Archive of Our Own ^beta

It has been a few months since Thorin’s siblings arrive at Bag End, renting the same smial where Thorin and Dwalin stay, despite the Bagginses’ generous offer to let them stay in Bag End itself.

“Thank you for the kind offer, but it would be improper,” Dís explains with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “We turned a blind eye when Thorin shared a room with Bilbo before, due to circumstances , but now that those are resolved, we must adhere to tradition.” She pauses, lips quirking. “Imagine the scandal if the people of Erebor learned that Thorin slept with Frerin’s former, now his own, fiancé before marriage.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Thorin hisses.

“Much to your hobbit’s disappointment, most likely,” Frerin teases. He narrowly avoids Thorin’s fist by ducking, grinning all the while.

Bungo Baggins watches the Durin siblings and is struck with a terrible realization, they remind him far too much of his Took in-laws. Dwarven royalty? No, this is just chaos. The shock of it leaves him feeling faint. Meanwhile, Belladonna looks positively delighted.

Bilbo shifts uncomfortably before murmuring, “My apologies. I was the one who invited Thorin to sleep with me last time. I simply wanted more time with him before he left. I’m sorry, Thorin, if my selfish desire harmed your image. I should remember that I’m marrying into royalty, and public perception is very importa—”

Thorin crosses the room in an instant and silences Bilbo with a soft kiss, knowing full well his hobbit’s tendency to ramble when anxious.

“Bilbo, amrâlimê, you have nothing to fear,” he reassures him. “We did nothing scandalous that night, we only wished to be together. My siblings may joke, but they do not question your honor. Right? ” He levels a glare at his two grinning siblings.

“Oh, but of course,” Dís replies sweetly, too sweetly.

“We certainly know Bilbo’s honor is intact,” Frerin adds with a smirk. “It’s our nadad’s we question.”

An axe whistles through the air. Frerin, laughing, barely dodges.

And so, Bilbo slowly gets to know his future in-laws. Frerin, Thorin’s younger brother, and Bilbo’s ex -fiancé, bears a striking resemblance to Thorin: broad shoulders, raven hair, and piercing blue eyes. But his face is rounder, his features softer, and his personality a thousand times more mischievous. Dís, the youngest of the three, has their mother’s blonde hair but the same Durin-blue eyes. Her features are softer like Frerin’s, but her gaze is just as sharp as Thorin’s. She is shrewd, cunning, and effortlessly bosses her brothers around with a single look.

Bilbo sees the deep love between them, and his heart aches just a little, for he has never had siblings of his own.

Still, as much as he enjoys getting to know his future family, there is one thing that unsettles him.

They are absurdly physical.

Even more so than his Took cousins, which is saying something.

For instance, one fine afternoon, Bilbo is lounging beneath a tree, engrossed in a particularly gripping mystery novel. Just as he reaches the critical moment, the one that will finally answer everything, he is scooped up without warning.

“AH! WHO—?!”

“Agnât-nadad! You gotta join me!” Frerin crows, effortlessly carrying Bilbo away like he weighs nothing.

“FRERIN! WAIT! I WAS AT A GOOD PART!” Bilbo shrieks, flailing wildly, but Frerin’s grip is unyielding. Worse, Bilbo notices several other hobbits watching this ridiculous display. He can feel his face burning as he is paraded through the streets like a sack of potatoes.

“Where are we going?! ”

Frerin cheerfully dumps him in front of a small gathering of Took cousins and Brandybucks.

“Oh, you did bring Bilbo,” one of them chuckles, only to quickly shut up when Bilbo turns his glare on them.

“Yup!” Frerin grins. “Now help me out here, Bilbo! My future in-laws tell me you’re amazing at conkers, and I need a good teammate!”

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply.

“…You carried me across multiple streets , stopping to pass this group several times, might I add, all to play conkers? ”

Frerin beams. “Yep!”

Bilbo stares. “You do realize you could have asked? ”

Frerin tilts his head. “Would you have said yes?”

“Well, not at that moment, I was in the middle of—”

“Well, that was then, and this is now! Come on! Let’s play!” Frerin barrels forward without hesitation.

Bilbo inhales again and reminds himself: This is the family I am marrying into. He must be patient. Many people struggle with their in-laws. Having a brother-in-law who has absolutely no understanding of personal space is, all things considered, not the worst thing that could happen.

At least Frerin keeps the Sackville-Bagginses away.

“…Fine. Let’s play.”

Frerin cheers and hands Bilbo a conker he personally made.

Bilbo takes one look at it and scowls. It is not, in fact, a nut on a string. It is a chunk of metal suspended by chains.

Oh, Bilbo thinks grimly. We’re going to have to start from the very beginning.

Dís is far more reserved than her brothers, so she doesn’t randomly pick Bilbo up like Frerin does. No, when she does it, Bilbo knows , and there is no escape.

Like today.

He has just finished baking blackberry pies, Thorin’s favorite, of course. He smiles as he imagines the delighted look on his fiancé’s face when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he finds himself face to face with Dís.

“Oh, Dís! How may I help you?” he asks pleasantly.

“Bilbo, I noticed you never train with weapons. May I inquire why?” she asks, her tone light but her gaze far too interested.

Bilbo blinks. Oh, this is a trap.

“Pardon? Oh, um… well, I’ve never held a weapon in my life, you see. I’ve wielded knives for cooking and the occasional pitchfork when gardening, but never an actual weapon,” he explains carefully, hoping this answer satisfies her.

Dís's eyes light up.

“Ah! A cestarius! Excellent! Come, you must show me your forms!”

Bilbo barely has time to yelp before she grabs him.

In an instant, he is whisked away to the backyard, flailing uselessly the entire time. When she finally lets go, he staggers back, eyes darting toward the door like a cornered animal.

“Dís! I believe there’s been a misunderstanding! I don’t fi—”

“I assure you, hobbit, dwarven women fight just as well as their men, so do not hold back!” Dís declares, absolutely beaming.

Before Bilbo can properly protest that he doesn’t want to fight at all, she lunges at him.

He barely manages to dodge, scrambling out of the way with a yelp. “DÍS! I really don’t think we sho—”

“Do not underestimate me, Bilbo!” she warns, eyes gleaming.

Bilbo freezes under her intense gaze, realizing, with absolute certainty , that he is not leaving this yard unscathed.

Thankfully, just as he is about to meet his doom, Thorin arrives and explains that hobbits, as a general rule, do not fight. And unlike Men, who think women have no place on the battlefield, hobbits believe no one should be on the battlefield.

Dís snorts. “That’s preposterous! Everyone should learn to defend themselves!”

Then, she whirls back to Bilbo.

“Bilbo! From now on, I shall teach you how to fight!”

Bilbo takes a very large step backward. “No, that is completely unnecessary.”

“Nonsense! Come!” Dís exclaims, grabbing him again.

Bilbo yelps as she drags him off to certain suffering. He throws a desperate look at Thorin, but his dear, treacherous fiancé simply looks pleased.

Bilbo groans.

Dwarrows and their battle-crazed culture!

The worst offender is Dwalin.

Oh, Thorin being his cousin wasn’t a lie, but the part where he’s also his personal bodyguard? That little detail was conveniently left out. And now that everyone knows, Dwalin insists on following Thorin everywhere, even during their usual strolls.

That alone isn’t the problem. The problem is that it goes something like this:

Bilbo sighs contentedly as he leans into Thorin, the dwarf happily wrapping an arm around him while they walk through the market. A simple errand, just buying groceries for both their smials, but the best part? The excuse to be close to Thorin. The warmth of him, the solid weight of his arm, the way he smells like pine and embers—

Then, suddenly, Bilbo is yanked away.

“ Dwalin! ” Bilbo sputters, twisting to glare at his abductor. “What in the name of the Green Hills are you doing? ”

“Chaperoning,” Dwalin says, utterly deadpan.

Bilbo blinks. “... Chaperoning? ”

Dwalin nods, entirely serious.

Bilbo squints at him. “Dwalin. We are both adults by our races’ standards. And need I remind you, we courted before?” He tries his best to channel his mother’s disappointed but not angry voice, but, unsurprisingly, Dwalin remains unaffected.

“That was before everyone in the Shire knew Thorin’s a prince,” Dwalin says flatly. “Now his reputation’s at stake. I gotta make sure you two stay proper. ”

Bilbo gapes.

HIM? A respectable Baggins, the pinnacle of good manners, being accused of impropriety? He has words, but Dwalin still looks very much like a man who could snap him like a twig, so he sighs and turns to Thorin for support.

“ Amrâlimê… ” Thorin takes a step closer, only for Dwalin to bodily put Bilbo behind him.

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, voice gruff with warning, “you know it’s already a scandal that you slept with Bilbo before.”

Thorin scowls.

Bilbo groans, rubbing his temples. “Can we at least hold hands? ”

Dwalin turns, eyes narrowing as he contemplates. After a long moment, he finally nods.

Bilbo perks up. “How about cheek kisses?”

Dwalin’s eyes immediately narrow again. “Don’t push it, hobbit.”

Bilbo laughs nervously.

And so, with Dwalin permanently glued to their sides, he and Thorin’s usual closeness is thoroughly blocked, all in the name of propriety, despite the fact that they are grown adults who should absolutely be trusted not to cause a scandal.

Of course, that means that whenever he and Thorin do manage to steal a rare moment alone, they take it immediately.

Which is why Bilbo doesn’t bat an eye when Thorin suddenly sweeps him off his feet. One moment, he’s humming a soft tune while doing the dishes; the next, strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back against a very familiar chest. A beard tickles his cheek before warm lips press against his own.

Bilbo hums against Thorin’s lips before pulling back just enough to arch a knowing brow. “Hello, Thorin. And what, exactly, are you doing here, love?”

“Dwalin had to escort my siblings to Tuckborough to discuss politics with your cousin, the Thain,” Thorin murmurs, pressing another kiss to Bilbo’s lips before lifting him effortlessly. “The caravan to Erebor arrives in a few months, and they wanted to inform him.”

“Do they have to?” Bilbo grumbles as Thorin carries him to the living room. “It’s months away.”

“It is,” Thorin agrees, settling them both onto the sofa. Bilbo sighs happily as he stretches out on top of him, resting his head against Thorin’s chest and listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“But this also gives your relatives time to decide if they wish to join you, whether to attend the wedding, settle in Erebor, or simply enjoy the sights,” Thorin continues, running his fingers through Bilbo’s curls. He’s already imagining how a wedding bead would look woven into them. “Surely you must have some family who’d want to see you wed?”

Bilbo snorts. “Apart from my parents? Doubtful. My Took cousins might consider it, but even that’s a stretch.”

Thorin’s fingers pause, then resume their gentle movements. “Oh, my heart, if you wish it, we could have the wedding here instead. I can send a raven to my sigin’adad to ask for permission. All you need to do is say the word.”

Bilbo lifts his head to meet Thorin’s gaze, his heart squeezing at the sincerity he finds there.

“Thorin… thank you,” he murmurs. “But we both know that would cause trouble for you, and I don’t want that.”

He sighs, shifting slightly. “When I was betrothed to Frerin, it wasn’t an issue, he wasn’t in the main succession line. He’d only inherit the throne if something happened to you. That’s why no one objected to our engagement.” Bilbo swallows, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Thorin’s chest. “But now… now I’m with you. And I know how I’m seen.”

Thorin stiffens slightly beneath him, but Bilbo pushes forward. “Because I’m with you, a non-dwarf might one day become consort of Erebor. Not all of your people will accept that. I don’t want to make things worse by having our wedding here, too.” He forces a small smile. “Besides… your grandmother would be furious. ”

He tries to make it a joke, but Thorin sees right through him.

With a quiet sigh, Thorin tightens his hold, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s curls. The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, it chases away the worst of Bilbo’s worries.

Safe in Thorin’s arms, Bilbo lets his eyes flutter shut. Before long, he finds himself drifting off, his last conscious thought being that, no matter what, Thorin will always be his home.

The day arrives, and the caravan that will escort them to Erebor finally comes. Bilbo isn’t surprised to see his parents packed and ready to join him.

“Drogo and Primula will look after Bag End for us, dear. No need to worry,” Belladonna assures him with a soft smile.

“And before you go, cousin, we should celebrate! Not all of us can attend your wedding, but we can at least cheer you on as you leave for your new home!” Primula exclaims happily.

Word of the caravan’s arrival spreads quickly, and soon the hobbits have turned Bag End into the heart of a makeshift party. Friends and family dance, cheer, and make merry, offering congratulations and heartfelt goodbyes. Many promise to exchange letters regularly. Food and drink overflow, ensuring everyone has their fill.

Bilbo feels slightly overwhelmed but no less delighted. Laughing, he dances along, even pulling Thorin into the revelry.

“Careful with your feet, love!”

“I will,” Thorin promises, doing his best not to step on Bilbo’s bare toes, laughing as he twirls him around.

Frerin and Dís seem like natural dancers, moving gracefully across the field of celebrating hobbits. Dwalin, on the other hand, barely dances, his movements more akin to dodging the smaller folk.

“Excuse me, pardon me, who touched my rump?!” he grumbles.

Bilbo spots his parents nearby, lovingly embracing as Bungo spins Belladonna around, much like Thorin is doing with him now. Bilbo giggles, warmth filling his heart, he has found a love like his parents', just as he always hoped.

The dwarrows from the caravan seem well-acquainted with Shirefolk dancing, blending seamlessly into the festivities. Likely, they are from Ered Luin, a dwarven kingdom with close trade ties to the Shire. Bofur, a dwarf with a funny hat, laughs as he plays a jolly tune on his flute. Bombur, despite his large size, shakes his hips like no one’s business. Bifur delights the crowd by yodeling in Khuzdul, his joyful tone infectious. Thorin can already tell they are good dwarrows, and Bilbo is eager to befriend them.

The celebration lasts until nightfall, and when it ends, everyone helps clean up, no hobbit would ever leave a mess behind. Anyone who does would never be invited to another gathering, for no one tolerates such rudeness.

By morning, Bilbo has to hold back laughter as he watches Thorin and his family suffer from hangovers.

“Shire drinks are surprisingly strong, despite being so sweet…” Dís mutters, rubbing her head.

“Don’t talk… too loud…” Frerin groans, covering his ears.

Bilbo smiles as he strokes Thorin’s hair while the dwarf glares at a patch of floor as if it personally offended him.

“I’ll make you all some tea for your pains,” Bilbo offers.

“Please,” Dwalin grunts on behalf of everyone, his face twisted in a grimace.

After helping the dwarrows recover from their hangovers, the Baggins family bids farewell to Bag End one last time before heading to the caravan.

The Ur brothers already have everything packed and, having built a tolerance for Shire drinks, show no signs of hangovers.

“Welcome, Your Majesties! Please, come in!” Bofur greets them with a wide smile as he opens the caravan door.

“That was a delightful party last night. You hobbits always know how to throw a proper bash,” Bombur grins as he helps the hobbits onto the caravan.

Bifur says nothing but offers a warm smile as he assists with their luggage.

“No offense or anything, but why is dwarven royalty traveling like merchants on their way back to their kingdom?” Belladonna asks, her voice filled with genuine curiosity as she settles into the caravan.

Bungo’s mouth falls open in horror. “Belladonna, dearest, that’s a rather rude question, don’t you think?”

“Oh, no offense taken, Bungo,” Dís replies easily. “It’s for protection. If we dressed in our full regalia, adorned with jewels and gold, we’d look like a moving target, an open invitation for bandits to attack. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem if we traveled with our full guard, but a larger party is slower and harder to move discreetly. This way, we avoid unnecessary trouble.”

“Besides, it’s a bit freeing,” Frerin adds with a smirk. “Away from the kingdom, with no one watching, we can be as brash and loud as we want. Though Thorin still insists we act like a prince and princess, even in disguise. But as you probably noticed back in the Shire, he’s mellowed ever since he met Bilbo.” He gestures toward his older brother.

Bungo turns to look, and immediately appears scandalized. Meanwhile, Belladonna’s smile only widens at the sight before them.

There, perched comfortably on Thorin’s lap, is their son, Bilbo. The two are lost in each other’s gaze, chatting about the most mundane things, utterly absorbed in one another.

“Amrâlimê, I know you love your rolling green hills dearly, but during this journey, I will show you all the sights and wonders this world has to offer. Erebor is magnificent, truly, but it is still a long way off. Nearby is an Elven outpost called Rivendell, where Lord Elrond resides,” Thorin says, gently playing with Bilbo’s golden-copper curls.

“My mother spoke often of Rivendell, but I never got the chance to go. I always dreamt of seeing the Homely House,” Bilbo replies, his eyes shining with nostalgia.

“And now you shall,” Thorin says, his smile widening as he watches the excitement bloom on Bilbo’s face.

Dís and Frerin, however, stare at their brother in disbelief. Thorin, who is infamous for his blatant disdain for so-called tree-huggers, just suggested visiting an Elven realm? All to fulfill Bilbo’s childhood fantasies? Oh, he is truly besotted.

“I think we should separate them for propriety’s sake,” Bungo mutters, standing up from his seat, only for Belladonna to pull him right back down.

“Nonsense, leave them be. This is tame compared to what we did back in the day,” she remarks with a mischievous smile.

Bungo flushes at his wife’s comment but stays seated, clearing his throat. “Now, ignoring those two for a moment, tell me, how did you come to know the Ur brothers? The three of them are well known among hobbits. They frequently visit our markets, selling their magical toys.

“Oh, their cousin Bifur once served under Thorin’s command and later introduced us to his family. All three of them now live in Erebor, but they originally come from Ered Luin. They still have family there, so they travel these roads often and know them well. I especially enjoy Bofur’s company, I have never met a dwarf so jolly,” Frerin replies with a grin.

“Though I must admit, they do not know the road to Rivendell,” Dís adds with a slight frown. “Thorin may have to disappoint Bilbo on that promise. Rivendell isn’t usually a stop for merchants.”

“Oh, no need,” Belladonna interjects with a knowing smile. “I still remember the way to that wonderful place. I can direct us there.”

The dwarrows blink in surprise. They had assumed Belladonna’s tales of Rivendell came from books, not from personal experience.

“Gandalf is a family friend of the Tooks, my wife’s family,” Bungo explains, and the dwarrows, well acquainted with the wizard’s whims, accept this explanation without question.

Hearing the two giggle again Dwalin sighs, “It’s going to be a very long journey…”

Because they travel well-maintained roads, the journey to Rivendell is uneventful. Thorin takes the opportunity to teach Bilbo how to properly camp in the woods. He also watches as Bilbo learns woodcarving from Bifur and dwarvish cooking from Bombur. However, Thorin grows increasingly irritated whenever his fiancé exchanges stories with Bofur, as the dwarf seems to make Bilbo laugh more often than he does.

“Jealous, nadad?” Frerin teases, earning a grunt from Thorin.

“Don’t worry, he chose you over Frerin. A dwarf with better social skills won’t be able to steal him away from you,” Dís remarks casually. “He told me that while he found Frerin a bit too childish at times, he thinks the same of Bofur.”

Frerin lets out a dramatic moan, clutching his chest. “That hurts, namad!”

“In any case, don’t you think it’s about time you actually check on your future in-laws?” Dís asks, nodding toward the two older hobbits sitting by the fire. Belladonna watches Dwalin with great interest as he sharpens his axe, while Bungo quietly patches up some clothes. “I know you’re focused on Bilbo, but ignoring his parents doesn’t seem like a good move.”

“Belladonna already likes me,” Thorin huffs.

“What about Bungo?” Dís asks, and Thorin bristles.

He and Bungo get along well enough, once Bungo's initial shock over Thorin’s royal status wore off. But ever since the journey began, Bungo has been distant. Unlike Bilbo and Belladonna, who seem to enjoy the adventure, Bungo complains frequently. Bilbo does as well, but not nearly to the same extent. Belladonna affectionately calls it "Baggins’ fussiness."

“My boys just aren’t used to being so far from a warm home. They’ll get over it,” Belladonna once assured Thorin when he asked about it one night.

“I’ll lavish my future agnât’adad with gifts once we get to Erebor,” Thorin mutters.

“That might work on a dwarf,” Dís says, raising a brow. “But… well, you managed to win over a hobbit, so you already know the real answer.”

Thorin bites the inside of his cheek. Gifts might help earn Bungo’s approval, but he also knows the older hobbit might see it as bribery, just as Bilbo did when Thorin first promised to shower him with precious objects upon reaching Erebor. He still smiles at the memory.

"Thorin, I’m not marrying you for your wealth. I’m marrying you for you… You know that, right?"

Thorin hadn’t been able to stop himself from kissing his hobbit after that.

Seeing Thorin lost in thought, a pleased smile on his face, Dís and Frerin exchange knowing looks. He’s daydreaming about Bilbo again.

“Thorin, focus,” Dís snaps her fingers in front of his face, pulling him back to reality.

“Apologies, my mind wandered,” Thorin clears his throat, trying not to look too lovesick for his hobbit. He knows he’s already failed when he catches his siblings’ knowing grins.

“So, do you have a plan to get Bungo to loosen up around you?” Frerin asks with a wide smile.

“I do, and I know the best way to do it.”

Thorin understands that one of the best ways to connect with a Baggins is through comfortable silence. He and Bilbo have spent many nights simply enjoying pipeweed together, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Of course, he isn’t going to cuddle his future father-in-law, but a companionable smoking session might work just as well. He only hopes he has enough pipeweed stocked for the journey.

When he explains his plan, Dís looks genuinely surprised.

“Trying to bond over a shared hobby? That’s a great way to socialize with someone. Who are you, and what have you done with my nadad?” she teases.

Thorin scowls and takes a playful swing at her, but she easily dodges, laughing.

“It’s a miracle. Adad was right,  love does make a dwarf smarter,” Frerin snickers, only to double over in pain when Thorin lands a solid blow to his stomach.

“Enough. I’ll invite him now,” Thorin huffs, standing and making his way over to the fire where the hobbits and Dwalin are gathered.

As he approaches, he notices how peaceful Bungo looks, quietly mending clothes by the firelight. Thorin hesitates, then abruptly turns on his heel and walks back to his siblings.

By the time he returns, they’re already snickering.

“Look, I didn’t want to disturb him,” he grumbles, glaring at them.

“Sure you didn’t, nadad 'ugmal. Sure you didn’t,” Frerin chuckles, and Thorin barely restrains himself from punching him again.

“Well, maybe next night, then?” Dís suggests.

Thorin nods, determined. Tomorrow night, he’ll invite Bungo for a smoke. Surely that will ease his way into the hobbit’s approval? Bungo has never voiced strong objections to his courtship of Bilbo, aside from that one conversation months ago, when Thorin was still hiding his true identity. The care and love Bungo has for his son were clear even then. Thorin only hopes that, in time, Bungo will see that he is worthy of Bilbo.

In the nights leading up to Rivendell, Thorin enlists Bilbo’s help in winning his father’s approval.

“Thorin, you know he doesn’t complain about you. He approves of us,” Bilbo reassures him.

“I know he doesn’t complain, but he doesn’t talk to me either. Please, Bilbo,” Thorin pleads.

Bilbo chuckles and nods. After that, it becomes easier to approach Bungo. Each night, Bilbo conveniently asks his mother for help with something, leaving Bungo alone and giving Thorin the chance to invite him for a quiet smoke. Belladonna allows them an hour or two together before eventually retrieving her husband.

At first, everything seems to go smoothly. Bungo accepts the invitations without protest, and they sit together each night, sharing pipeweed in what should be a companionable silence.

Except it isn’t companionable at all.

Thorin constantly feels like he’s being judged. Is it his clothing? His leadership skills? Did he forget to ask if they needed more rest that day? Every time they smoke together, Bungo’s expression remains the same, sour and unreadable.

Thinking the silence might be the problem, Thorin attempts small talk.

“So, how are you enjoying the journey?”

“It’s nothing like the stories, but it’s not as difficult as my in-laws made it out to be,” Bungo replies curtly.

“I see,” Thorin says, and the conversation dies as quickly as it starts.

Admittedly, he isn’t the most sociable of his siblings, but surely he can hold a conversation! He is the heir to the throne of Erebor, after all. If he struggles with this, what does that say about his future as a diplomat? Well, Bilbo will undoubtedly smooth over any issues in the future, but right now, his hobbit is off enjoying himself with his mother while Thorin flounders.

Should he ask his siblings for help? No, that would only risk Bungo approving of them more than him. The last thing he needs is for Bungo to prefer Frerin over him.

By the time they reach Rivendell, Thorin is thoroughly agitated. There has been no visible progress with Bungo, who remains in a constant state of grumbling about the journey. Sure, he never complains about Thorin directly, but that’s hardly proof of his approval.

When Rivendell finally comes into view, Thorin takes a deep breath and steels himself for the upcoming diplomatic meeting with the elves. Surely bringing them here will earn him some favor? True, Belladonna led the way, but Thorin ensured they traveled safely, keeping to the roads and maintaining a reasonable pace. That should count for something… right?

As they reach the borders of Rivendell, Thorin, as the highest-ranking member of their traveling party, prepares himself to formally request entry. However, before he can step forward, they notice elven soldiers approaching on horseback. To everyone's surprise, Belladonna suddenly jumps out of the caravan and fearlessly runs toward them.

“Bella, wait!” Bungo shouts, immediately chasing after her, fearing for her safety.

“Elladan! Elrohir! What a pleasure it is to see you two again!” Belladonna calls out joyfully.

Two of the elves, whose armor is far more ornate than the others, look down at her before their faces break into identical grins.

“Belladonna! Look at you! You’ve grown! Horizontally!” one of them teases with a laugh.

Belladonna throws her head back and cackles with delight as both elves dismount.

“And you two are just the same as ever! Oh, let me introduce you to my family!” she says excitedly as Bungo finally catches up, panting slightly. “This is my dear companion, my sweet Bungo.”

Bungo gasps and hastily tries to smooth his clothes, suddenly feeling the need to appear more presentable. “Oh, um, a pleasure to meet you. You are…?”

“I am Elladan, and this is my twin brother, Elrohir,” one of them answers with an easy smile. “It is good to finally meet the one who tamed the fierce little creature who once dared to cut our father’s hair.”

Bungo turns to Belladonna with wide eyes, utterly horrified. “B-Belladonna! What were you doing!?”

“My apologies,” he quickly tells the elves, “but my wife has always been a wild one, and I fear, and love to say, she still is.”

“No apologies necessary! It made for a great story!” Elrohir laughs. Then, his sharp eyes catch sight of the rest of their party. “Now, I see more travelers with you. Dwarrows? And another hobbit?”

“Oh, of course! Let me introduce you to my son and my future in-laws!” Belladonna exclaims, eagerly leading the elves back toward the group. Bungo holds her hand but casts wary glances at their elven hosts.

As they approach, Thorin tries to mask his shock. He knew Belladonna was familiar with Rivendell, but he hadn’t expected her to have once attempted to cut the Lord of Rivendell’s hair! By the time she reaches them, he manages to compose himself.

“Greetings, I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Prince of Erebor. I—”

He blinks as Belladonna interrupts him.

“Oh, Thorin, darling, no need for formalities between family friends,” she says with a laugh. “This is Thorin, he’s the one who’s going to marry my sweet boy, Bilbo.”

She gestures toward her son, who shyly waves.

“And these are his siblings! Dís, a lovely lady. And Frerin, he’s a bit of a Took despite being a dwarf,” she giggles. Dís awkwardly raises a hand in greeting, unsure of how to handle the elves' casual approach, while Frerin takes it in stride and waves with a grin.

“And that is Dwalin, their cousin.”

Dwalin simply grunts.

“And these are the Ur brothers! Well, one of them is a cousin, but they’re as close as brothers! The wide one is Bombur, the one with the funny hat is Bofur, and the last is Bifur. They’re all lovely fellows.”

The Ur brothers, already accustomed to hobbit informality, easily catch on and wave back, grinning at Belladonna’s warm introductions.

“Allow me to welcome you all to Rivendell! Come, let us escort you,” Elrohir says cheerfully as the elven guards begin guiding their caravan toward the heart of the valley.

Thorin smiles as he watches Bilbo’s eyes light up in wonder at the breathtaking elven architecture and lush gardens. Though Thorin firmly believes dwarvish craftsmanship is superior, he keeps that opinion to himself, unwilling to dampen Bilbo’s enjoyment of the sight.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo murmurs, his gaze sweeping across the landscape.

“Oh, just wait until you step inside one of their buildings,” Belladonna says with a knowing smile.

Thorin feels reassured that stopping here to resupply was the right decision, but his satisfaction wavers when he notices Bungo looking troubled. The older hobbit appears almost regretful, as if bringing his family here was a mistake. Thorin frowns, wondering what more he could do to earn Bungo’s approval.

The meeting with Lord Elrond is just as informal as the one with his sons, surprisingly so. Instead of a stiff diplomatic affair, the elven lord personally welcomes them and even serves them a meal. However, much to the dwarves’ horror, the dishes consist entirely of greens and leaves.

When Dwalin grumbles under his breath about “leaf-eaters,” Belladonna and Frerin suddenly burst into laughter, causing the elves, and even Dís, to join in.

It is, as it turns out, an elaborate prank.

Frerin and Dís, having visited Rivendell before for diplomatic reasons, know better than to believe the common misconception that elves survive solely on plants. Unfortunately, the rest of the dwarrows have no such experience.

Lord Elrond chuckles. “It has become something of a tradition. Every diplomat who visits is first served this ‘meal’, but the first time we didn’t share a laugh was when Belladonna arrived. She was so genuinely delighted and even asked for seconds. It surprised us to learn just how much hobbits adore their greens.”

“Well, we are Yavanna’s children,” Belladonna giggles. “Of course we delight in her work.”

With the joke revealed, the elves finally bring out the real dishes, much to the dwarves’ relief. Meanwhile, the hobbits happily devour the remaining salads that the dwarves now refuse to touch. Watching them, Thorin wonders if he has been underfeeding them during the journey. He has done his best to provide larger meals during their breaks, knowing hobbits are used to seven meals a day, but perhaps it still hasn’t been enough.

After the meal, Belladonna and the elves reminisce about old times, exchanging stories of her past adventures. Thorin has heard some of them from Bilbo before, but he is still taken aback to learn that the so-called “Old Elf” Belladonna often spoke of is, in fact, the Lord of Rivendell himself. The full context of her escapades is far grander than he had originally imagined.

Eventually, they are shown to their rooms for the night.

Bilbo kisses Thorin goodnight as they part ways to stay with their respective families, though their rooms are close to one another.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my love,” Bilbo whispers.

“I will dream of you tonight,” Thorin promises.

Bilbo giggles softly before closing the door behind him.

The next few days in Rivendell provide a much-needed reprieve from the hardships of their journey. The roads may have been safe, but they did not offer soft beds or a sturdy roof. Thorin expects Bungo to gradually lighten up with such comforts, yet every day, the older hobbit seems to grow more dejected. Even Bilbo starts to look worried.

One afternoon, while sitting together in the gardens, Bilbo sighs. “Something is wrong with Papa. I don’t know what, but…”

“It’s because of me,” Thorin says, frowning. “I should have sent a letter ahead, requesting a retinue of guards as an escort. That way, we could have traveled in comfort. I wanted us to move swiftly so we could be married sooner, but now… I think your father dislikes me be—”

Bilbo silences him with a kiss.

“Thorin, my love, my father approves of you. He likes you as well. I truly believe you are not the problem,” Bilbo reassures him.

Thorin isn’t entirely convinced but chooses not to argue.

“I do think it has to do with the journey, though,” Bilbo continues, brows furrowed. “Maybe he’s homesick, but… I don’t think that’s it. Can you talk to him? I’ve tried, but he brushes it off in true Baggins fashion. I love my father, but he bottles up his emotions, believing he has to keep them inside. A bit like you, honestly.”

“I do n—” Thorin stops, realizing the truth in Bilbo’s words. He promised his love he would always be honest. “…Yes, I do.”

Bilbo smiles, clearly pleased with his admission. “Can you talk to him? He won’t confide in me, and Mama is too distracted by her elven friends to notice. I promised him I wouldn’t tell her, which is why I’m asking you. Please, Thorin? For me?”

“Oh, amrâlimê, of course I will. He is going to be my family too, so of course I worry for him,” Thorin replies.

Bilbo hums contentedly and leans into his embrace. “Thank you.”

Thorin shakes his head. “Do not thank me for helping family, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s smile widens at that. He starts gathering flowers, and Thorin watches with fond amusement, knowing how much hobbits enjoy crafting trinkets from nature. As expected, once Bilbo has collected enough, he gestures for Thorin to lie down.

Thorin, ever a willing slave to his love’s whims, obeys without hesitation.

As Bilbo braids the delicate blooms into his hair, they relax together in comfortable silence. But in the back of Thorin’s mind, Bilbo’s request lingers. He isn’t the most social of his siblings, and perhaps seeking their help would be the wiser course, but Bilbo asked him, and so he must do it alone.

Thorin gets his chance to fulfill Bilbo’s request sooner rather than later. After some roughhousing with his siblings, who tease him mercilessly about the flowers in his hair, he finds Bungo alone in the library, engrossed in a book. Taking a deep breath, he gathers the courage he needs to speak with the older hobbit.

It’s an entirely different kind of courage from what he needs in battle. In fact, it feels much closer to the nervous anticipation he experiences when speaking to his adad or sigin’adad about matters unrelated to royal duties. How long has it been since he allowed himself to simply be Thorin, their son and grandson, rather than Thorin, their heir? He shakes off the thought and steps forward.

“Ahem. Bungo, may I speak with you for a moment?” Thorin asks, settling into the seat beside him.

Looking up, Bungo places his book down. “What is it, Thorin?”

“Bilbo told me abo-” Thorin stops when Bungo sighs heavily.

“That cheeky son of mine. I told him not to tell his mother, so he tells his fiancé instead.” Bungo shakes his head in exasperation. “Thorin, there’s no need to worry about me. I’m fine. And tell my son he’s sweet, but his old man will be alright.” He picks his book back up, as if that’s the end of the conversation.

Thorin hesitates, unsure whether to press further. He considers leaving, but the memory of Bilbo’s worried expression keeps him rooted in place. Taking another deep breath, he speaks again.

“I, too, tend to keep my struggles to myself, not wanting to burden my loved ones with something I believe I should handle alone. But… over time, it becomes exhausting. It chips away at me.” He meets Bungo’s gaze. “So please, if not me, then tell Bilbo what you’re feeling.”

Bungo lowers his book again, watching Thorin carefully.

“Is it me? Do you still not approve of me? If you wish to put me on trial, I will gladly—”

“Oh, hush, you silly dwarf,” Bungo interrupts, waving off the concern. “It’s not you.”

“But you barely speak to me, and you always seem to have a frown…” Thorin trails off, unsure how to phrase it without sounding accusatory.

Bungo sighs. “Oh, by Yavanna, Thorin, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I simply assumed you weren’t much for conversation and preferred companionable silence. That’s why I didn’t speak much.” He gives a small chuckle. “I do approve of you. I like you with my son. Bilbo is so happy with you, and that’s all that matters. I already told you that before. You’ve done everything right, and now you’re off to get married, I couldn’t be happier.”

Thorin doesn’t quite know how to respond, so Bungo continues, gesturing vaguely at his face.

“As for my frown… well, that’s just how I look. My in-laws have a name for it, but it’s a rather awful description.”

“Resting bitch face?” Thorin guesses.

Bungo pales slightly at the crude language before bursting into laughter.

“Yes, that’s the one,” he admits with a smile, then sighs. “I’m truly sorry I made you feel that way, Thorin, but I promise you, it’s simply not true. I do like you, and I will be so very happy when the day comes that I can finally call you my son-in-law.”

Thorin feels a great weight lift from his shoulders and returns Bungo’s smile. But then he remembers the real reason he’s here.

“So… what’s wrong?”

“…I wonder if I tied my loved ones down,” Bungo confesses, leaving Thorin confused.

“Pardon?” Thorin asks, and Bungo sighs before beginning to explain.

“My wife, Belladonna, as you may have heard from my son, is a wild, adventurous sort, more so than even the rest of her family, the Tooks. She was the only one brave enough to leave the Shire, following Gandalf the wizard to see what the world had to offer beyond our green hills.” He smiles, lost in fond memories. “She would always return with tales of her adventures, of sights we could never imagine, of foods we had never tasted, of battles fought when most of us can’t even swing a stick properly to defend ourselves. She was an adventurer…”

Then his smile fades into a frown.

“Until I married her.” He exhales deeply, his gaze distant. “I loved Belladonna, and I pursued her, even when my family warned me she wouldn’t be a good wife. ‘She’ll run off on adventures and leave you alone in your home,’ they said. I believed them, and I didn’t mind. All I wanted was to be the one she chose, to be her comfort after a long journey. I just wanted her to be happy.”

He lets out a small chuckle.

“But Belladonna, always full of surprises, stayed home. After our wedding, she made no plans to leave, no more talk of new adventures. She started turning down Gandalf’s invitations to go beyond the Shire. I was happy, of course, because it meant I had her all to myself. It was a gift I never expected.” His expression softens. “Then she gave me Bilbo, my sweet boy, with his chubby cheeks. He cried so loudly when he came into the world. He had brown hair, like me and Belladonna before it turned into those copper curls you see now. Tookish blood, we believe, is the reason.”

Bungo smiles, lost in nostalgia.

“Bilbo was a scoundrel as a child, always looking for trouble. He insists he’s not a burglar, but the number of pies he nabbed from windows as a faunt is astounding. And he was cheeky, too, could spin a lie as easily as breathing. Oh, and the sass! He made his teacher so mad. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday.”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic voice as he begins the story.

“Bilbo was working on his schoolwork while another faunt caused a ruckus nearby. The teacher assumed Bilbo was involved and stormed over, saying, ‘Young hobbit! Is this any way to behave?’ And my Bilbo, without missing a beat, replied, ‘No, I suppose not. Walking up and yelling at someone while they’re trying to work does seem kind of rude.’”

Thorin snorts at young Bilbo’s audacity and at how effortlessly Bungo changes his voice.

“The teacher, furious, said, ‘Young hobbit, I do not tolerate such behavior in my school!’ And Bilbo, without hesitation, shot back, ‘Well, then, that’s really your problem, not mine, isn’t it?’”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “He really said that?”

Bungo nods, grinning. “Oh, he wasn’t done. The teacher, growing more enraged, shouted, ‘I will not stand for this!’ And Bilbo, as calm as ever, gestured and said, ‘There’s a chair right over there. Look, teacher, could you have your meltdown somewhere else? I’ve got a report due tomorrow on the history of corn, and you’re kind of distracting me.’”

Thorin laughs, shaking his head.

“When I was called into the school, I didn’t expect that,” Bungo admits, chuckling. “But honestly, I wasn’t surprised either.”

Then, his smile fades.

“But as he grew older, he became more like me and less like Belladonna. I was proud, of course, he became respectable, well-mannered, a true gentle-hobbit. But now… I wonder if it’s because of my influence. Did I extinguish his sass and carefree nature? Was I ever a good father or husband?”

His voice lowers, filled with sorrow. “Look at Belladonna now, how happy she is, back on the road, reunited with friends she thought she’d never see again after marrying me. And Bilbo… sweet Bilbo, enjoying himself as he travels with you. Bag End, my home, the home I built with my own hands, was meant to be a sanctuary. But what if… what if it was a prison for them?” His voice cracks. “And I… I just feel… I feel like I wronged them.”

Thorin isn’t sure how to respond to such a raw confession. When Bungo’s eyes well with tears, he panics for a moment before pulling him into a firm embrace, letting him cry it out.

“Bungo…” he murmurs, his voice low but certain. “I truly believe your wife and son don’t see it that way. I’m no poet, no wordsmith like you or Bilbo, but I do know this: they love you. Fiercely. I see it in the way Belladonna looks at you, in the way Bilbo speaks of you when you’re not around. Not once have they ever spoken of their home as anything but a place of warmth, of safety.”

He pulls back just enough to look Bungo in the eye. “You are a good father. A good husband. But doubts have a way of poisoning even the strongest hearts. So talk to them. Let them know what you’re feeling. I promise you, you will not find resentment there.”

Bungo sniffles, steadies himself, then nods. “I will… Thank you.”

When he offers Thorin a small, fragile smile, the dwarf can’t stop himself from smiling back. He wants Bilbo’s family to be happy, because they are his family now.

Once Bungo recovers enough, he decides to speak with his wife. Thorin follows, feeling that he should support Bungo. Together, they search for Belladonna and find her with Bilbo and Bifur. Mother and son appear to be teaching Bifur how to make flower crowns.

“Your fingers are thicker than ours, Bifur, but I believe with practice, you’ll be able to weave them easily,” Bilbo says cheerfully as he adjusts Bifur’s crooked flower crown.

“Thank you again for teaching me this. We dwarrows don’t usually work with plant matter, so I was quite interested,” Bifur replies with a smile, watching Bilbo fix his flower crown.

“I suppose not many flowers grow within the mountain,” Belladonna muses before spotting her husband and future son-in-law. “Oh, honey! There you are. Come see what Bifur made for his cousins.”

“Actually, love, can we talk? You too, Bilbo. There’s something I need to tell you…” Bungo says. Both Belladonna and Bilbo immediately notice the serious tone in his voice. Bilbo quickly hands Bifur’s flower crown back, murmuring an apology as he follows his parents to a quieter spot.

“Is something wrong?” Bifur asks, watching the hobbits. They are far enough away that he can see them, but not close enough to hear their conversation.

“Bungo has been feeling down lately and needed to speak with his family. Any more than that, I cannot share. But don’t worry, I believe they’ll resolve it,” Thorin reassures him. Then, with a slight grin, he adds, “Come, let’s raid the kitchen to keep their spirits high.” He helps Bifur to his feet.

“So, flower crowns, how did you do?” Thorin asks as they walk.

Bifur proudly holds up his creations. One has been neatly fixed by Bilbo, looking nearly perfect, while the other still has a few loose strands. Thorin feels a small pang of jealousy, Bifur did better than he did on his first attempt. But then again, Bifur’s craft requires more fine detailing than his own, so perhaps it’s to be expected.

Together, they make their way toward the kitchen.

“And that is why I have been feeling blue lately. Seeing you both so happy on the road, far from Bag End, made me wonder if I had trapped you in a life you were unhappy with,” Bungo confesses, his voice thick with emotion.

Bilbo is stunned. Out of all the reasons he might have guessed for his father’s melancholy, this was not one of them. He has never, not once, seen his father doubt his relationship with his mother. They have always been the perfect couple, a love story so idyllic it could make even the most hardened heart sigh wistfully.

“Oh, honey,” Belladonna says softly, cupping Bungo’s face with warm hands. “I wish you had told me this sooner instead of letting it gnaw at you like a rabbit in a carrot patch. My love, my sweet Bungo, I stayed home after marrying you because you were worth more than all the adventures I could ever have. Call it cliché, but just like in those stories you so love to read to me, when the war is won, when the day is saved, when the princess is rescued, the story ends with everyone returning home, happy. You were my happy ending. You are that for me. Yes, it is not as thrilling as dragon-slaying, but it has made me happier than any treasure hoard ever could.”

She smiles, glancing at Bilbo before pulling Bungo close. “Besides, you gave me an adventure I never could have found out there.”

Bungo opens his mouth to protest, but Belladonna cuts him off with a knowing chuckle, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can launch into another round of self-doubt.

“I did miss the road, the sights, and my friends,” she admits. “But you, my dear Bungo, helped fill that ache. You filled our library with books about far-off places because you wanted me to see the world while still in the comfort of our own home. You kept my adventurous spirit alive. You never tied me down, you gave me wings. And you allowed our Bilbo to enjoy the world outside as well. You took the world and brought it home for us.”

She embraces him, and Bungo melts into the warmth of her arms.

“And I can still write to my friends, you know. It’s all good, my love.”

Bungo exhales a shaky breath as the weight of his worries crumbles away. They stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a long moment, sharing a soft, loving kiss before Bungo turns to their son, eyes still glistening.

“Then Bilbo,” he begins hesitantly, “did I force you to be like me? Your boring old man? Did I make you feel ashamed of your fiery side?”

Bilbo gasps, scandalized. “ Papa, no! Never! ” He clings to Bungo with sudden, fervent urgency, his voice thick with emotion. “I became a gentle-hobbit because I adored you! I wanted to be like you! And I can still be cheeky, you know how my cousins complain about me from time to time.”

Bungo sniffs, blinking rapidly as Bilbo pulls back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Papa, you never made me feel ashamed of myself. I love who I am, and I still go on adventures now and then, because of those books you brought home. Papa, please believe me when I say that you never tied me or Mama down. ”

Bilbo’s voice wavers as tears spill freely down his cheeks.

Bungo lets out a choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, and pulls both his wife and son into his arms. They cling to each other, the weight of unspoken fears dissolving in the warmth of their embrace.

Belladonna smiles through watery eyes, gently rubbing their backs. After a moment, she clears her throat and turns to Bilbo with a mischievous glint.

“Now, my dear, be a good lad and give your father and me some privacy. We have much to talk about.”

Bilbo blinks, then wrinkles his nose in playful mock horror. “Oh, Eru save me , you’re going on a date , aren’t you?”

“Yes, and we deserve it,” Belladonna declares, patting his cheek before ushering him along.

Bilbo laughs, wiping his eyes. “Very well, I shall leave you two lovebirds to your romantic reunion. But if I hear singing , I will regret ever helping with this.”

He waves as he heads off, leaving his parents behind, together, as they were always meant to be.

As Bilbo walks away, heading for the kitchen, his mind lingers on what he just witnessed. Even his parents, the most perfect couple he has ever known, have their own struggles. He always thought their love was untouchable, a picture-perfect romance straight out of the storybooks. But today, reality has given him a sharp slap. It shatters something he once believed to be an undeniable truth.

And yet… what followed was equally, if not more , beautiful.

Despite his father’s insecurity, they talked it out. They made it work .

As a poet, Bilbo can’t help but compare it to a statue, one pristine, flawless, untouched by time, and another weathered and worn. The first is beautiful in its perfection, an ideal to aspire to. But the second, with its cracks and scars, tells a story , a tale of endurance, of struggle, of love that has been tested and yet still stands. One is an ideal. The other is reality.

He has always imagined his own love story with Thorin to be something grand and fairy-tale-like. How could he not ? He is marrying a prince , after all. But after today, he finds himself longing for something different. Something flawed, yes, but strong, strong enough to endure, no matter the trials ahead.

He steps into the kitchen and is immediately greeted by his friends, his future in-laws, and, of course, his love. A large spread of freshly cooked food is laid out on the table, the air thick with the warmth of hospitality.

“Bilbo, how did it go?” Thorin asks, his voice filled with concern. “I promise I didn’t tell them, but I know these kinds of talks can be draining, and I wanted to comfort you, but you know I’m not good with words, so I invited the others and—”

Bilbo silences him with a soft kiss.

“Mama was right,” he murmurs with a small giggle. “Love someone deep enough, and they start mirroring you. You are blabbering, my sweet.”

Thorin opens his mouth in surprise, only to laugh along with him, shaking his head in amusement.

“Thank you, Thorin,” Bilbo continues, warmth in his eyes. “For talking to my papa. For this .”

“Again, no thanks are necessary…” Thorin pauses, glancing around. “Where are they, though?”

“Out on a date,” Bilbo answers, settling into his seat. “Mama said they needed a proper one after all that. I did not ask for details, and by the Valar above, don’t make me ask my parents about it.”

The table erupts in laughter, and Thorin chuckles as he leads Bilbo to his seat, setting a cup of tea before him.

As they enjoy their meal, the room filled with chatter and mirth, Thorin watches Bilbo, taking in the peaceful expression on his face.

He smiles. “Was it a good talk?”

Bilbo exhales softly. “Yes, it was.” He stirs his tea thoughtfully before adding, “It made me realize my parents’ love story wasn’t the perfect fairy tale I always thought it was.”

Thorin raises a brow, confused at first, but Bilbo smiles as he explains.

“It’s better than that. It’s real. Flawed and real, and it has endured so many trials…” He looks up at Thorin, a question in his gaze. “Ours will be like that too, right?”

Thorin doesn’t hesitate. “Of course it will.”

“Considering it started with a fake identity and trying to leave him behind, I’d say you two have already cleared a big hurdle,” Bofur quips, grinning.

Frerin snorts with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

Thorin glares at them both, while Bilbo chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

Yes, this is the love story he wants. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Another week passes, and Elrond himself arranges for his sons to escort them through secret Elvish roads, allowing them to swiftly cross the Misty Mountains and pass through Greenwood. Thorin is less than pleased by this arrangement, but if it means reaching Erebor faster, and marrying Bilbo sooner, then he grudgingly accepts it.

With Elladan and Elrohir joining their traveling party, they make far better time than expected. As they move through the mountain paths, Belladonna mutters something about a shapeshifter lurking nearby but assures them that he dislikes dwarrows and would likely avoid them.

“He won’t kill a dwarf,” she explains, “but he really dislikes them. Something about old grievances I wasn’t privy to.”

The dwarves understand well enough, some grudges simply run deep. Except for Frerin. Frerin is personally offended.

“I can make anyone like me! Show me the way, I’ll get this shapeshifter to laugh!” he declares confidently.

“We don’t have any alcohol for you to get him drunk,” Thorin retorts, deadpan.

Laughter erupts around the group, but Frerin and Dís gasp in shock.

“My nadad ? Joking? Someone pinch me, I must be dreaming,” Dís teases before swiftly ducking to avoid Thorin’s half-hearted punch.

Thanks to Elladan and Elrohir’s guidance, they cut weeks off their journey and soon arrive at the entrance to Greenwood. There, they are greeted by two elves, one blonde, one red-haired, both equally stunning, though their beauty is utterly lost on the dwarrows. Thorin steps back, allowing their elven companions to handle the introductions.

“Well met, Prince Legolas,” Elladan greets warmly. “I am Elladan, and this is my brother Elrohir. We are escorting a dear family friend to a wedding in Erebor.”

Legolas glances past them, eyes settling on the Durins and the hobbits. The realization dawns quickly.

“Ah, for the alliance?” he muses. “Yes, please, come in. Our guard captain and her troops will escort you through the forest.”

From the trees, more elves emerge, their silent approach startling everyone except the Durins, who are well acquainted with their stealth.

“But,” Legolas continues, “it is only proper that my father, the King, meets the Durin royalty and the future members of said royalty. Please, rest at the castle.”

Thorin groans, but Dís swiftly claps a hand over his mouth. Frerin, ever the diplomat, steps forward with a bright grin.

“Prince Legolas, we would be delighted to be welcomed into your halls once more!” he says cheerfully.

Bilbo catches the way Legolas’s lips quirk up ever so slightly and quickly realizes, they’re messing with his fiancé.

Thorin has never had the highest regard for elves, but that dislike stems primarily from his dealings with Thranduil. He always makes the Elvenking sound impossibly conceited and insufferably arrogant. But looking at Legolas now, with his easy smirk and amusement at the Durins, Bilbo begins to wonder.

Surely a king like that can’t be real , not when his own son clearly enjoys practical jokes.

Then again, some of Bilbo’s most mischievous cousins come from the strictest of parents.

As Bilbo reflects on it, he finally realizes they have arrived at the kingdom of Greenwood. Unlike Rivendell, where the architecture is designed to complement nature’s beauty, Greenwood’s structures are nature itself. His mouth falls open in wonder as he gazes at buildings formed from living trees, marveling at how they grow without harming the plants. A quick glance at his parents tells him they are just as impressed.

The captain of the Greenwood guards escorts them to the great hall. The Durins seem to know her well, as Frerin calls her by name, Tauriel, it seems. Dís, in particular, looks pleased to see her, which piques Bilbo’s curiosity.

“Oh, you see,” Dís explains, “when my son Kíli lamented that his favored weapon was considered improper for a dwarf, she was the one who encouraged him. Told him it made him unique, because no other dwarf was like him.”

“Oh, she must be lovely then! Remind me to befriend her when I get the chance,” Bilbo says cheerfully, earning an approving smile from Dís.

As they step into the halls, Bilbo’s gaze lands on a crowned elf whose headdress resembles intertwining branches of a living tree. His resemblance to Legolas is undeniable. This must be King Thranduil.

The Durins bow immediately, prompting Bilbo and the others to hurriedly follow suit.

“Welcome, Sires of Durin, to my humble kingdom,” Thranduil says smoothly. “I was not expecting guests, so do forgive me for the lack of fanfare.”

His tone is perfectly polite, but Bilbo instantly recognizes it for what it is, thinly veiled displeasure. It’s the same tone he and his father use when dealing with unwelcome relatives, particularly the Sackville-Bagginses.

“A grand welcome is not necessary,” Thorin replies, his voice carefully measured. “We only wish to pass through. My mamahyasathûn and I are eager to be wed.”

Bilbo notices Dís and Frerin exchange raised eyebrows. Normally, Thorin would have lost his temper by now.

“Ah, yes. For the alliance,” Thranduil muses before scanning their group. His gaze finally settles on Bilbo. “And who is this fiancé of yours?” His eyes narrow slightly. “Ah. That one. I heard you took Prince Frerin’s intended as your own. Tell me, halfling—”

“Hobbit,” Bilbo corrects automatically.

Bungo gasps at his audacity, but Belladonna merely chuckles, whispering, “I did tell you he’s still cheeky.”

“…Pardon?” Thranduil’s voice is cool, but the slight shift in his expression betrays his disbelief that someone dared to interrupt him.

“‘Halfling’ is considered a slur among my people,” Bilbo explains, voice steady. “We are not half of anything. The proper term is ‘hobbits.’”

Thranduil’s sneer is almost imperceptible, but Bilbo catches it.

“Hmm… I see now why Prince Thorin took you from his brother,” the Elvenking says with deliberate disdain. “You lack manners, just as he does.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am but a simple hobbit from the Shire,” Bilbo says, tone perfectly apologetic. “I know little of high courtly manners.”

That seems to soothe Thranduil’s ego, until Bilbo adds, “But surely keeping weary guests kneeling for so long is also improper. Or is that some custom we must adhere to?”

Legolas visibly struggles to contain a laugh. Thranduil, on the other hand, lifts a brow before hastily calling for his servants to prepare a meal. With a final glance at Bilbo, he turns on his heel and strides away, muttering something in Sindarin, likely about foolish littlefolk.

As soon as they are seated at the dining table, Dís lets out a laugh.

“That was… the shortest meeting with Thranduil I have ever been in.”

“He loves making us kneel while he drones on about pleasantries,” Frerin explains through a mouthful of food. “It feeds his ego.”

“None of us could ever call him out on it,” Dís adds. “At least, not without it being seen as rude. But I have never seen someone do it so politely. ”

Bilbo shifts under his father’s disapproving stare but finds reassurance in his mother’s wide grin. He lets out an awkward chuckle, realizing just how bold he had been.

But when he turns to Thorin and sees the way he’s looking at him, eyes filled with utter adoration, Bilbo knows he did the right thing.

“Well… we are in a hurry to be wed, aren’t we?” he says, smiling.

“Yes, we are,” Thorin replies, returning his smile before pressing a kiss to his lips.

Just a few more days, and they will finally be married.