misty Mountains to head north,” Strider informed them both, Frodo this time having found his way onto Legolas’ shoulders instead, “we would be happy to guide you both over the mountains.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you Strider.”

At the end of the week, a company of four companions set off from the Last Homely House. 

“Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light!”

The summer rains were well underway as Bilbo, Frodo and their guides reached Beorn’s. The skinchanger had been happy to see his ‘Little Bunny’ again, welcoming them into his home to escape the horrid weather and fussing over the ‘Little-er Bunny’ Bilbo had brought along. It was just as he remembered, the lush gardens, friendly animals ready to help out with anything, the cosy fireplace he found himself curling up by to dry off. Indeed, just as he remembered. 

The plan had been to stay at Beorn’s until the rains began to subside. The Misty Mountains had been cold and damp, though thankfully there were no goblins to deal with this time around. Instead, Legolas and Strider had helped guide the two hobbits through the High Pass safely and much more quickly than Bilbo had thought. Unfortunately, the cold and the rain had gotten to Frodo, as Bilbo feared it would do. By the time they had made it to the Skinchanger’s domain, the poor lad had developed a nasty cold, not unlike the one Bilbo himself had suffered from after his ride down the rivers of Mirkwood. 

Frodo must have made a lasting impression on their guides, because although they had duties to attend to in the north, Legolas and Strider made no motion to leave them at Beorn’s. They had promised to take the two hobbits as far as the borders of Mirkwood, and even though they fell behind schedule by a good few weeks because of the rains and Frodo’s illness, they both stayed. Many times Bilbo had awoken in the night to Frodo’s restlessness as his fever got worse and worse, but every time he was beaten to it by the two big folk who had grown very fond of his nephew, both sitting watch over the boy throughout the many long nights. It warmed Bilbo’s hearts to know that Frodo had made friends so far away from the Shire. 

Frodo’s fever did eventually break, only for Bilbo to come down with the same cold. Thankfully, he was older and his immune system much better, as he never had more than a headache and a stuffy nose. Still, it was nearly August by the time anyone was in good enough health to even consider leaving. The rains were still ongoing, but getting lighter and lighter by the day. Beorn didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, insisting they were welcome as long as they’d like. It wasn’t often he had company, after all, aside from his animal friends. Frodo was happily entertained, getting up to mischief so very similar to that two dwarrow would make. Bilbo wondered, as he sat by the fire with a good book and a cup of tea, what his dear nephews might be up to. If perhaps they were still getting into trouble and driving their mother and uncle crazy. Well, he would know in just a few months. 

The rains soon cleared and along with it, the sky. On borrowed horses - or pony, the case of our hobbits - the four of them soon departed from Beorn’s with promises of returning soon. Bags had been filled with food fit for travel, cloaks finally dried out, and off they had gone. Camping once again, the journey to the borders of Mirkwood was a swift one and at the beginning of September our small company was parting ways. Bilbo and Frodo hopped off their pony, unable to take the steed into the dark forest, and Legolas had taken her reins for them. 

“Will we ever see you again?” Frodo asked. 

“Of course you will,” Legolas replied, “one day we might even go on another adventure together. We could see the forest of Lothlórien, visit Rohan and Gondor.” With each word, Frodo lit up like it was Yule morning. 

“I would very much like that, too,” Strider agreed, climbing down from his horse and adjusting the saddle. 

“Will you tell me your name now?” Frodo asked Strider. Ah, yes, the ongoing guessing game that had kept little Frodo occupied for most of their journey. Strider had let slip once that his name was not actually ‘Strider’, and instead that was just the name he had been given as a Ranger. Frodo had made it his mission to find out the truth, guessing every name he could think of and not getting deterred by each ‘no’ he received in return. Many times Legolas had given him hints, but all Frodo could think of was Hobbit-ish names and each suggestion earned a hearty chuckle from Bilbo. 

Strider smiled at the fauntling, kneeling down before him. If it had been any other big folk, someone Bilbo hadn’t grown to trust on their adventure, he would have found it insulting that he would kneel before the hobbits as if speaking to a human child - a far too common occurrence for hobbits. Instead, all Bilbo could do was grin as Strider leaned in and whispered his secret into Frodo’s ear. Of course, with his own excellent hearing, Bilbo heard him mutter “ Aragorn ” to his nephew, but he said nothing as not to break the look of pure excitement on Frodo’s face whilst Strider oh-so-seriously made him promise not to tell anyone. Frodo promised. 

“Novaer pîn perian,” Legolas bid them, and Bilbo and Frodo waved until the two were out of sight, lost over the horizon as they travelled north-bound. Only once their friends were truly well and gone did Bilbo usher Frodo towards the forest behind them. They were much farther south than Bilbo had been when he last journeyed through Mirkwood, this time taking the Old Forest Road as it was the safest option. Nevermind it taking longer, the only thing he cared about was his nephew’s safety. Along this road, patrols of elves would pass them and assist them through to the other side, Bilbo had been assured many times. 

“Come along now, my boy,” he said, tightly gripping Frodo’s hand in his own, “when we enter the forest, you must stay holding my hand. It can be very dangerous to stray from the path. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo told him. With a smile, the two set off down the road ahead, heading deep into Mirkwood. 

“You'll come back when it's over, no need to say good bye.”

The night had fallen hours ago, as it always came earlier in the autumn, the sun setting and moon rising high in the star-filled sky. As Dale wound down for the evening, through the darkness two pairs of silent and hairy feet hurried through the streets. Their hoods up to hide their faces, ducking under windows as they weaved through the town and hid from anyone they might have passed so late. Soon, they reached the centre of the city where a black arrow sat high above the large doors of the manor house. The home of the King of Dale. The two hooded figures did not knock on that door, no, they crept around the back until they found a smaller, blue door with a brass doorknob and vines growing up the walls. The taller of the two figures knocked thrice, and very quickly the blue door was opened. “Hurry, hurry,” someone said, quickly ushering the two inside and closing the door behind them. 

Once inside the manor, the hoods were dropped. Bilbo instantly checked on Frodo, making sure his nephew was alright, before he looked back up and saw faces he had only hoped of seeing once more. 

“Bard!” he happily cried as the King of Dale, his old friend, approached and shook his hand. 

“How wonderful it is to see you again, Bilbo,” Bard greeted. He had grown older, as Bilbo had expected, with new specks of grey in his hair and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Very quickly, Bilbo found himself being swamped with hugs as Bard’s daughters, Sigrid and Tilda, came to say hello. Bain gave Bilbo a firm handshake but he too was smiling. They had also grown up, a lot more so than the last time the hobbit had passed through the city. However, they were still the same children Bilbo remembered from Laketown all those years ago. 

“Everyone, meet my nephew, Frodo,” Bilbo introduced. The fauntling glued himself to his uncle’s side, hiding under his cloak as he did everytime he met someone new. Frodo did give them all a little wave. 

“We are so happy you decided to return, my friend,” Bard said after the two hobbits had become comfortable in the drawing room of the manor. Frodo had been roped into braiding Tilda’s hair and was happily nattering away about their journey. “Though, I don’t understand you’re going to such lengths to keep it a secret.”

“Thorin isn’t aware we are here,” Bilbo told him, “I wanted it to be a surprise for the anniversary celebration.”

“Well, he will certainly be surprised,” Bard chuckled. Sigrid brought in a tray of biscuits and happily offered one to Frodo, who thanked her and nibbled away. It was safe to say, the fauntling had made friends once more. 

“And your journey through Mirkwood? Were you safe?”

“Quite! Just a few hours after we set off down the Old Forest Road, elven guards had found us and offered to escort us to Lord Thranduil’s halls!” Bilbo recounted with a smile. Even twenty years later he could still not get over the way the Silvan elves would politely bow in his presence, nor the way the King of Mirkwood greeted him as an old friend as opposed to the thief who stole from his kitchens for a month and broke out his prisoners. He supposed that the return of the White Gems of Lasgalen had helped bridge the gap that had been torn by pride between the two kingdoms. 

The elven King had been kind enough to let the two hobbits stay in his halls as long as they needed. Bilbo had wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, the corridors all too familiar and not for good reasons, as each time he turned a corner he found himself seeing grey, muted colours as though he was once again wearing the little ring that sat in his waistcoat pocket. A ring he had not even thought about since he tucked Frodo into bed at the Prancing Pony in Bree. So, they had only stayed a few nights, gratefully accepting the escort out of Mirkwood. 

When they had finally left the forest, Frodo had begun beaming as there, still in the distance but not too far away, was the Lonely Mountain. 

The sound of a door opening and closing caught everyone’s attention, but it didn’t take long for Bilbo to find out who it was as a gentle voice called out loudly into the house. “Uncle?” it said, and very quickly Bilbo placed his tea cup down just in time for a red-haired elven maid to round the corner and enter the drawing room. 

“Tauriel, my dear!”

“Hello, Uncle!” Tauriel greeted, striding across the drawing room to envelope Bilbo in a hug. As they pulled away, little arms wrapped themselves around the elven maid’s legs, and the red-haired lady laughed and lifted Frodo up into her arms. “And hello to you too, my little prince!” 

Oh, bless his heart, Bilbo felt like he could melt. 

“Everything is ready for your arrival. Balin and I have kept it quiet; no one is any the wiser,” the elf informed, taking a seat next to Bilbo with Frodo perched on her lap. Instantly, the fauntling’s fingers found their way to the braid in her hair. 

“Excellent! I cannot wait to see the look on their faces,” Bilbo chuckled, his hand making its way to Tauriel’s upper arm, “and congratulations, my dear, on the newest addition to the family. Little Ârel’s portrait sits proudly on the mantelpiece. I’m so sorry I was not there.” 

“It’s quite alright, Uncle,” Tauriel assured him, “what matters is you are here now. Though I do hope you will stick around for this one.” 

Admittedly, it took Bilbo a moment. His brow furrowed before his eyes widened along with Tauriel’s smirk. “I haven’t told Kíli yet,” she said before Bilbo could say anything on the matter, “he fainted last time, I didn’t want that to happen again.” 

The laughter echoed throughout the room, throughout the house! It wouldn’t have been a surprise if those wandering the streets so late heard them outside either. There would be much more laughter to come, after all, Erebor was but a day’s journey away. 

“You'll come back when it's over, no need to say goodbye.”

“Now we're back to the beginning, it's just a feeling and now one knows yet…” 

Though it was only mid-October, by some miracle the first snow of the season had come early. It must have had something to do with the late summer rains and the dropping temperatures, or perhaps it was something magical, but it didn’t deter Frodo as he walked through the forest that separated Dale from the Lonely Mountain. He had heard many tales of the magical woods which grew along the battlefield, saplings having sprouted from nowhere on the first day of spring alongside the daffodils. In twenty years, a forest had grown between the two kingdoms. 

It had snowed all through the night, and still was that morning. Frodo was in awe as he explored the winter wonderland. It was nothing like the winters in the Shire. Snow crunched with every step he took, feet sinking slightly into the ground. Snowflakes dusted his hair and cloak. It was cold out, but not a bad kind of cold; a “let’s go skating or build a snow fort” kind of cold. Frodo wasn’t sure how far he had wandered, the pathways lost underneath the white blanket, but he didn’t care. The world around him was new and exciting, much different from the Farthings of the Shire. 

It didn’t take long for Frodo to find what he was looking for, what his uncle had told him stories about almost every night before bed. In a small clearing, sat a lamppost. A tall post made with the finest of dwarven metalwork, expert glasswork from Dale, and a flame created from elven magic which danced eternally. On the final day of winter, the lamppost had been erected to symbolise the border between Erebor and Dale, and as a reminder to those lost in the battle as the battlefield was soon dubbed “The Lantern Waste”. No one had expected a magical forest to grow around the lamppost overnight. 

Frodo wasn’t too sure how long he was staring at the flame atop the lamppost, but soon his Hobbit ears picked up on footsteps crunching through the snow. When he looked around, there seemed to be nothing there, but the noise was getting louder and louder as whatever it was got closer and closer. His uncle had told him to be careful, had told him not to wander off too far as he trotted along the road with their pony. Now he wished he hadn’t gone to explore at all.

“See! I told you we weren’t lost, Fee! There’s the lamppost,” came a voice. 

“Thank Mahal for that! I thought we’d be walking in circles for hours!” came another. 

“Oh, very funny!” All of a sudden, two figures burst out of the bushes, shaking snow off of the evergreens. Frodo let out a frightened gasp and hid behind the tree he was standing next to. 

“Who’s there?” the second voice called out. Frodo froze, eyes squeezed tight. 

“Fee, look!” the first voice muttered, and there was silence. It lasted for quite a while. Frodo, ever so cautiously, moved so he could peer around the tree trunk. 

Two short figures were standing in the clearing, both swamped with heavy furs and big boots. One blond with a long braided beard, the other raven-haired with a shorter beard and a quiver on his back. They looked far too short to be elves, and even too short to be Men. Stocky, and a few feet taller than his uncle would be. Both were staring at Frodo, and he almost hid again. Almost.  

“I’m terribly sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you,” the raven-haired one said. They were both smiling at him, the kind of smile that made you want to smile back. They… didn’t look dangerous. In fact, they looked awfully friendly. Slowly, Frodo moved out from behind the tree. 

“... are you… dwarrow?” he asked them. 

“Why, yes we are!” The blond replied proudly. 

“And what about you? Are you not some sort of... very short, beardless dwarf?” the raven questioned with a smirk. 

“I’m not a dwarf! I’m a Hobbit!” Frodo laughed, missing the way the two dwarrow exchanged a look, “and actually I am the tallest of all my cousins.”

“A hobbit you say?” the blond repeated, and Frodo nodded. 

“There hasn’t been a hobbit in Erebor since Uncle Boggins left ten years ago,” the raven-haired dwarrow said. Frodo’s eyes went wide. 

“You know my uncle?” he asked them, now grinning brightly. The two dwarrow shared a look again, a thousand unspoken words being shared in mere seconds. 

“Kíli-”

“-and Fíli-”

“- at your service!” They both bowed deeply. 

The young hobbit didn't get a chance to introduce himself as the hobbit heard his uncle calling out his name. “Frodo? Frodo! Where are you? We have to get going now!” It was getting louder and louder. He must have come wandering into the woods. How long had he been gone for? Without a second thought, Frodo went bounding over to the two dwarrow until he was able to grab their hands, tugging Kíli and Fíli with him as he followed his uncle’s voice. It didn’t take very long at all, as Frodo’s footprints had yet to be covered by the falling snow and Bilbo had followed them into the woods. Soon, Frodo could see his uncle dusting snow from his hair and adjusting his cloak, grumbling about the cold. 

“Uncle! Look who I met!” Frodo announced. Bilbo looked up at his nephew, face going from confused to surprised to joyful in seconds. 

“Uncle Boggins!” the two dwarrow exclaimed. They let go of Frodo’s hands and went running over to Bilbo, who only had the chance to mutter a quick “oh dear” before the three of them went piling into the snow, Frodo giggling as he watched. Frodo’s giggles didn’t stop, not when his uncle pulled the two dwarrow into hugs, not when they cried about how much they had missed him, and not when Bilbo brushed tears away from their cheeks. 

“Not that we aren’t happy to see you again-”

“- but what are you doing here?”

“We came to surprise you and your uncle for the anniversary celebration,” Bilbo explained as they all clambered to their feet, “Frodo was insistent we attend- and yes, we shall be staying for a good while.” His words only spurred more hugs and tears. 

Frodo had grown up a good portion of his life hearing his uncle’s stories of his dwarrow relatives. Never had he thought he would get to meet them, especially not his two cousins, no matter how much he might have liked them to visit the Shire. Letters could only tell you so much, could only express so many emotions and feelings in their words, even for the most articulate of people. And yet still, Kíli and Fíli were exactly as Frodo had expected them to be. Exactly as his uncle had described them. 

“We had better hurry if we want to make it to the gates before nightfall,” Bilbo said, beckoning Frodo over to take his hand so they could head back to their pony. However, before they turned to leave, Bilbo paused. A sly grin formed on Frodo’s uncle’s face, one he had never seen before. It seemed almost… mischievous. 

“Boys,” Bilbo began, his attention back on the dwarrow, “do you want to have a bit of fun?”

“Always,” Kíli answered. 

“Especially if it gives Uncle and Amad a headache,” Fíli added. 

“Okay then,” Bilbo smirked, “here’s what I want you both to do…”

“... but just because they can't feel it too doesn't mean that you have to forget.”

Council meetings, guild inspections, trade discussions, and a general lack of time in the day made it difficult for Thorin to have any time to himself, but that was probably for the best as he would only go back to brooding all the time if left alone for more than five minutes. It wasn’t his fault. His One was a world away, did he have to live a world away? Thoughts would soon subside, then another letter would arrive bringing with it a hope of return, only to shatter said hope each time the wax seal was broken and the envelope opened. 

As he sat at the head of the stone table, scrolls and maps and documents spread out before him, Thorin tried his best to listen to the others on his Council as they explained how Erebor was coming along. Twenty years after the reclamation and the kingdom was only just returning to normal; the process was slow yet necessary. However much he tried to listen, the King’s thoughts kept drifting towards the west, to that hole in the earth he had once gotten lost trying to find all those years ago. A hole where the love of his life resided, away from him. 

He never meant for his thoughts to wander. He truly did intend on listening to how the miners were fairing now the weather was getting colder, but he couldn’t help it. There was an emptiness by his side that couldn’t be filled. Dwarrow only love once, with all their hearts and everything they have to give. 

Balin noticed, gently knocking their knees together under the table to shake Thorin back into focus. The spokesman continued as if nothing had happened, either because he hadn’t seen the king’s slight jump as he came back to the present or because he knew better than to ask about it. The meeting was about preparations for the anniversary celebration, a meeting they’d had already many times. If he really wanted to, Thorin could excuse himself at any time.

Excuse himself to go and reread Bilbo’s last letter. The one saying he would not be returning for the celebrations in just a few weeks time.  Of course, Thorin understood. He almost didn’t let Kíli join the company for he had barely come of age, having a fauntling - a mere child - travel halfway across the world was risky. It would… just be a while before they saw each other again. More tears stains would join Bilbo’s signature at the end of the page before that time came. He wasn’t ashamed to say he had shed tears over his One’s absence. 

The fact that Bilbo had not written back since he sent the letter apologising for not attending was fairly concerning. The longest they had gone without speaking was two months, and that was only because the snow had become so bad that the ravens could not risk the weather, so the six months without a reply had become concerning. If not for the celebration and other duties forcing him to remain at the mountain he would have already begun the journey to the west to check on his One for himself. 

The large doors opposite Thorin creaked open just the slightest, and without a sound, Fíli slipped into the room. He seemed to be the only one who saw, his nephew sticking very close to the shadows of the room, but as soon as he locked eyes with the king, he made a simple gesture with his hand. 

Something urgent has come up. 

Clearing his throat, Thorin gathered the attention of the council and quickly dismissed them for the afternoon, agreeing to meet the next day to pick up where things had left off. Each of the Lords left without argument or incident, the table clearing with respectful bows to both the King and the Crowned Prince when they passed, until it was just Thorin, Balin, Dwalin and Fíli left in the room. 

“What’s happened?” Thorin asked urgently, hurrying to his nephew’s side. Fíli would never interrupt a council meeting unless it was dire, something Thorin had to attend in moments. 

“Someone’s here to see you, they said it’s important,” Fíli replied, beckoning for the three to follow. They did, striding down the corridors and up staircases as fast as reasonably possible - it may have been twenty years since the battle, but injuries still haunted them. They had to take it slowly - but every time Fíli was pressed for more information, the young dwarf just hurried them all along, completely avoiding the questions. Before he had realised, Thorin found himself in the Royal Wing. The rest of the Company were filtering in from other hallways, all with a similar look of confusion plastered on their faces. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Dís asked, coming to stand with her brother. 

“Lads didn’t say, just called us all here,” Dwalin answered. 

Fíli still offered no answers, just threw open the main doors to the Royal Wing and began practically skipping down the long corridor, where Kíli and Tauriel, little Ârel in her arms, met the prince half way. 

“Are they ready?” 

“Yup! They’re waiting in the dining room.”

“Boys,” Thorin said sternly, and the two princes turned his way, eyes wide trying to feign innocence, but Thorin wasn’t having it, “if this is some kind of joke-”

“No joke, Uncle!” Kíli insisted, “not this time at least.”

“There really are some important people here to see you,” Fíli added. Sighing, Thorin gestured for the boys to lead the way, and with a look of glee shared between them, both his nephews practically dragged Thorin down the hall and right up to the doors of the dining room. It was about time for supper. 

Kíli pushed the door open and stuck his head around the frame. “Ready?” he asked whoever was inside. 

“Are you ready, my boy?” came a welcomed voice. 

“I think so,” replied one the king had wished to hear for ten years. 

Thorin felt his heart skip a beat.

It couldn’t be.  

“Let your memories grow stronger and stronger 'til they're before your eyes!”

His heart had been pounding since he first laid eyes on the mountain, and the closer and closer they had gotten the more Bilbo had found himself smiling. He was home, finally, after many long months and many, many setbacks. Kíli and Fíli had helped the two hobbits to sneak into the mountain through back passages normally used by serving staff, leading the way until Bilbo and Frodo were in the Royal Wing and far from the eyes of the public. There had been no guards in the hallway, but all the same the hobbits had scurried into the King’s Chambers and taken off their bags and cloaks. Leaving Bilbo and Frodo to freshen up and become a bit more presentable, the two sons of Durin had gone running out of the room to gather the company as it was nearing supper, whilst Tauriel, who had met them at the foot of the mountain, had finished sorting out their pony and planned to join them. 

It hadn’t taken long for Bilbo to sort Frodo out, brushing his hair to rid it of the snow. He had straightened his waistcoat and smoothed invisible wrinkles from his jacket, before ushering Frodo out of the chambers and across to the next hallway where they snuck into the dining room. The servants had just left, the food on the table still piping hot. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Everything was just as he remembered; high ceilings carved into the mountain itself lined with emerald marble and gold adornments, heat from the forges seeping up through the floors, a deep scent of burning - but the nice kind, like freshly blown out candle wicks, not charred wood from dragonfire. From what he had gotten to see of the kingdom itself on their way inside, the mountain seemed to be flourishing. He knew the greenhouses were doing well too, as there was an awful lot of greenery on the table. 

Bilbo had perched himself on what he knew to be his chair, having turned it outwards so it faced the door. The silverware on the placemat was flipped around the incorrect way just like it always had been. Just like he preferred. Even ten years later and still servants laid a place for him at meals. Maybe it wasn’t just the king who missed the Consort. As they waited, Bilbo took the time to take in being back, being home. In minutes he would be reunited with his love, returned to his family. It seemed like a dream, or a dream of a dream.  

Frodo had stopped exploring. The fauntling had shuffled over to his uncle and gripped a hold of his sleeve, tugging until Bilbo was facing the boy. Bright eyes were staring at him. Bilbo patted his knee, and Frodo hopped up onto his lap. 

“Everything alright?” Bilbo asked. 

“Do you think Uncle Thorin will like me?” Frodo piped up, words merely a whisper, and he buried his face into his uncle’s shirt. Bilbo wrapped his arms around his nephew, hand stroking his dark curls. 

“Frodo,” he began, taking the faunt’s hand, “he already loves you. He has said so many times in his letters, you’ve read them. All he has ever wanted since you came into our lives is to meet you in person.” A little grin graced Frodo’s face.

“I think I did find my courage on this adventure, Uncle,” he said. Bilbo chuckled. 

“I knew you would, my boy.”

The door opened slowly, and Kíli stuck his head around the frame until he found them. “Ready?” he asked. The hobbits hopped off the chair. 

“Are you ready, my boy?” Bilbo asked Frodo, who nodded. 

“I think so,” Frodo replied, reaching up to hold his uncle’s hand again. Bilbo smiled, turned back to Kíli, and nodded. 

Best not to keep everyone waiting. 

Kíli opened the other door and, much calmer than Bilbo would have thought they would be, the company piled in one by one. There were gasps and wide eyes and whispers of “Mahal’s beard, is it really?”, enough to make Frodo pin himself to Bilbo’s side. Soon enough, there they all were. Balin, Dwalin, Oín, Gloín, Nori, Dor and Ori, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, Kíli, Fíli, Dís, Tauriel and little Ârel, and, of course, Thorin. Much had changed, of course, as everything did with time, but they were still the same friends and family he had left behind. Some had new braids in their beards, some had streaks of grey in their hairs, and others had grown not so much taller, but definitely sideways. All had smiles on their faces, most looked as if they were trying to hold back from throwing themselves at him for a hug. 

Then, there was Thorin. His hair had mostly gone grey, safe for a few leftover locks of raven black. Dressed in formal robes like the ones Bilbo knew he wore to council meetings, his crown was nowhere to be seen and he had foregone Orcist that day. He still looked as regal as ever. To most, he would appear expressionless, stoic, but Bilbo knew better. He saw the way the king’s hands had come together before him, right hand twisting the gold band on his left ring finger, something he always did whenever he was thinking of Bilbo. It was the only Hobbit tradition Bilbo had insisted on for the wedding, more than happy to follow dwarven traditions. 

The two hobbits approached, coming to a stop just a few steps before the company, Frodo gripping a hold of Bilbo’s sleevelike his uncle would disappear at any given second. 

No one said anything for a good while until-

“So, who won the bet?” Bilbo spoke, loud enough for everyone to hear - even Oín. There was a pause, and then pouches of gold were being tossed towards Ori. Of course Bilbo had known his friends would place bets on how long it would take for him to return. He hadn’t expected it to be young Ori who won. “I’ve missed you all,” he sighed. 

Thorin took two steps forward, until he was merely an arm’s length away. Bilbo reached to cup the king’s cheek with his hand. 

“You’re home,” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo felt his heart sing. 

“I’m home,” he said back. Thorin threw his arms around Bilbo, face burying in the hobbit’s shoulder as Bilbo pressed kisses to the dwarf’s hair. They stayed there in each other’s embrace for a good while, their foreheads eventually coming to rest together, until Bilbo felt the tears trailing down his cheeks. He pulled back just the slightest to wipe them away, only to have something soft pressed into his hand. It was a handkerchief. The very same one he had used to dry Thorin’s own tears on the day they parted. 

“Keep it,” the king said, smile returning to his lips, “you need it more than I do.” Bilbo let out a sob of a laugh. 

There was a light tugging on his jacket. The moment over, but many more on the way, Bilbo stepped out of Thorin’s embrace and finished drying his face with the handkerchief, tucking it into his waistcoat. His hands found their way to Frodo’s shoulders as he stood behind the boy. 

Thorin knelt down before Frodo, despite what Bilbo knew would have been protesting, aching knees. The fauntling’s eyes had gone wide again, bright blue and shining. 

Frodo really did look an awful lot like Thorin. 

The king smiled gently and held out a hand to the boy. “Welcome, Frodo,” he said softly, “I am so very happy to finally meet you. I’m Thorin, at your service.” 

“... Frodo Baggins. At yours.” Cautiously, Frodo slipped his hand into Thorin’s, but only for a second, as he soon decided to throw his arms around the King’s neck and hug him tightly. Thorin carefully scooped the boy up into his arms until he was comfortably situated on the king’s hip. The hand not holding Frodo found its way into Bilbo’s grasp. The three of them turned back to the company. 

“Our Burglar is home!” Thorin announced proudly, and everyone erupted into cheers.

“You'll come back when they call you, no need to say goodbye.”  

Supper was marvellous. After months on the road it felt nice to have a proper meal again, but it was better being back with loved ones. Bilbo, sitting to Thorin’s right, had retold the story of his latest journey to the east; from the moment the invitation arrived to the way boys snuck them into the mountain. Every now and again Frodo would pipe up from his spot between the two princes, adding little details that his uncle had missed or he deemed too important to leave out. The young lad, bless his heart, had been too short to reach his plate until they sent for a couple of cushions. 

At some point in the evening, Frodo had taken over all the talking and rambled on a mile a minute about anything and everything, and the entire table seemed enthralled by the stories about Frodo and his friends creating mischief in the Shire. From a few seats down Bilbo listened and found he couldn’t stop smiling, especially when Dís commented that Merry and Pippin were as bad as Kíli and Fíli had been as children. The look on Thorin’s face had been priceless, since just moments earlier he had suggested next trip they should invite Frodo’s friends along. 

Bilbo’s face was hurting by the time he finally retired for the evening as he had been smiling so much. Seeing everyone again, around the table like it had been only yesterday… It nearly brought tears to the hobbit’s eyes. Dinner became sitting around the fireplace in the Company’s common room, which had turned to the Line of Durin retiring to the large lounge in the Royal Wing when Frodo had started to fall asleep. Though Tauriel had organised a room for Frodo - it was actually the room next to the nursery which would become Ârel’s when she was old enough - Bilbo hadn’t wanted his nephew far from his sight. “We’ve spent the past months in close proximity, I fear it would upset him to be so far away,” Bilbo explained as he settled Frodo down on the divan in the King’s Chambers.  

Until the hour grew too late, Bilbo simply enjoyed having his family close once again. It felt too much like a dream that a part of him hadn’t wanted to go to bed, but the day had been long and the energy had left him hours ago. Everyone else seemed to catch on to his exhaustion as soon Kíli and Tauriel were bidding him goodnight and Fíli and Dís chose to do the same. Not without giving Bilbo another hug. Once they had all left, Thorin corralled Bilbo into the bedroom. 

As they got ready for bed, Bilbo finally had the chance to look around the room properly, and he realised everything was exactly as it had been when he left. His side of the wardrobe was still organised the same way, the scattered writing pens and inkwells still lay littering the desk by the window, and on the balcony the potted cyclamens were still blooming as though someone had been taking very good care of them. 

Bilbo slipped into his nightclothes and climbed into bed - the left side of the bed, furthest from the door and closest to Frodo where he still slept on the divan. The bed dipped as Thorin climbed into bed next to him, and an arm snaked around his waist, pulling him flush against the king’s side. 

“I dread to ask because I fear I will not like the answer,” Thorin spoke quietly into Bilbo’s hair, “but do you know how long you will be home for?”

Bilbo sighed softly, leaning into Thorin’s chest. “We will be here for as long as Frodo wishes,” he explained, “but he is still young and a-”

“A fauntling needs the Shire, I know,” Thorin finished, kissing Bilbo’s temple. 

In truth, Bilbo didn’t know how long they would be in the mountain for. The journey had kept Frodo and his inquisitive mind occupied, and Bilbo knew that the mountain would too for a good while, but once all had been seen, thoughts would begin to wander back to that of the green rolling hills of the Shire, of friends and cousins a world away. When that time came, when the homesickness set in, Bilbo would have to pack up his things and return to the Shire with Frodo, and leave his heart behind again. 

“‘ncle?” A voice squeaked, and both Bilbo and Thorin turned their attention to the divan where Frodo was sitting up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

“Oh, did we wake you?” Bilbo asked, patting the bed next to him. Frodo hopped off the divan and shuffled over, and when he struggled to climb up onto the high bed (Bilbo still had trouble and he was much taller than his nephew) Bilbo scooped him up, settling the fauntling between his two uncles. Immediately Frodo burrowed into Thorin’s side, eyes slipping closed, and the king pulled the two hobbits in close. 

“How was your first day in Erebor, my boy?” Bilbo asked Frodo. 

“Fun!” Frodo tiredly grinned, “I can’t wait for tomorrow. Kee and Fee said they would-” he yawned, “-take me on a tour of the kingdom.” 

Bilbo chuckled and ruffled Frodo’s curls. “That sounds wonderful,” he said. 

“Can I sleep here with you and Uncle Thorin?” The boy asked. Bilbo looked up at Thorin and the king beat him to answering. 

“Of course you can,” Thorin said to the boy, gathering up the blankets to tuck in around the three of them. Together they all layed down, and with his two uncles there, Frodo was asleep once more in minutes. 

As the fireplace died and the room grew dark, and the snores of those he loved the most grew louder, Bilbo let himself relax and drift off to sleep. 

He was home.

“You'll come back when they call you, no need to say goodbye.”