Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2903

Hobbits hold a love for peace, quiet, and all things that grow. It’s in their nature, through and through.

How can they not, living in a place as lush as the Shire? They may not have always lived in those rolling hills, but they’ve lived there long enough to become synonymous with it. The hobbits pride themselves on their fields of well-taken-care-of wheat and corn and pipeweed— of their personal gardens full of fat tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots, and no other free people’s flower beds can outclass those of the average hobbit lad or lass (so says any hobbit, anyway). Magic or no, they’re thumbs are so green it's as though they’ve casted a spell on anything that sprouts from the ground. Most hobbits would gleefully whittle away their days enjoying all the natural world could offer them.

In the summer, especially, one should not be surprised to spot any and all kinds of hobbits outside: pruning a garden, nattering with the neighbors, or strolling by oneself on a walking holiday. The summer sun cajoled even the most irascible to enjoy the well-cultivated atmosphere. To delight in the twitter of birds as one curled their toes into clean dirt, inhaling the scent of the flowers growing for the upcoming Lithe celebrations, was one of life’s simplest joys.

Of course, it was difficult to appreciate anything when the peace and quiet were disturbed.

In Tuckborough, there’s always excitement about, no doubt. Peace and quiet holds a different definition in those parts. It’s in the veins of every Took to be prone to an occasional bout of mischief; Even the most respectable Tooks have broken their arm falling from a tree as a tween or have ruined a perfectly fine dress mucking about in the mud after a rainy day. Gerantius Took, the thirty-sixth Thain, patriarch of the Took Clan, and the oldest hobbit to-date (titled “Old Took” lovingly by all) indulged many of his children’s and grandchildren’s tendencies to seek out adventures. However, there are some moments where even a Took would click their tongue and shake their head disapprovingly.

One such moment began with the squabble of faunts. So prone to rascality, it really shouldn’t come to any surprise of a grown hobbit.

However, a wail to rival the cry of a drowning goblin echoed outside The Great Smials— practically impossible to ignore to any with a soft heart for the little ones, as many hobbits tend to be. Rounding into the clearing came all the Tooks and Took cousins to find the squalling, only for it to truly come to no hobbit’s surprise who they found at the center of the dispute:

Bilbo Baggins.

Son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Baggins née Took. A match none saw coming with their personalities so entirely repellant of each other. It was quite the scandal back in the day! Many considered Bungo the epitome of hobbit decorum since entering polite society as a fauntling, while many more regarded Belladonna as the worst of her Tookish siblings. Of the twelve of them, they considered her the most remarkable, indeed. She was a hot topic of town gossip for years during her tween years. They claimed she travelled to Rivendell to drink tea with elves and invited dwarves twice her size to spar in the Blue Mountains, always with a whisper of a wizard by her side. Say what they wanted about her wild ways, Bungo cared not! Of the witnesses who saw the spectacle unfold that fateful day, Rudigar Bolger swore Bungo dropped to his knees as he proposed courtship to Belladonna, begging for the opportunity, all while she was covered head to toe in rain frogs and mud. What she planned to do with those frogs originally, Rudigar couldn’t say, but both Baggins and Took found themselves covered in the squeaky things when she tackled the poor lad right into a puddle. An odd couple, indeed.

So, not one hobbit could hold in their righteous sneers when Bilbo came along as strange as his parents’ union. Half Baggins, Half Took, they said; the queerest thing.

Whatever side compelled him to sock his cousin square in the nose, though… well. Neither family wanted to claim him on that occasion.

Every year, the three Bagginses travelled to stay during the summer months in Tuckborough so Bilbo could spend time with his Took side of the family. Despite Bungo’s protests, Belladonna said it would do their son good to not surround himself with “stuffy Bagginses” all year-round. And, with Belladonna off on a shopping trip with her sisters, that is when the tumult broke out.

Caught in a circle of buzzing ladies and gentlehobbits, Bungo towered over his son with his hands propped on his hips as Bilbo refused to meet his disappointed stare. Just behind the faunt,  the sound of his cousin Sigismond Took snuffling and Sigimond’s mother cooing echoed loudly in the open space. Bilbo felt the glare of a mother scorned burn through his back as everyone waited for what the righteous Mister Baggins would say. Everyone loved a spectacle, and Bungo hated to give them one.

“Bilbo Baggins,” said Bungo, no louder than his usual quiet speaking voice, but Bilbo knew that tone. It was the tone he used when Bilbo needed a scolding, and it meant he better set himself straight before his father decided to do so himself. The little faunt always listened after a good lecture— he knew what it meant to be a Baggins, and he’d always do right by his father! If Bungo told him picking flowers from Mister Greenhand’s garden was bad even though the flowers were a gift for his mother, or that it was very rude and impolite to tell Aunt Camilla her new hat was quite awful even though it was the truth, then he would march over and apologize for his terrible deed!

Just the same, Bilbo would not apologize for this. Sigismond was an absolute ninnyhammer! Belladonna would have rapped his knuckles and pulled his ear if she heard Bilbo say such a thing, but that didn’t change the fact it was true. It was unfair he was the one in trouble while everyone mooned over the actual instigator. His Took cousins always played sneaky pranks, and it remained the reason he hated playing with them more than any Boffin, Proudfoot, or Baggins. Just thinking about it set Bilbo’s anger boiling once more.

Luckily, he stopped himself from stomping his foot like a petulant fauntling, but he knew Bungo recognized the stiffness in his shoulders. He’d dealt with it plenty, raising a child with the pride of a Baggins and the impulsivity of a Took. The middle-aged hobbit stared down his nose at Bilbo, heating up the top of his head— worse than Sigismond’s mother— until his son had no choice but to meet his father’s gaze. What Bilbo found there left him paler than the hogs on Maggot’s farm.

“Da…” whined Bilbo quietly, pleading. It did not sell his case with Bungo, whose face hardened further. Bilbo hated when the lines on his father’s face dug into his genial features; it made him look scary, and Bilbo didn’t like being afraid of his father.

“Apologize.”

That was probably worse than Bungo bending him over his knee and spanking him in front of the whole congregation. Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in appalled betrayal.

“Da, no! He started it, and he’s just a big faker because I didn’t even hit him that hard—”

“You should not have hit him in the first place!” Bungo snapped. Bilbo hiked his shoulders around his ears. They burned, and the faunt knew it wasn’t from the sun.

“But Da…” He tried again, but Bungo passed it without acknowledgement.

“Baggins do not start fights—”

“But Sigimond is the one who started it when—!”

“ Baggins do not start fights, Bilbo Baggins , and you will be apologizing if you possess even a shred of the sense that I’ve tried to teach you!”

Bilbo had shrunk to half his size under the eyes of the audience that watched on, but he especially felt small beneath the raising of his father’s kind voice. It had only happened once before when he’d fallen into The Water after continuous warnings from his mother. That scolding came from a place of fear, and Bilbo realized this may not be so different. If Bungo was afraid, of what Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure, then Bilbo would do his utmost to assuage that concern.

Reluctantly, Bilbo turned on his heels to face the two other hobbits settled in the circle of onlookers. A warm, supporting hand pressed itself to his back, coaxing, as Bilbo approached Sigismond and his mother. Bilbo did his best not to meet Calla Took’s eyes, even if they continued their goal of burning nasty holes through him. He stared at Sigismond, instead. The brat clung to his mother’s skirt like a sopping kit, red in the face and eyes wetter than the Brandywine River. He looked pathetic, though Bilbo supposed that was the goal.

Just looking at his stupid, faker pout made Bilbo want to thump his forehead, so he balled his hands into fists and hid them behind his back. Finally, Bilbo reached a distance Bungo deemed sufficient for his formal apology, and they stopped and stood. When Bilbo didn’t immediately speak, a parental tap to his shoulder reminded him they couldn’t stand there all day.

Grudgingly, Bilbo spoke under his breath, “I am sorry, Sigismond.”

It really wasn’t an apology up-to-snuff with the Baggins name, and he knew that by Bungo’s tired sigh, but his father didn’t push him any further. Perhaps he remembered who, exactly, Bilbo’s mother was and realized it might be the best he could wring out of him.

Sigimond, with the biggest, phoniest sniffle, pulled demurely at his mother’s apron, “I accept your apology, Bilbo.”

Then, Bilbo saw it.

It was barely noticeable, and it was done so purposefully for Bilbo’s viewing pleasure only: Sigismond’s frown turned up into a wicked smile. Hidden behind his sandy fringe of curls and the wrinkle of his mother’s dress, Bilbo’s cousin’s eyes crinkled with glee as his smile formed silent words, words that left Bilbo seeing red. They were the same words that started the whole fiasco in the first place.

He had no idea how it happened, but Bilbo found himself on top of Sigismond. The nasty Took had a reason to cry, now, with Bilbo’s fingers twisted into his hair! There were hands grabbing at him, voices demanding him to stop, but it was hard to tell who was who over the roaring in his ears— honestly, the roaring could have been him screaming; Bilbo wasn’t too certain at that moment.

As the grown hobbits removed Bilbo from his perch on the bawling Sigismond, more frantic calls interrupted the “peace and quiet” of Tuckborough. This time, the calls were not over the frivolous disagreements of children.

Bilbo noticed the shift in the crowd even though temper still pulsed through his ears. A bounder came running to Bungo, eyes wide and hands flying about as he spoke like time itself was on the line. Perhaps it was the way Bungo’s blue eyes flooded with dread. It was a frightening thing to watch, Bilbo thought, wishing he heard what was said. No time was left to reexplain to a faunt, however, as Bungo deposited Bilbo into the care of Calla and took off in the direction the bounder pointed. It was the last place Bilbo wanted to be, but it didn’t seem to matter to any grown-up as everyone dispersed.

Calla’s nails dug into his arm as she yanked him inside the Great Smial alongside Sigismond.

Bilbo was passed about by his family for a good few hours, not one wanting the task of watching the Bilbo Baggins alone for very long. They all claimed they had other things to take care of, but Bilbo knew they weren’t all telling the truth. He knew they didn’t hate him, at least, but it stung when he saw those looks cross their faces— the looks that said,  Oh, please! Anything but him! 

He was not that terrible, he thought. He always tried his best to be mannerly and polite, to say his “pleases” and “thank yous” and “at your services”. Grandma Adamanta happily pinched his cheek each time he was around, telling him how much of a good lad he was. Aunt Mira and Donna loved teaching him how to bake seedcakes and sew up the holes in his trousers, and Old Took was quick to take him on as his dart-throwing protege. Even some of his cousins weren’t the worst! Out of all the Tooks, Adalgrim treated him very kindly when the Bagginses came around during their visits.

Still, it was all very lonely when the few who cared weren’t around.

From the window, Bilbo noted the sun began setting beneath the hills when a ladyhobbit bustled into the common room. Belladonna Baggins looked almost frantic, a near rare look indeed, until her hazel eyes landed on her son. She scooped him into her arms tight and peppered him in kisses. Bilbo immediately melted into her. Somewhere behind them, a harrumph demanded Belladonna’s attention as if her acknowledging her own child first was the improper choice of order. Bilbo heard his mother sigh through her nose where he’d laid his head against her shoulder.

“Aunt Iris, thank you for watching Bilbo,” she said, perhaps a bit too overly put on, “I thought Tilly was supposed to be with him?”

Another harrumph, “well, she was! Then, the duties were passed to me, and that’s all I’d like to say about that! Now, if you’d excuse me, I was in the middle of something when I was unceremoniously tasked with your faunt. Good evening.”

Bilbo certainly wouldn’t miss her, and clearly neither would Belladonna if the sound of her mumbling under her breath was any indication. Quietly, Belladonna carried Bilbo back to their guest room. Bilbo simply clung to his mother, breathing in the calming smell of her clothes and hair. A few fly-away strands of copper and gold tickled his nose, but he ignored it to savor the comfort. He certainly needed it after today. As if sensing his weariness, a cool hand caressed the back of his neck and combed through his curls.

Finally, they reached the room and Belladonna quickly tucked her tired little babe into bed. Bilbo was a very good fauntling, but he always wanted to stay up later. This time, his eyes were quick to droop. His mother smiled at the sight.

“Sleep, darling. You’ve had a busy day,” she whispered, fingers weaving dreams into his scalp that were difficult to fight.

“Dreadful,” Bilbo slurred. It made her laugh, the sound twinkling like stars.

“Absolutely dreadful, indeed.”

Like a cracking-whip, Bilbo’s eyes shot open as he sat up straight. He just about fell from the bed if Belladonna’s hand hadn’t held him in place.

“Mama!”

Belladonna looked at her son wide-eyed, almost anxious, “what? What is it, Bilbo?”

“Where’s Da? I know he had to go take care of some things, but nobody would tell me what it was all about— he looked… well, I didn’t like how he looked, Mama,” Bilbo babbled.

Belladonna smiled, “don’t worry about that, Love. You know your father! He’s quite important, even outside of Hobbiton. He’ll be back soon with a tale or two, I’m certain. Now, it’s late.”

Bilbo settled back into the sheets at the behest of Belladonna. He ignored the way her smile had yet to reach her eyes.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, resuming her spell of lulling Bilbo to sleep. It always worked, much to Bilbo’s chagrin.

His mind fettered into a fuzzy half sleep despite his heart racing with the anxieties built in his chest. He didn’t dream, but he was fitful in his sleep— fitful enough that the sound of their room’s door opening and closing quietly with a snick woke him fully. The only light left was a sad little candle in the corner, but through the peeking of his eyes, Bilbo saw dark shapes standing close to the door. It was Belladonna, and with enough focus, Bilbo realized it was Bungo, too.

Bilbo almost leapt from the bed to greet his father when the sounds of his mother’s whispers stopped him. Perhaps pretending to still be asleep would be a better plan. He listened in.

“... wake him.”

“I won’t, Bella. I didn’t mean to be loud.”

“You weren’t, Love, you weren’t. I heard from Mother what happened, and once I came to get him, he was out like a light. I think he’d sleep through a stampede of oliphants.”

Bilbo tried not to give himself away with a waggish giggle. When his parents turned their attention towards him, he quickly scrunched his eyes and puckered his lips into the best relaxed sleeping face he could make. It must have worked if they didn’t call his bluff.

Unable to watch anymore, Bilbo relied on his ears. Shuffling moved about the room, and then a great sigh. It was the sound of the whole world pressing the life from his father’s body.

“So… what happened?” Belladonna murmured. Bilbo was certain she reached out to hold Bungo’s hand as she always did when Bungo seemed impossibly tired.

“Bella…” Bungo sighed again.

“All I’ve heard is hear-say, and you know how rumors twist two ways south and three ways east. If what I’ve heard is true, then…”

Bilbo listened hard as his parents' voices dipped in volume. Bungo spoke quieter than leaves in the wind, “Bingo had— Bingo had been collecting mushrooms out in Buckland. He was right on the edge, deep in the woods when an o… when an orc attacked him.”

Belladonna gasped, and none-too-quietly, “An attack ! By an orc, and so close, too? Bungo—!”

There was rustling like Belladonna had jumped to her feet and Bungo followed her.

“Bella,” Bungo hushed, “please, you’ll wake Bilbo.”

The admonishment barely did its job as Belladonna continued, albeit a little softer, “how do they know?”

“A ranger found them. Apparently killed the thing before it killed Bingo, but not before it did substantial damage. The ranger was kind enough to carry Bingo to Newbury, and that’s when bounders were sent to find closest of kin. He’s… he’s too far along to be treated or moved about. They’ve given him 24 hours, if he’s lucky.”

There’s a choking sound like Belladonna swallowed her tears down, “it takes two days on foot alone to get there from Tuckborough! Oh, Bungo…”

Silent crying pressed to a shoulder told Bilbo his parents held each other once more. Belladonna was warbling soft apologies, offering condolences to her husband for his loss, all while Bungo remained silent. Bilbo knew he was grieving heavily. He wished terribly to give up his charade and join his parents, to offer his father the comfort he needed.

Through sniffles, Belladonna made a realization, “Chica just gave birth, too.”

“I know, Darling. I know.”

“How can she care for her fauntling by herself?”

Bilbo did not know when the night ended. He stayed up as late as he could, listening to his parents whisper to each other, and when he awoke in the morning, he was swaddled tightly in the arms of both Bungo and Belladonna.

Like Bungo said, Bingo barely survived past 15 hours. Only once the news of Bingo’s death made the rounds of the Shire did Bungo tell Bilbo, and Bilbo forced himself to pretend like he didn’t already know the truth. Shortly after, the Bagginses left the Great Smials far too early that year. Bilbo remembered the funeral for his Uncle Bingo, barely catching a glimpse of Chica and the bundle in her arms, his little cousin Falco. He also remembered his mother was gone often from Bag End, returning with the smell of powder and something very distinctly of newborn fauntling.

The rest of that year was quite boring for the adventurous Bilbo, too, as his parents banned him from wandering too far from Bag End without an adult chaperone. His curfew shortened, and he was required to return home before the sun touched the top of the horizon until his twentieth birthday.

2911

The soft chatter of the parlor echoed lightly around the halls of Bag End, but the distance and thick walls stopped the noise from reaching the furthest of the bedrooms— Bilbo’s room. Bilbo was glad for it as it meant that if he could not hear them, then they could not hear him. His crying was contained to no one but himself. He understood that a good host should be mingling with their guests, offering refreshments and conversation; it’s the duty of a proper hobbit, especially a Baggins of his stature. Be that as it may, he could not force himself past his bedroom door. To enter the parlor and acknowledge those inside would acknowledge why they were there, why he was forced to host them, and his chest cracked under the force of that simple thought alone. He never planned to host Belladonna’s funeral at the tender age of 21, and each time he realized he’d never see her brilliant smile again hurt like a knife pushed through the heart.

A new wave of sobs wracked through Bilbo.

Tears tracked his face and stained the sleeves he continuously used to wipe them, and a distant thought chastised him for ruining one of his best shirts. Any hobbit worth their salt had at least two handkerchiefs on them at all times, and yet here Bilbo was, wiping away trails of snot and spit as if he didn’t have a drawer of handkerchiefs not even ten steps away. It was funny— funny enough to warp his sobs into a hybrid of weeping and hysteric giggles. By Yavannah, he sounded a mess.

Then, distantly, he heard shuffling outside his door. Maybe he wasn’t as secluded as he thought. Hoping everyone would forget about him was wishful thinking, it seemed. He quickly attempted to right everything wrong about him, for presentability, even though he granted the fact there wasn’t much he could hide so easily. A blotchy face, disheveled clothes, and hiccupping breath would have to do.

Two voices, indistinct in their low volumes, spoke to each other. Like an avalanche, the volumes rose enough Bilbo could pick up words… just barely, as his head throbbed something terrible from his endless lamentation.

“Donna, please, he’s been through…” pleaded a voice similar to Bungo’s. As if caught in the snow outside, it took long minutes for Bilbo to come to the realization the voice was, verily, Bungo himself. It shocked him how different yet familiar it was. Bilbo hadn’t heard it in close to three days now, since Belladonna took her last breath, and hearing it now rendered Bilbo’s heart to stop. It reminded him he still had a father, one parent left, and he scrambled to control his breathing as it steered into quick gasps for air. He missed his mother, and in turn, it made him miss his father.

“… he needs you to…”

Without thinking, Bilbo pulled open his door, one hand gripping the doorknob like a lifeline while the other twisted into his already wrinkled waistcoat. In front of him, the two other hobbits stopped and stared at him like they were caught stealing from the pantry; it was like they thought he wasn’t listening while they were quietly arguing in front of his bedroom. In their defense, Bilbo also thought the walls were more soundproof, too.

Bilbo knew he should acknowledge his aunt Donnamira, who gazed at him with such maternal care, but he couldn’t help searching for his father. The head of the Baggins family had changed in such a short amount of time; Bilbo assumed he wasn’t too different, himself. Purple bags circled his kindly eyes and his skin appeared paper-thin, like it would tear under the gentlest of touches— despondency graced every movement he made like nothing he did ever mattered anymore. He looked like death, but he was still Bungo, Bilbo’s father.

And, maybe Bungo realized that, too, because his fragile expression fell into regret, a father who knew he failed. Before Bilbo could reach for him, Bungo turned around and mumbled something about needing his pipe. He disappeared like a phantom down the hall.

Bilbo watched him go, because how does a grieving husband comfort his grieving son without unloading his own pain? Bilbo understood, but the knife in his chest dug that much deeper.

“Lil’ Bo,” a sweet voice called to him.

Like a rusted wheel, Bilbo turned to regard his aunt.

Her hazel eyes, a Took standard through and through, shone with unshed tears, whether angry at Bungo or upset for Bilbo, he wasn’t certain. Her honey hair was wrapped into a bun, impolite strays flirting with her brow, refusing to be tamed. Growing up, Bilbo always thought she smiled just like his mother, but in this moment he realized she frowned just like her, too. A twist of the knife.

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, his throat torn from his crying, “thank you for coming, Aunt Donna.”

It was the proper saying for such an occasion. He doesn’t know why he sounded so formal. Maybe it was his way to stop himself from thinking about his mother and aunts giggling amongst themselves, like little tweens that never needed to grow up around each other. He wasn’t sure when his eyes dropped to the floorboards, but two cool hands held his cheeks and guided his face back up towards hers.

“Oh,” she hiccupped, “hush. I need no thanks to be here. There is no other place I think I would want to be. Of course, Mira wanted to be here as well, but…”

Yes, Bilbo knew. Last he saw his aunt Mirabella, she was heavily pregnant. His mother received a letter that the baby was delivered healthily, but with the food shortage and the unavoidable chill, Dodinas came down with something dangerous for one so new. The Brandybuck home was doing everything it could to nurse him back to health. Bilbo couldn’t blame her for not risking the trek to Hobbiton, especially with the rise in disappearances on the road, accompanied by the howl of wolves.

The silence drew around them, and neither thought it necessary to break it again. Instead, like she needed it to confirm he was physically present, Aunt Donna shepherded Bilbo into her arms where she held him with all the fierceness of a loving mother. Bilbo didn’t cry again— he didn’t!— but he returned her intensity like a son who could never hug his mother again. If there was a damp patch on her left shoulder, Donnamira felt no need to call attention to it.

With her arm intertwined with his, Bilbo escorted Donnamira back to the rest of the party. If he was being honest, she led him more than he did her. As they entered, Bilbo took note of all who attended. There weren’t many, but Bilbo knew not many could afford the time and energy during this terrible winter. He appreciated those who attempted.

Of course, there was Aunt Donna’s family: her husband, Hugo Boffin, and their two children, Jago and Jessamine. It seemed Hugo was waiting for Donna to return, and once she had, he immediately moved towards her proximity. He loved her dearly, a very sweet hobbit whose hearty laugh could warm a room. Bilbo obligingly passed his aunt to her husband, extending a pat to her hand as reassurance he will do just fine now. She gazed at him for a long while before she allowed Hugo to move her towards a settee. As strong as she tried to make herself appear, Bilbo saw how drained she truly was.

On the same couch was Jessamine, his cousin, chatting away with Herugar Bolger, his other cousin.

Bilbo blinked. He was somewhat surprised to see some Baggins-side relatives! Well, Aunt Belba was always much softer on his mother, and she was less likely to admonish his more Tookish qualities. Despite being a Baggins, her heart was altruistic to an extent; family, too, was very important to her. It was good his father had support here, he supposed.

He scanned the rest of his guests, gauging who he should attempt to speak with, if any at all. Aunt Donna was one thing, Sigismond and his family was another. Calla stuck by herself and her son, a hand on Sigismond’s shoulder at all times, while Bilbo’s uncle Hildibrand Took stood in the corner. A plum colored handkerchief remained pressed to his mouth the entire time, a controlled cough shaking his shoulder randomly. Bilbo made brief eye contact with his cousin, and where he usually saw snide mockery, he found exhaustion and uncertainty. Bilbo decided to leave them in peace, offering a polite bow of the head in gratitude for being there. They returned his motion minutely.

There were more Tooks about, but Bilbo skipped over them when he watched Old Took hobble into the room from behind him. Despite his advancing age, he moved better than some 40 years his junior. He didn’t look very happy. Of course, he was attending his eldest daughter’s funeral— a funeral that did not live up to what Belladonna deserved, too. Bungo did not want to empty their pantry during their worst harvest and winter since who-knew-when for a party; two more dead Bagginses was not necessary.

Bilbo held the notion that that was not what upset his grandfather, though. Gerontius shuffled to Bilbo as soon as he noticed him, wrinkles folding into the expression of his beloved grandfather. A shaky hand cradled his head as Old Took pressed a fond kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, patting his shoulder before angling to check on his son in the corner. The smell of Old Toby floated around Bilbo as his grandfather left him, smokey and light in his wake. It reminded him of his faunt days when Old Took and Adamanta would blow smoke rings for him, his grandmother’s rings always out-classing Gertonius’s. Like a sting, her presence was sorely missed from the funeral.

Oh.

It was then Bilbo realized that, despite so many faces missing, they were one important Baggins short. His father remained unseen in the parlour. Was he still in the smoking room? Belladonna was the smoker of the family; she loved an extended break simply to chew on her mouthpiece. Bungo loved a good drag of the pipe, but he always had other things to do that did not include wasting away the day to smoke and dream— his father’s words.

With a quick glance behind him to his crowd of visitors, Bilbo figured they could handle themselves without a host for a little while longer as he went to fetch Bungo.

From the hallway, a fog of smoke filtered from the smoke room. A strange mix of flavors swirled around Bilbo as he waded through the haze. Longbottom, his father’s favorite, overpowered the lighter whiffs of Old Toby. Settled by himself, turned away from everything in the world, Bungo appeared incredibly small. His shoulders hunched around him like he was clinging to himself, and his head hung like a doll’s. Bilbo drew closer, incrementally, as if he were afraid to spook a nervous pony.

However quiet he was, Bungo heard him and turned around. A crease between his brows told Bilbo his father was contemplating something heavy, something more than just the sudden loss of his wife. His father aged considerably with such a devastated grimace. The crease carved deeper into his fragile face as Bungo reached out for Bilbo, and Bilbo went willingly. Expecting an embrace, Bilbo was a little taken aback when Bungo’s fingers brushed through his hair.

He combed gently through his curls, softer than the ruffles he’d give him when Bilbo instilled pride in him, and allowed one unruly spiral to wrap around a finger before dragging his thumb across the apple of Bilbo’s cheek. The thumb trekked from his cheek to his nose to his eyebrow and then the edge of his eye.

A wobble threatened Bungo’s lips as he studied his son, taking in all of his features. Bilbo, as he studied his father in turn, recognized the pain of a knife hollowing out a heart in his father’s eyes. His grandma Laura always lamented the lack of Baggins genes in Bilbo, saying the closest thing he had was his blue eyes (although his grandma Adamantha would argue they were more than just blue… certainly the Took refusing to give in with its blend of browns and greens).

Tooks! Laura’d curse under her breath, Always up to something. Don’t worry, Love, your father’s features are in there, somewhere! You’ll come into them as you grow, I can promise you that much.

Bilbo feared he’d failed his poor grandmother as his father admired every piece of Belladonna Took in him. Perhaps it was a bit cathartic. His mother was always with them, in this way. As time stretched, the crease eased away as water turned Bungo’s eyes into glass marbles. Finally, Bilbo and Bungo wrapped themselves in a hug of warmth, understanding, and shared grief.

“I’ve got you, my boy,” Bungo whispered. He sounded strange— grim, almost. The choked sob cracked his voice, so Bilbo chalked it up to emotion.

“I know, Da,” he replied, pacifying.

“I’ll protect you, for the both of us,” Bungo continued, almost inaudibly, like he meant to speak only to himself. Bilbo clung to Bungo for an indefinite time until it was imperative they returned to the others. A Baggins must be an exemplary host, after all, and they both believed they’d let their propriety slip the ice this time; there was much to atone for in the name of their reputation.

That winter was harsh and endless. It came to be known as “The Fell Winter”, where many hobbits fell to illness, the freezing temperatures, or the increased population of wolves. Bilbo and Bungo lost Belladonna, but many more deaths followed her funeral. The reason Adamanta could not mourn her daughter’s passing is because she, herself, was laid up in bed. She passed away a week later. Turned out, Bilbo’s uncle Hilibrand followed his mother soon after as his cough was speckled with blood; it had happened so suddenly, no one could help him before he was gone.

Mirabella’s baby, too, could not handle the severe weather, starvation, and sickness. The loss of a faunt so young was rare, but that winter claimed seven other lives of children younger than 10. The Took clan wasn’t the only affected family; Bilbo’s grandmother Laura Baggins passed away alone in her home, as well as distant relatives, Pansy and Falstoph Bolger, in their own home, and Ponto Baggins disappeared in the snow. Many assumed wolves found him and left nothing behind.

It was a devastation for the whole of the Shire, the likes they hadn’t seen in far too long, not since the times of Bullroarer Took. Unfortunately, the wolves bred well in the abundance the Shire provided, and their population barely dwindled after the winter. They remained a danger that forced hobbits into their homes far earlier in the day than any would care to, all mourning the loss of their natural habitat in the sun, and travelling alone was too risky.

Slowly, changes for the worse left many hobbits wondering what they could do, and all turned to their leaders for guidance.

2915

Over four years passed since Belladonna left her family too early, and Bilbo supposed things had fallen back into place. Bungo did his best as a single parent, as did many hobbits in those trying times, and Bilbo never faulted his father for any mistakes he might have made. Belladonna was Bungo’s equilibrium, and vice versa. Whenever he might have been too cruel in his reprimands, Belladonna was always there to cool off her husband and remind him Bilbo was still young. Without her, there were some moments where the two clashed, and Bungo questioned if he could do it by himself.

Eventually, they fell into their own rhythm. Bungo grew quieter, but no less affectionate. Bilbo fell more into his role as a Baggins, his Tookish inclinations not encouraged around his Bagginses family, and he decided that was fine. Being reminded how much like his mother he was returned that knife, slashing at his chest, and he’d rather keep those feelings at bay. He rarely saw any true Took relatives anymore, anyway.

After Belladonna’s death and her funeral, something must have happened between his father and grandfather Took. They had a working relationship before, but suddenly Bungo wanted nothing to do with the Took Clan. 

Bungo refused to allow Bilbo to travel to Tuckborough without him, and when they did, they rarely stayed longer than a week. Bungo claimed he had many duties to handle in Hobbiton, and Bilbo had no definite reason to think he’d lie. So, his distance with the Tooks grew; the only ones who visited him were his aunts Donna and Mira, along with their non-Took families. Bilbo was more than happy to play with the little fauntling Asphodel and her siblings, and Jago and Jessamine weren’t bad conversationalists— in fact, they shared between them many books they enjoyed. Of course, there was a small altercation between Bungo and Gorbadoc Brandybuck, his uncle by marriage to Mirabella, last year that caused the Master of Buckland to suddenly go missing whenever his family came to visit. Bilbo remembered how Bungo’s eyes scanned the path leading to Bag End, his steely eyes holding a glint of something… protective? It was all speculation.

Bilbo could only guess what caused the disagreement between the two house heads as his father refused to explain himself. He assumed it was some silly dispute of land— that’s the only thing that came to mind. What would a Baggins of Hobbiton and a Brandybuck of Brucklebury have land disputes about? Imaginably, Bilbo shall learn when Bungo prepared him to take over as next head of the Baggins name.

A wheezing cough snapped Bilbo from his thoughts, book limp in his hands as he’d forgotten about it quite a while ago. Jumping to his feet, Bilbo raced to his father’s study where he knew Bungo had been the last nine hours. It was a constant since Belladonna’s passing. Bungo fell into his studies and duties, and Bilbo did his best to keep him from becoming a complete hermit. He’d coax him out with food and threaten Bungo, like his mother had, if he didn’t march right off to sleep in a proper bed instead of against his desk!

Sometimes, though, Bilbo found himself falling into the same habits, and the father-and-son duo would find themselves without dinner and supper because they were too caught up in their research: maps for Bilbo, genealogies for Bungo. While skipping meals wasn’t very hobbitish of two Bagginses, at least Bungo’s studies made up for it; all hobbits love a good family tree, after all. Bilbo’s pastime, however, caught him odd (but indulgent) stares from his father, and sniffs from more uppity Baggins relatives.

Regardless, these coughing fits were not normal to the occasion of Bungo’s late-night excursions. They’d cropped up in the last week, and despite Bilbo’s insistence Bungo rest, the older hobbit persevered. Now, that perseverance found Bungo bent over his desk, back heaving and lungs scrapping for any air as it fought off the coughing. Fear gripped Bilbo’s gut, sinking faster than a hobbit in water.

His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he comforted Bungo as best he could, but he was no physician. All he could hope to do was wait out the ragged gasps, hesitantly rubbing at his father’s back. Through the layers of hobbit attire, Bilbo hated to feel each bump of spine— no healthy hobbit should be small enough for bones to poke through.

How long had he been wasting away? How long had Bilbo allowed this to go on?

When the coughing fit did not abate, like it had before, Bilbo rushed from Bag End to his neighbors with a scream stuck in his throat, choking back the tears.

“Thank you for coming, I appreciate seeing you. Thank you for coming, Aunt Linda. Ah! You made it! I’m sure Father would be pleased. Thank you for coming.”

There were many more visitors for Bungo’s funeral than Belladonna’s, but Bilbo wouldn’t say that made it more authentic. Many who attended were there not for Bungo but for the Baggins namesake only. Of course, there was Aunt Belba and her family; he could rely on them to an extent, but his other aunts and uncles were… well. If the way Longo eyed his grandfather’s chair was anything to go by, he knew this funeral was full of more scavenging vultures than genuine mourners. Bilbo stood fast, though, and greeted everyone with a genial grin and polite wave of the hand.

Even if the returning knife twisted and turned worse than before, Bilbo would represent everything his father believed a Baggins to be.

“Mister Greenhand! Thank you for coming,” Bilbo greeted, honest in his words. A calloused, but thoroughly washed, hand held Bilbo’s in a reassuring grip.

Halfred was the local gardener of Bag Row, him and his son Holman. Bungo had been so pleased with his skills, truly remarkable even for a hobbit, he offered lodging to Halfred’s family alongside a job as Bag End’s personal gardener about two decades back.

Both father and son stood tall before Bilbo, eyes wet, their hands clenched in front of them politely. Their usual working trousers and shirts were traded for less stained trousers and shirts; Bilbo thought they both looked like right, proper hobbits— more than half of the frilly messes trapezing around in his halls currently.

Halfred bowed his head humbly, “Now, Mister Baggins, as I told your father, there’s no need to be calling me ‘Mister’. Halfred is just fine, it is.”

Bilbo smiled, “of course, Halfred. You’ve always been good to us. There’s much to do now with my father… gone. It’ll certainly be a process, but I promise to sustain your pay and renew your lease, if you wish to continue your work at Bag End, that is.”

Immediately, both father and son grew immensely flustered. They somehow flushed the same tomato red as they reassured him they had no plans to leave, and that it has been the Bagginses that have been good to them! Bilbo laughed, told them they were too kind, and waved them further inside. Bilbo kept his eyes downcast as Holman strolled by, trying his best to ignore how nice he’d looked with the blush on his cheeks. It was a similar color to the one he’d sport after a long, hard day in the sun, sweat running down his exposed throat and biceps.

Bilbo quickly shook those thoughts away and scolded himself. Now was the last place to think about other tween lads and how pretty they might be, and perhaps it might be that way for quite a while. There was much to do with little time for fanciful dreams of romance.

Several more Bagginses and Chubs and Proudfeet and Sackvilles piled into his smial before the line dwindled, and Bilbo made his way further in to persist in a proper hosting.

He bounced from hobbit to hobbit, engaging in condolences, idle chatter, barely concealed derision, and so much more it felt like Bilbo was caught in a never-ending loop of exhaustion. Still, he moved onward, like Belladonna would have encouraged and Bungo would have insisted.

Eventually, he allowed himself the respite of spending time with his darling Brandybuck cousins. Asphodel babbled and cooed sweetly, a bubble of spittle popping that strangely endeared Bilbo. Her small fingers, so tiny even for a fauntling, held fast to his own as he babbled nonsense back at her. She found it absolutely delightful.

Once the strength of the babe released him, Bilbo returned to his duties. Then, from the corner of his eyes, two bodies caught his attention. In the blur of all the guests arriving in tandem, Bilbo hadn’t fully realized who he allowed into his home.

Off to the side, not mingling amongst the others to reminisce about Bungo or ogle Bilbo’s belongings, was his grandfather Took and Uncle Gorbadoc. It was almost wrong to see them inside Bag End like that, after Bungo’s years-long insistence. A sinking feeling snagged his guts like a fishing hook, especially when their hushed whispers turned all the more heated.

They were here for Bungo’s funeral, certainly. They must have given Bilbo their condolences as all the guests had upon arriving, but Bilbo can’t remember, and the dullness in their eyes spoke of something worse than attending a funeral of familial relations.

Bilbo wanted to be wrong, but they almost looked wild in desperation, cut with a current of remorse if he looked deeply enough. And, when those stares cut briefly to him and their desperation grew thicker, Bilbo quickly moved to speak to some distant cousin, one whose name he couldn’t even conjure past the voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s, warning him he’s alone, now, and to be careful.

About a month or two later, all paperwork and contention by family members was settled as Bilbo, aged 24, officially became the Baggins family head.

2917

The summer breeze never failed to lighten Bilbo’s mood, and somehow he’d forgotten how wonderfully sweet it was closer to Tuckborough. Twisting through his hair, it reminded him Lithe was but a few weeks ago; its lingering smells of thousands of flowers floated throughout the Shire like a song crafted by the Valar themselves. Majority of the flowers farmed for the festivities come from the fields around Tookbank, so many walking holidays of the season journeyed through just to peruse the gentle hills of Tookland, drinking in the ambrosial air.

Bilbo missed it, indeed. He hadn’t travelled this far south since Bungo’s passing, and it’s not without trying. His father had not lied about the duties required of the Baggins family head. The hobbitlad had not realized how much land they owned and how many people relied on his help when crops did not grow well or plumbings sprung a leak or two siblings disputed over promised payments— and that was only the icing on the metaphorical cake, it was! He was running about just as much as he scratched pen to paper.

He was lucky to gain even a small chance to relax, the last opportunity being Midyear’s Day; no one truly worked on Midyear’s Day, thank Yavannah.

Oh, and what a celebration it was! Of course, the bonfire was as spectacular as every year previous, even with requirements of putting it out early due to expected curfews. It simply wasn’t safe anymore to be outside doors once the sun set like when he was a fauntling. Bounders did what they could, but they could only do so much when wolves rounded the woods and stray orcs slowly crept westward from the Misties.

Bilbo felt perfectly safe strolling from Hobbiton to Tuckborough, though, but he could not convince a… certain someone he’d be fine on his own. Bilbo smiled to himself, quickly hiding it behind his hand in case another were to happen upon him. He’d hate for rumors to mill about, claiming Bilbo Baggins was skipping around like a loon in love. He wasn’t in love… yet.

Brocard Burrows was certainly a catch, though, and his impeccable manners left Bilbo swooning on the occasion. Insisting he escort Bilbo half the way from Hobbiton to Tuckborough was incredibly charitable, but also positively charming. His ways of leaving Bilbo sheepishly smitten continued to keep the young Master of Bag End on his toes.

Brocard was but a simple farming lad from just outside Hobbiton, one Bilbo probably passed by many times on the road without a second glance. Only in the past year or so did he snagged Bilbo’s interests.

Apparently, Brocard Burrows and Holman Greenhand were quite good friends. Bilbo had felt no infatuation for seeing Holman’s forearms in quite a while, not since the gardener began courting the young Miss Daisy Longhole from over yonder in Frogmorton, which was fine by Bilbo. Holman was a wonderful friend, and Bilbo considered no plans to ruin it because his eyes decided to wander. All the same, when another pair of dexterous hands offered to pluck the weeds from Bilbo’s garden, it was difficult to say no.

At such a thought, Bilbo used both his hands to hide his heated cheeks.

Their acquaintanceship had barely stepped into such amorous relations; he and Brocard hadn’t even attempted a courting walk yet, to be clear! Bilbo did not think they were ready for that step… didn’t think he was ready for that step. Of course, a frolic during Lithe tended to steer towards courting, and goodness did Brocard run Bilbo ragged, but— Bilbo was a Baggins! And a right proper one, at that! He made that promise to his father, and he intended to keep it. Putting the cart before the pony meant compromising his reputation, one many kept a scrutinizing eye on with his status and age.

No, a courtship was not in his near future, even if that caused his young, romantic heart to clench.

Through the woodlands of Tuckland, Bilbo spotted the white fences and cobbled paths inviting him towards the home of the Tooks. Within minutes, many hobbits joined Bilbo on the roads. They carted around baskets or crops or faunts, or a strange mixture of all three. All bustled about, all on their own missions as Bilbo was. Now inside the town’s limits, the sweet breeze no longer distracted him from his true goal there.

He was visiting family, of course, but a stone in his stomach warned him the reason may not truly be familial. Up the winding paths, weaving through strangers and cousins alike, Bilbo’s hand fiddled with a corner of the letter in his pocket. It had been dog-eared many times before and felt fragile under his fingers.

He was in Tuckborough on a summons from Old Took, but the letter was not signed at the bottom by Gerontius Took, Bilbo’s grandfather. It was signed by The Twenty-Sixth Thain of the Shire, Gerontius Took. The words on the paper read with such formality, Bilbo failed to realize it was sent by his grandfather until after his third readthrough. The summons demanded the Master of Bag End travel to Tuckborough on urgent business, and that Bilbo Baggins’s attendance was mandatory and expected within three days of receiving the letter.

Bilbo scrambled out his front door with a hastily crammed pack for his travel nearly the moment the shock subsided.

Now, as he stood before the Great Smial’s large front door, corner of the letter worried off and sitting at the bottom of his pocket, his anxiety spiked once more. The dandelion-colored door stared him down and blinded him, demanding to know why exactly he was there, and Bilbo wanted the same answer. He’d stood before this door so many times he didn’t need to knock; it was once a second home in his younger years. However, the foreignness and detachment of the summons left him feeling like an intruder. Reluctantly, afraid he might chip the paint, Bilbo rapped his knuckles against the wood.

To his surprise, it wasn’t his cousin Aldagrim or Sigismond or Fortinbras who answered the door, nor was it any of his uncles Isengrim, Isumbras, or Isembard— it wasn’t even any of the fine hobbits who married into the family. Instead, it was Mirabella Brandybuck, a Took by birth, certainly, but she hadn’t lived in the Great Smials for decades. The foreboding rock sunk deeper, nestling inside his stomach and leaving him almost sick.

No, no.

Bilbo chided himself. Majority of Took relations spent a considerable amount of time in Tuckborough during the summer. He and his family had done the same for many years, and he knew his aunts still returned to the Great Smials by the many stories his little cousins brought when they visited Bag End.

It meant nothing, and Bilbo thought far too much, even if the swirl of emotions in Mira’s Tookish eyes stirred the ill stone within.

He tried for a smile, “Aunt Mirabella! Good afternoon.”

She tried for a similar smile; neither of them quite hit the mark, “Bilbo! A good afternoon, indeed. Please, come in, Dear.”

With just a few shuffles, the door slipped shut behind Bilbo as Mirabella led him further inside. The Great Smials are named as such for a reason, and yet the walls closed in around Bilbo like a slowly constricting snake, and there was not a soul around beside him and his aunt. It wasn’t natural in the slightest, and that stone jerked to make his stomach churn.

Their soft footfalls echoed in the eerie silence as Mirabella led him directly to The Thain’s office. Bilbo’s heart raced. He never mentioned why he was there, and she never asked. And yet, just outside the dark oak door creating a barrier between them and the ominous office, her eyes allowed sadness to slip through the facade she attempted to wear.

“They’ve been waiting for you, ‘Bo. I’ll… I will be right out here, you hear me?” She asserted, her voice sharp with something. Bilbo knew, somehow, that cutting tone was not aimed at him. Of his mother and her sisters, she refused to use a voice any harsher than the fluff from a cotton tree towards him.

Suddenly, Bilbo’s body locked up.

“They?” He squeaked, but Mirabella was already opening the door, and Bilbo realized who, exactly, was waiting for him.

Sat at a large, dark desk was his grandfather, his youthful disposition gone and his age drawing his face into a scowl. Perhaps he tried to smile when he saw Bilbo, but it hardly lifted a corner of his mouth enough to disguise the gravity of his mood. To his right, his uncle Gorbadoc sat with his usual jovial, easy-going personality on full display, but his stare refused to look past Bilbo. It was like he was afraid of who would be staring back at him behind the young Baggins. Then, the most shocking of it all, to Gerontius’s left was Gillibert Whitfoot: The Mayor of Michel Delving. Bilbo saw him only once before when he was quite little. His shock of white hair didn’t seem to match his apparent age, and yet it aged him almost worse than Old Took. It clashed terribly with the yellow of his waistcoat and made him look far too pale.

Bilbo’s knees shook under his weight as he tried his best to stay up right. What kind of proper hobbit fainted in front of the three most important persons in the entirety of the Shire? One who had every right, if Bilbo was being honest with himself.

He bowed low, like he was taught, “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

It felt wrong to introduce himself to his grandfather and uncle like that.

The three older hobbits rocked to their feet and offered similar greetings. As he reclined himself to sit back down, The Thain motioned for Bilbo to take the seat in front of his desk. Bilbo did so graciously. Only once he was comfortably cradled by the seat’s cushion did the office door seal them inside.

The silence stretched until Gorbadoc cleared his throat, “Did your travels treat you kindly?”

“Oh! Yes,” Bilbo jumped, nodding, “yes, indeed! Quite lovely— the weather was perfect for a walk.”

“Was it? Well, that’s a relief to hear,” Gorbadoc replied absently.

Another stint of silence suffocated the room, and Bilbo should be forgiven if his nerves got the best of him. Just as Gorbadoc looked ready to ask another ridiculously mundane question, Bilbo beat him to the punchline.

“You requested my presence, the Master of Bag End, as stated by the… by the summons?” Bilbo stammered, trying his best to sound assured. At the very least, he prayed he didn’t sound like a bleating lamb.

The Thain grabbed at his words, like it was what he needed to speak, “Yes! Yes, my boy, that is correct. Ahem! This matter is of much importance, and your attendance is greatly appreciated.”

Gorbadoc and Gillibert both nodded, one twiddling his thumbs while the other swiped a handkerchief across his brow.

The Thain continued, eyes glued to the top of his desktop, “as you know, our quaint little patch of Yavannah’s Earth has gone through many hardships in the past few years. It has devastated many, whether through loss of home, work, or lives. I must be plain— there was much trouble settling in our bounds, even before The Fell Winter.”

Bilbo sat and listened attentively as Gerontius and Gorbadoc shared their woes. Gillibert remained silent throughout it all, but the way he never stopped wiping his face told Bilbo he wasn’t completely outside the conversation.

The Master of Buckland began by discussing the terrible dangers lurking far too close to his domain of the Shire; if not for the efforts of the rangers, they would have been infiltrated by orcs long ago. The evil creatures haunt the areas near the mountains, and they look to expand their reign of terror further west. In fact, Gorbadoc said, it was believed they were the ones who led the wolves over the frozen Brandywine during The Fell Winter. Gerontius added on, claiming the threats of the orcs and wolves certainly worried them, but it was hardly as threatening as the residual effects of the short harvest from The Winter. Death by blades and teeth hardly held to the despair of slowly starving to death, or watching the people you are in charge of slowly starve to death. How could they encourage their hobbits to work long hours in their fields, though, when the night was so dangerous? Caught between a rock and a hard place, they were. There were so many innocent lives at risk…

They carried on for a time, back and forth, until there was a lull in their speech where neither plucked up their words. They watched Bilbo, instead, staring him down worse than any rattle-boned wolves. The comparison sent a chill down his spine, but it was like Bilbo had the only thing that could satiate that hunger… whatever that “hunger” was. Bilbo shrunk into his cushion further.

Only once Gerontius casted his eyes back down did his frayed voice speak up once more. In an almost contemplative tone, he expressed the Shire’s shortcomings. Regardless of how many strapping hobbits wanted to help, no amount of shiriffs and bounders could replace the skills of the rangers, who could not remain in the area forever. Once they moved on, The Shire would well and truly be defenseless. They were running on borrowed time. Solutions were considered, heavy deliberations where disagreements warred far too often.

“... it is a heavy weight that we hold on our shoulders, Bil— Mister Baggins, to make these decisions,” Gorbadoc finished. There was a secret somewhere in his words, but Bilbo could not discern what it could be.

Instead, he noticed something else that felt far more queer to him. The longer they talked, the more Bilbo’s brow furrowed. It was a terrible habit, a nervous tick somewhat, that his emotions were quick to twist his face and betray his true feelings. He hated how easily it slipped out.

Bilbo heard them, and he understood that what his grandfather and uncle disclosed was very important— but Bilbo did not understand why they were telling him all of this. He was horribly confused, amongst other things. Quickly swallowing, Bilbo tried to speak around his dry tongue.

“I am afraid I do not fully understand,” he articulated, slow and deliberate as he collected his thoughts, “I-I mean, I understand the predicament you all are in. I do not envy any of you and the responsibilities you have… what I mean is, I do not fully understand why you are sharing this with me.”

As if his words struck them across the face, all three of the leaders dropped their heads. It made Bilbo’s heart rattle in his chest. The young hobbit attempted to back-pedal as Gillibert wiped at his neck rolls almost furiously. 

“I-If it is payments you are looking for, I am more than willing to offer some of my fortune to hopefully employ the rangers within our bounds, or I can offer some money so our shiriffs and bounders may have better equipment. I have more than enough than one hobbit can do by himself, after all. It is not much, but if it is what is needed, I’d be happy to part with—”

Old Took shook his head and interrupted, “No, my lad. It is appreciated, but we already have our solution. One we have debilitated for a very long time.”

Bilbo deflated, air whooshing out of his lungs as he waited for them to once again cryptically explain themselves. This one meeting was more suspenseful than those terrible romances Jessamine preferred.

Again, they dove into their tales. 

Gorbadoc told of how, a few years ago, a curious thing was discovered in Brandy Hall. Buried amongst mountains of “useless” paperwork, as per Gorbadoc’s words, was a piece of parchment older than dust. It’s writing was practically foreign. If not for the keen eyes of a cousin, who had an interest in hobbitish history, they would have added it to the burn pile— for that language was not foreign, but, in fact, older Westeron. The words read, more-or-less, of an incomplete pact between Wandering hobbits and an ancient kingdom called “Kazedoom” (Bilbo suspected that was not the correct pronunciation, but he would not be rude and attempt corrections). Between Gorbadoc’s sudden bursts of laughter and off-topic tangents, Bilbo eventually understood an old acquaintance of Gerontius was contacted to assist in transcribing and deciphering the documentation.

Bilbo had a sneaking suspicion he knew who that “old acquaintance” was, but every time he tried to conjure a face or name, he came up empty-handed. The images blurred and bled like washed away ink. He let the thought go as Gorbadoc moved on.

Kazedoom, it would seem, was an abandoned kingdom of dwarves, and while they feared they led themselves into a dead end, Gerontius’ acquaintance happily relayed to them the descendants of those dwarves were still very much alive— far to the east, in a new kingdom called—

“— The Kingdom Under The Lonely Mountain, Erebor! Those dwarves and their propensities for dramatics, eh, lad?”

Yes, certainly, Bilbo nodded in hopes to appease his uncle and urge him to carry on. It worked well enough as The Thain took over, cutting in to hopefully move the story along. Through general deductions and assurance from Gerontius’ acquaintance, it was assumed the pact, while incomplete, still stood. All knew how dwarves never forget their promises, and it was for the good of The Shire to at least attempt contact.

The longer the conversation slogged on, the wearier the older hobbits of the room grew. Every second zapped away their energy, and Bilbo felt it pulling on him, too. He hoped this wrapped up soon. His anxious feelings settled themselves at the back of his skull, warning him of danger. It picked at him and begged to be listened to, and it made Bilbo want to run home and bury himself in his quilts. Whatever these leaders were trying to riddle to him, he prayed it would end soon.

“We sent several letters with no luck of a response— but then, a raven arrived,” explained Gerontius, “the messenger of Erebor, it was, and it brought a response from the Dwarf King. To be in correspondence with a king, goodness, never did I think a hobbit would need such a thing. His words were less than polite, I’ll tell you that much, but what can one expect of royalty? Be that as it may, he claimed he would meet our demands, so long as we met his. It was a gift from Yavannah herself once the final revision was set in ink. We struck an agreement that would, in the end, save our home and our people, regardless of any stipulation set in place.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile, relieved. What wonderful news! A strange and roundabout way to inform him, but at least it did, finally, come to a conclusion. Bilbo worried they’d talk themselves into melting the midnight candle away.

He clapped his hands down on his knees, feeling more like himself than he had in the past several hours, “that’s fantastic to hear, Grandfather! I dare say it’s what we’ve all been praying for.”

No one reveled in his excitement with him.

Suddenly, Bilbo felt foolish. Sat there with a grin on his face while the others appeared reluctant to share in his joys— no, to them, no joys were to be had. Their faces were more grim than when he first walked through the threshold. Bilbo missed something, and he missed something terribly important.

“So, the— the pact. When will it be, uh, enacted? I’d be more than willing to help pen a public announcement. That is… is that why you… um, called me here?”

Again, none answered him. Bilbo’s gaze darted between each face hidden from him, and they all refused to meet his imploring eyes. Unconsciously, Bilbo’s hands fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat to keep his jitters to himself. Inside him, those anxious feelings struck a match. His nerves sparked with the fire like tinder, and Bilbo forced himself to calm down by breathing shakily through his nose. Alarms rang loud in his thoughts.

“Grandfather?” Bilbo called out, and he commended himself for keeping a calm tone, for he certainly didn’t feel calm, “this pact…”

Then, a niggling thought made him shudder.

“You mentioned a— a stipulation? A stipulation. Yes. You didn’t mention what… exactly that stipulation was. Grandfather? What was that stipulation?” Bilbo would have been embarrassed with the way his voice rose, high-pitched and certainly not calm.

To his surprise, and also the other two in the room, Gillibert stood abruptly to his feet and dared to stare down Bilbo. He was the first to do so in a long time, and it was frightening the way he looked at him.

It was like he had been battling his own blaze inside him, just like Bilbo— the difference is Gillibert could not keep it under wraps, and it left his body alight. The heat leapt about him, commanding him to say what the others refused to. Bilbo saw it in the gentlehobbit’s fierce eyes, and it was then Bilbo wished he allowed his own flames to burn him alive.

“You!” Gillibert Whitefoot declared, almost possessed by his panic. Bilbo flinched in his seat like flames spit at his face, burning him, “You, Bilbo Baggins, are the stipulation! Confusticate all this, this, beating about the bush! The pact was a pact of marriage! A pact of marriage between a hobbit and dwarf, no less, and for the good of everyone, a hobbit must be chosen to enter that marriage, and we have chosen the only feasible candidate— and by the good graces of Yavannah, w-we— have chosen— you! ”

Bilbo barely remembered watching Gillibert collapse back into his chair, out of breath despite his short outburst, before Bilbo’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his vision turned black.

Bilbo struggled to return to the waking world, head throbbing to Mordor and back as his brain refused to wade through the fog of his thoughts. Luckily, a bell coaxed him through the fuzz. The bell was familiar, and the more he fixated on it, the less of a bell it sounded like. Instead, it sounded like it twinkled through gritted teeth, and the words it spoke were less than sweet for whoever it rang at.

No, the bell sounded down right furious. Luckily for Bilbo, the ire was not aimed at him. Slowly, as he groggily woke up, Bilbo came to realize the bell was Mirabella. Her usual dulcet voice turned sharp and dangerous. The words she hissed took form as he concentrated on the cool fingers pressed to his temple.

“... force him. You told me it was his choice to make, but that was only a lie, too, wasn’t it? He’s only still a tween, and you promised him off to some… some…!”

There was a soft, muted thump of frustration.

“Mira, please understand—”

“Bella’s boy, Papa! How dare you! Her only faunt,” she hiccuped angrily. It broke Bilbo’s heart. His Aunt Mira never cried, and it summoned a memory of his mother. Of the three sisters, Belladonna told him, she was the storm, Donnamira was the earth, and Mirabella was the sunshine. If anyone caused the sun to cry and burn out, hell was to be paid by those who wrought the tears. He understood, now.

With aching limbs, Bilbo shifted to sit up. Instantly, those cool hands tended to his face, pressing tenderly into his cheeks. Bilbo hated opening his eyes and witnessing the splotchy, tear-stained face of his aunt. Of course, the scorching fury in her eyes made him feel pity for any who were caught in their glare, and Bilbo could see how much damage it had caused upon his uncle and grandfather. Gillibert, perhaps thanks to his self-preservation, was nowhere in sight.

Someone had moved Bilbo while he was unconscious to the chaise settled in the corner of the room. Everyone still in the room surrounded him, but Mirabella dared to be the only one close enough to touch. The Thain and The Master of Buckland stood several steps away.

The two hobbits avoided Bilbo’s gaze as he dared them to confront him with his eyes. He was the son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, and there was something to be wary of when caught in those fiery, calculating eyes. Child or no, he was his own force to be reckoned with, and Bilbo knew it.

As did the adults.

However, whatever eruption they expected, Bilbo did not give it to them. Maybe that was the more merciless option. Instead, with an almost sick satisfaction, he let the chill run down their spines. He believed he had the right after the news they smacked him over the head with.

Finally, when he found the words, he croaked, “do I actually get the choice?”

There was a beat, and Bilbo must still be too young, because hope almost took root in his heart before it was ripped out by Old Took’s one word:

“No.”

Bilbo let his head hang, lip bitten harshly between his teeth. That fire roared back to life with a vengeance.

“But… but why me?”

“It is necessary,” mumbled Gerontius, defeated, “for the whole of The Shire. Dwarven warriors are known for their strength. Their protection would—”

“But why me?”

“You are my grandson, Bilbo, and Gorbadoc’s nephew-in-law, and not to mention you are a Baggins—”

Bilbo interrupted with his voice raised now, “Then, what of Adalgrim? He’s all of those things, and he celebrated his coming of age last year, wasn’t it? Certainly there are better choices—”

“— and you are the Head of the Baggins family, Bilbo! Do you think we have not thought this through? We’ve considered every possible option, and you are our only choice!”

The Thain raised his voice for cheer and merriment, but never to castigate his children or grandchild. It shocked Bilbo back into silence. He immediately drew his shoulders up and dropped his head down. A protective arm shielded him as his aunt hissed something at her father. Realizing his mistake, but far too late for any apology, Gerontius exhaled heavily and rubbed at his face. The old hobbit tried again with his softer, tired tone:

“If… if it is your age you worry about,” there was a darting glance to Mirabella, “then, please do not fret.”

Bilbo wanted to bite back, snap and tell him how can he not? His life was completely being uprooted, and he wasn’t even 33 yet— nowhere near, even. However, he did not snap. A proper hobbit, whether they seeth with hopeless despair or not, should never regard their elders in such a manner. Well, not until they’re pushed too far.

It was then Gorbadoc returned. During the brief row, while distracted, Bilbo hadn’t realized the large hobbit disappeared from the room to then return. In his hand, a letter waited to be read. His uncle passed it to Gerontius, who in turn passed it to Bilbo. His hands shook lightly as he took the parchment in hand, and he honestly couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger. He decidedly settled on enervated.

“The pact allows for time before courting may begin. The dwarves were wary of your age, and while we hobbits are much more short-lived than an average dwarf and mature far quicker, even our 33 years did not sit well with them. We settled on your 50th year— the dwarves insisted— before they send your betrothed to begin courting,” Gerontius stated.

Another emotional blow, this time to Bilbo’s chest, “I thought the pact was necessary to protect us! Why are we waiting?”

Gorbadoc approached, hands raised like Bilbo was a startled calf, “be still, lad. The pact is in place, and while the marriage is unavoidable, that does not mean we will be left to fend for ourselves until it happens!”

Just as quickly as he moved forward, Bilbo’s uncle jumped back as Mirabella placed herself between him and her husband. Bilbo knew her eyes still blazed a deadly heat.

“So, they’ll send warriors?” Bilbo asked.

“Aye. And we farmers,” Gerontius replied. Bilbo furrowed his brows.

“Farmers?”

“Yes,” his grandfather nodded, “an exchange. Dwarves for hobbits; hobbits for dwarves.”

Finally, there was a lull as Bilbo took everything in. It weighed heavy on his mind. It was like he sat at the bottom of a lake, surrounded by the pressure of water as it slowly suffocated him. His ears roared with the waves when, amongst the endless questions swimming about him, a thought caught his attention.

“Who will it be?” He rasped. It was vague, but Bilbo felt just as washed-up.

“Who will it…?” Gerontius coaxed.

“Who am I to marry?” Against my will , Bilbo almost added.

Once more, shadowy secrets dared to gag his grandfather, but what point was there to keep secrets from him anymore? It couldn’t save him from any more pain. Still, a grandfather would not wish any ill-will on their offspring; unfortunately, Gerontius could not play the grandfather role in that room. The Thain must tell the truth.

“It…” Old Took swallowed, “it is the eldest son of the King Under the Mountain.”

Mirabella clapped an aghast hand over her hand, and Bilbo had to agree, but his hands refused to move. They were numb where they laid uselessly in his lap.

“Son of the K-King…” Bilbo tried, and Gerontius nodded solemnly.

“Thorin II, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain.”

By some will of Yavannah, Bilbo remained upright, although just barely. His shellshock held him conscious, unable to do anything but repeat the same things over and over in his head.

A prince. A dwarven prince. A dwarven prince next in line to the throne of a venerable kingdom. A dwarven prince named Thorin.

While in his state, Mirabella was escorted out of the room. Bilbo was certain she put up a fight, if the resounding SLAP! that echoed through the room from the hall was any indicator. Bilbo didn’t move a muscle even as his grandfather reached over him.

An aged, gentle hand gripped his shoulder in a sort of reassuring squeeze, but it did not resonate with Bilbo. Just as quickly as it came, the hand upon his shoulder let go, and Old Took left him to be alone.

Bilbo hadn’t registered his solitude. Instead, the gentle shake of his shoulder jostled the forgotten letter in his hand, and Bilbo’s mind honed in on it. Strangely, it became an anchor. 

Feeling returned to Bilbo as his fingers fumbled to grip the parchment. It was folded, so, with a one-track-mind, Bilbo found himself opening it. In the silence, Bilbo found himself meeting the eyes of another.

They were colorless, as most sketches tended to be on paper, and yet they held a weight heavier than any mountain Bilbo could imagine. They sat under thick brows and around a straight, sharp nose. Under the nose was thick hair shorn short, mustache and beard, and yet it hid away a mouth pressed thin with unknown emotions. Surrounding everything, though, were beautiful rivulets of black charcoal, woven with braids and a circlet laced above the brow.

Objectively beautiful, this drawing. It stole Bilbo’s breath, but for more than one reason. He’d seen dwarves before, his mother invited some as guests, but none before had been this one. None before had been Thorin II, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain…

… Bilbo’s future husband.

Chapter Text

It came as no surprise to Bilbo, an amateur writer, the durability of parchment paper and charcoal when held against the hands of time— or, his hands, in particular. Still, he considered it a miracle that those arresting eyes never smudged over the course of twenty-two years of continuous wrinkling, bending, and folding. While a corner or two were lost to time, and a splash of tea distorted the left edge after a heart-stopping spilling, the portrait of Bilbo’s betrothed remained intact.

Bilbo preserved it well. Regardless of how many times he studied it, down to the minute details, he always took care to delicately tuck it back into his pocket until the next time. The portrait instilled many emotions over the course of two decades while it remained in Bilbo’s safekeeping; they ranged from year to year, day to day. His tweens were rampant with loathing and hostility, wanting terribly to rip the damn thing and be done with it. With young adulthood came despondency, hopelessness, the portrait bringing him no emotion. Of course, with maturity and middle age, acceptance overcame the gloom, and with that acceptance a slew of new emotions bloomed around one simple drawing.

Now, as he sneakily gazed upon the dwarf he knew so well yet not at all, Bilbo felt trepidation. His heart missed a tick every time he remembered this drawing would soon be reality— in the matter of an hour, in fact, and a year too early. Twenty-two years in, and he wasn’t sure he had enough time to prepare himself.

He distinctly recalled the morning someone’s knocking practically battered his door down, refusing to stop until he finally swung it open with an expression that, perhaps, was a touch too sour for a good host. When he caught sight of his poor, young cousin Ferumbras, out of breath and clutching a summons from his grandfather, that sour mood was instantly forgotten.

It was then, months ago, Bilbo learned the King Under the Mountain decided the time was right and no more waiting was necessary! Bilbo remembered needing to sit when he read it.

They planned to enact the pact now, and his son would soon make the trek to cross the Misty Mountains and begin the first round of courting. For nine months, Bilbo and the Crown Prince would engage in Shire courting, and if all went well, Bilbo would journey with the Prince to Erebor for another nine months of dwarven courting. Then, hypothetically, a marriage afterwards. What spurred the sudden change of heart, why forty-eight seemed good enough for the King when fifty was the set age, no hobbit could really say. However, they could not deny him— after all, the Shire had bloomed under the protection of Erebor’s warriors. Thanks to their patrolling, wolves were culled and orcs exterminated if they came too close. They could not afford losing their security.

So, an early courting it was.

Now, Bilbo stood outside the Great Smials as they all awaited the arrival of Thorin II, Crown Prince Under the Mountain, and his entourage to welcome them to the Shire. It was nerve-wracking as minutes stretched longer than hours.

While he had reason to be there, the massive crowd filling every nook and cranny of Tuckborough did not. Every busy-body with an ear, nose, and eye for good gossip, from Michel Delving to Bucklebury, waited to see who, exactly, this dwarf was.

They plagued Bilbo’s every waking day ever since the public found out about his engagement. Everyone and their third cousin’s dog knew of Bilbo’s royal dwarf from some far-off kingdom, and it was the talk of the Shire for ten long, chafing years. Even after the commotion died down, the whispers never truly left Bilbo alone. He learned to live with them like annoying gnats constantly buzzing about. And they wondered why he became a recluse…

Of course, it made sense the leaders of the Shire deemed it necessary for every hobbit to know the truth. Strange dwarves would soon be taking up shelter in the area, and certain hobbits would make the harrowing journey to cross Middle-Earth and be the first hobbits to live under a mountain since the second age.

There was certainly a hubbub about that! Not many were willing to volunteer to remove themselves from their ancestral home to live under rocks and away from the sun. Endless meetings were held, and much public unrest stirred about until decisions were made.

It was for the best that the Burrows were chosen as the lead family to spearhead the project. They were the best farmers from the Hobbiton area, and they held their heads high with honor to assist the Shire in such a way, but also…

Bilbo hadn’t seen Brocard Burrows since that fateful day, hidden from sight as the Burrows were seen off by the town. Bilbo didn’t think he could face Brocard without a guilty conscience— not when spoken for by someone else (even if it wasn’t necessarily of Bilbo’s own choosing). After many years, Bilbo accepted their early romance as a sweet memory to look back on fondly, his feelings that never truly blossomed to love transformed into a friendly affinity. Certainly, his tweens meant to be full of flowers and hand-holdings and kisses died before it began, but that was another thing Bilbo came to accept.

Maybe it was the reason he found himself gazing at that portrait late into the night during his forties; youthful hopes playing in his mind of what could be, who the dwarf on the page might be.

Well, he’d soon find out, whether he was prepared or not.

It didn’t feel real! After imaging a million-and-one ways this could go, Bilbo’s mind was rife with uncertainty. Luckily, a distraction in the form of a fidgeting hobbit-lass caught his attention before the uncertainty swallowed him whole. He quickly tucked his picture away as she caught his attention.

Primula Brandybuck fluffed and swatted at her pretty dress, never quite satisfied with the way it laid. She must have wandered away from her family, as she tended to do since she learned to toddle about. By this point, Bilbo believed she did it simply to spite her family. A true combination of Took and Brandybuck, she was. Prim recently turned 19, and Bilbo knew she just couldn’t wait to turn 20 so she wouldn't be regarded as a fauntling anymore; unfortunately for her, she’d always be the baby of the Brandybucks.

Bilbo smiled as she approached.

“Where’s your mother, Prim?” He asked, and the young hobbit didn’t appear to appreciate the question. She blew a puff of air to banish a rogue curl in her eyes— it didn’t work.

“With everyone else, but I can hardly see past the bustles of those Bracegirdles, waving their bums about like it might summon the Prince if they flap them hard enough,” she huffed none-too-quietly, and Bilbo hushed her.

“Your father is looking over here, Primula Brandybuck, and I do not wish him to think I’m teaching you to talk like that,” Bilbo admonished.

Primula scrunched her nose, “but you’re the one who said all Bracegirdles are a bunch of—”

Bilbo shushed her again, just in time for Gorbadoc to round on them with arms propped on his hips and eyes staring his daughter down. It did nothing but make Primula fiddle with her dress more.

“Primula, you should be with your mother,” Gorbadoc said, practically mirroring Bilbo’s earlier words. Primula threw her hands up.

“But I can’t see anything past Auricula Bracegirdle’s fat—”

“She’s not bothering me none, Master Brandybuck,” Bilbo cut in quickly, “we still have time to idle before the entourage is set to arrive, after all.”

Gorbadoc rubbed a contemplative hand over his chin, “well, if she’s not a bother…”

“ Primula Brandybuck! ”

Now, the color drained from Primula’s face. Nothing worse than facing your own mother’s scorn. Even without raising her voice or darkening her tone, Mirabella instilled a fear in anyone who knew her well enough. In an instant, Mira had seized her youngest by the wrist with a gleam in her eye.

“What in Yavannah’s green garden are you doing over here? I told you to stay with Dinodas,” Mirabella scolded.

“Mama!” Primula whined, but she was subsequently interrupted by Mira’s shushing. Mira offered her deepest apologies to Bilbo, who told her no apologies were necessary, as she shot a look at her husband. Bilbo likened it to a warning

Once both hobbits disappeared into the sea of onlookers, Bilbo and Gorbadoc returned to standing wistfully, waiting for their guests.

It was decided the leaders of the Shire would welcome the Prince, with the addition of Bilbo, but their little cluster didn’t look too welcoming. They were down one, first of all, with Gillibert bedridden with a sweating sickness, and Fortinbras didn’t present a very… confident Thain.

Bilbo truly could not blame him. With Isumbras passing not but two months ago, Fortinbras was thrust into handling this whole fiasco with little to nothing to prepare him for it. Bilbo at least had two decades years to come to terms with holding the whole of the Shire’s future on his back, but his poor cousin looked ready to crack under the pressure worse than a poorly hollowed smial.

“I see ‘em! I see the Prince!” A shout rang out through the clearing, causing a surge of whispers to echo behind it. The way Fortinbras covered his eyes and shook his head, Bilbo knew Ferumbras was in for a heated talking to later.

But just as the tween announced, a wagon and ponies slowly rounded a hill and plodded down Stock Road. Bilbo stilled his hands before they crumpled his jacket, instead redirecting them to hold still behind his back. Everyone watched as the entourage rolled to a stop just a ways away from the welcoming group of three, the dwarven bodies far enough away that faces were indistinguishable. They jumped from their ponies and climbed from the wagon, and Bilbo scoured for one in particular…

Three dwarves assembled into their own company separate from the entourage. Together, they began making their way to Bilbo and his own group, and his heart beat skyrocketed with every step. Despite his restlessness, at least Bilbo could confidently say he wouldn’t faint, although he wasn’t certain he could say the same for Fortinbras.

Even from a distance, one could tell they were dwarves. It was in the way they walked, as no hobbit held their weight like they were built of stones and pride. That, and the quite prominent beards. The three dwarves were distinct from each other, and Bilbo surveyed every detail for the ones he knew.

The one furthest from Bilbo was bald with such intricate markings as a replacement it almost distracted from how very large the dwarf was… almost. Despite his impressive scowl, it was not the one Bilbo was looking for.

The dwarf in the middle sported white hair to rival Gillibert Whitfoot’s, and Bilbo feared the years might have changed his betrothed more than he expected— and aged him by fifty— but no, the nose wasn’t right, and those eyes were too different. They were brown! Call him neurotic, but every fantasy Bilbo dreamt of beheld eyes brighter than the clearest blue skies and icier than the coldest winter nights. No, not the one he was looking for.

Suddenly, a body stood before him, demanding his attention with just its presence. Bilbo snapped his eyes up, and his breath caught in his throat.

In front of him, a dwarf towered over him. He was larger than any average hobbit (though, perhaps not that other dwarf), but not just physically— it was as though his very existence bore the size and command of a mountain. He appeared unmovable, rock-solid in stance and temperament, and just that fact alone almost forced Bilbo to step back in deference. He did not, though. The gaze that seized him left him rooted in place.

Everything he saw was nothing like he imagined and yet everything he knew by heart. From the shorn beard to the sharp nose to the severe expression, and especially those eyes. The hobbit knew this face, so impossibly identical to his portrait besides a stark shock of silver running through long, dark waves, he had to stop himself from pulling it out to compare. It simply wouldn’t be very proper. And, oh, those eyes… he knew they’d be blue. The color of a frozen sea, narrowed and deadly, those eyes, and they held Bilbo captive for a lifetime until they were drawn somewhere else, releasing him from their spell. Bilbo allowed a shaky breath to escape through his nose to calm himself, feeling lightheaded and woozy.

Do not faint, Bilbo Baggins , he told himself, for the love of Eru, do not embarrass yourself in front of royalty. You might as well keel over, instead, you right fool.

Luckily, Fortinbras took the lead and hailed their guests confidently. He extended a cordial greeting to the white-bearded dwarf, “Welcome to our humble home, Your Highness. Fortinbras Took, Second of His Name, Twenty-ninth Thain of the Shire— at your service.”

They were well and truly done for. Bilbo clenched his teeth to stop himself from reacting, but he knew he wasn’t quick enough to stop whatever his face did— the actual Prince caught his movement with a flick of an eye.

Keeling over would be a mercy, now, thought Bilbo, willing any god to simply strike him dead. It would be better than watching the dwarf dignitaries snuff at the insult, turn heel, and head back to the King and demand war for their transgressions. He can only hope they were swift in their assault before the orcs ravaged them first. Twenty-two years of waiting, hoping, dreading, only for it to go up in smoke thanks to his clueless cousin.

Then, as if unable to hold it back anymore, the white-bearded dwarf threw his head back and laughed. It was hearty and from the belly, and even though the other two dwarves did not share in his merriment, Bilbo’s fears flew away with the affable sound on the breeze.

“Master Took, I thank you for such a warm welcome, but I believe there is a misunderstanding. I am Balin, son of Fundin, Royal Advisor for the Prince, at your service. I am not worthy of such a title, I’m afraid,” Balin said kindly. Fortinbras looked ready to throw up luncheon and elevenses, and perhaps both his breakfasts right alongside them.

“I-I beg your forgiveness—” his shaky words were waved away by Balin, who appeared to not be bothered in the slightest by the transgression. Bilbo stole a glance of Thorin, wondering if he was as easily forgiving as the advisor. Not a single muscle twitched from his previous glare, so Bilbo could not guess at his true thoughts. Whatever Balin said, though, he must not disagree with, at least.

“No forgiveness is necessary, Master Took. Allow me to introduce my two companions: my brother, Dwalin,” he gestured to the tattooed dwarf, “Head of the Royal Guard.”

Dwalin rolled his shoulders in response, and Bilbo can only imagine how one built muscles like those; it can’t be only through discipline and sparring. Genuine battle experience, no doubt. At any rate, his manners could use some work. With another gesture by Balin, all eyes turned to the last of the three dwarves, and Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat.

“And this is His Highness, Thorin Oakenshield, Second of His Name, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince of Erebor.”

The whole of Tuckborough stilled to watch this one dwarf, a mixture of curiosity and fear at seeing the one person they’ve only heard rumors about for years. At the very least, this one had the wherewithal to bow his head in greeting, a braid slipping over his shoulder. Bilbo avidly followed it with his eyes.

Then, molten and heavy like lava deep beneath a volcano, Thorin rumbled, “at your service.”

A shudder ran down Bilbo’s spine. It was quiet, but Bilbo knew his words carried over the crowd like a command. Only when Balin began speaking once more did every hobbit release their collective breath… Bilbo included.

“We have anticipated this moment for quite some time, as I’m sure you all have, as well. Now, you must offer me your own forgiveness, but our understanding was that the current Thain was Master Isumbras Took,” Balin said, approaching the topic cautiously. Bilbo respected this dwarf’s decorum and diplomacy. Fortinbras’s spine straightened, face pulled taut so as to keep himself professional.

“Yes,” he stated, “Isumbras was my father, but age stole him away to Yavannah’s Gardens but two months ago. We had no way to send word as we knew you were already on the road. As his only son, I took over as the next Thain.”

Balin offered his condolences, muttering some unintelligible sounds under his breath. Both Thorin and Dwalin bowed their heads at these words, and Bilbo wondered if it was not unintelligible but the fabled dwarven language he’d read about; perhaps it was a sort of player. How interesting.

Once done, Balin lifted his head.

“Master Took, you are the Thain, but there are three heads of leadership within the Shire, aye?” Balin urged, eyeing the two other hobbits beside Fortinbras. Sputtering, Fortinbras promptly moved into introducing his own companions. Bilbo appreciated Balin’s gentle redirection.

First, his cousin motioned to Gorbadoc, “Y-yes! Of course! This is the Master of Buckland, Gorbadoc Brandybuck. You travelled through his lands in the east to reach Tuckborough.”

Always a hobbit for theatrics, Gorbadoc bowed low, waving his arms with a flair as he spoke, “at your service! If you ever need to speak about the East Farthings, I’m happy to spare a few words!”

Balin nodded agreeably, focusing his gaze on Bilbo next, “Master of Buckland, yes! That’s right. The other is the Mayor of Michel Delving, if I remember correctly.”

“You would be remembering correctly, indeed, Mister Balin, but Mayor Whitfoot was unable to attend. This is my cousin, Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End,” Fortinbras explained quickly. Bilbo bowed, albeit much less flamboyantly than his uncle, and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster.

“At your service,” he said. Not to toot his own horn, but he thought his voice sounded quite stable. He knew even one misspoken word would be the topic of much scrutiny during tea times across the Shire. Luckily, no one gapped or guffawed at him, so he assumed all was well.

Of course, his legs almost gave out when he looked up and caught those two blue eyes staring him down like a challenge. There was a crease between Thorin’s brows, and Bilbo’s heart raced at what that could mean. He hoped he hadn’t insulted him somehow.

Fortinbras continued, “he is our representative of marriage in the pact, as I am sure you are, uh, aware,” he cleared his throat, “and he will also be your guide in our upcoming Lithe celebrations. It was decided a hobbit would do best to educate you on our culture while you stay with us, and who better than our very own Mister Baggins.”

Well, that was news to Bilbo! It certainly would have been wonderful to have been in on those plans he just so happened to be involved in, but what would Bilbo know? Bilbo felt his face twitch, but he promptly reigned in his annoyance.

Balin responded kindly, “Brilliant! I have no doubt he will be a marvelous guide, indeed, wouldn’t you say, Your Highness?”

Bilbo snapped to attention as he stared at Thorin, awaiting his answer. The first words to be spoken to Bilbo by his betrothed, something that’s plagued his dreams for decades—

Except, they never came. Thorin made no attempt to speak. As the seconds stretched, so too did the tension in the clearing. Instead, that wrinkle between the Prince’s brows grew deeper and a shadow casted his eyes into a dark, depthless ocean. Bilbo knew this look, at least. He’d seen it so often as a child, by family and strangers, who found him less than amusing, and again during his reckless years as a disgruntled tween— coldness, disdain, antipathy.

Oh, please, it said, anything but him.

With the swiftness of a true veteran of his field, Balin swept the conversation and attention back in his direction, but the damage was done. Bilbo dropped his head as subtly as he could, to not alert anyone how affected he was, but everyone certainly knew.

As Bilbo retreated into himself, Fortinbras declared the welcoming done and the feast of celebrating to begin.

Hobbits knew how to throw a party. It was in their nature to enjoy life’s simplest pleasures, and what was more simple than a full belly, a full mug, and a grand merriment of laughing, dancing, and games? Yes, if anyone needed to experience a good time, they needed only to call upon a hobbit.

Unfortunately, Bilbo could not say he was enjoying life at the moment. It was anything but pleasurable. In fact, if he was being quite frank, it was down right miserable.

Within the Great Smials, of course the banquet hall could seat every dwarf present as well as all the lingering hobbits, from Tooks to Boffins to Proudfeet and beyond. All tables filled to the brim with bodies, and yet Bilbo felt their table was too crowded while sitting the least amount of people.

The hobbits sat themselves on the left: Fortinbras, his wife Layla, Bilbo, Gorbadoc, and Mirabella— and then, there were the dwarves on the right: Balin, Thorin, and Dwalin. Despite the ruckus all about, their table held a dreary atmosphere. Gorbadoc dominated the conversation, as he tended to do with no issue. Balin, the picture of diplomacy, engaged in whatever nonsense Bilbo’s uncle spouted from around his ale. Occasionally, Mirabella would throw in a word and a twinkling laugh, and Fortinbras an agreement or two, but that was the full extent of it. Bilbo kept his nose down, Layla rarely spoke as it were, and Dwalin and Thorin looked ready to murder before they uttered even a single syllable.

No, Bilbo believed everyone at the table was fine with Gorbadoc’s overenthusiastically drunk ramblings. It meant they didn’t have to drown words into the oppressive atmosphere all around them.

Just another hour or so , Bilbo allayed himself, then I can go forget this whole awful affair until tomorrow. His mother always said tomorrow was a new day, and Bilbo’s slightly addled brain was on the fence on whether that was fanciful thinking or not… perhaps he needed more ale.

Bilbo contemplated whether to fill his mug back up, staring aimlessly into the empty drink.

“So, what do you think, Your Majesty? Bilbo’s quite the gem, isn’t he? A perfect addition to any collection you’ve got stowed away, I’d say, aye?”

Bilbo startled, bolting upright and to full attention. In complete disbelief, he looked at the Master of Buckland like his head had more holes than a wheel of cheese, and if Gorbadoc wasn’t careful, he might have some real ones soon, courtesy of the Prince. The atmosphere dropped almost 10 degrees to a deathly chill, and all eyes watched Gorbadoc with varying caution. The daft hobbit was only staring intently at Thorin, though. Gorbodac was far into his drink, completely overindulged, and while his smile was certainly jovial, Bilbo knew sincerity and ignorance was a thin, hazy line.

Gorbadoc teetered, but his lips were still loose, “well, lad? Tongue stuck in the bottom of your tankard, has it?”

His boisterous laugh echoed around the table, but no one else joined in.

Perhaps Bilbo drank more than he thought, as he couldn’t move his tongue quick enough to assuage the situation. There was a warning to Gorbadoc in the form of his name by Mira, but it couldn’t stop the run-away cart. With an inescapable arm curled around Bilbo’s shoulder, Gorbadoc pulled his nephew close and grabbed his chin.

“I said— a right gem of the Shire, Bilbo, is! Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Oakenshield? Being a dwarf and all, you can tell, yeah?”

Bilbo flushed with mortification and shame as he wished to pull away, rebuke his words, but Gorbadocd wasn’t done.

“You dwarves and your gold and trinkets and bobbles, ha!”

The lethal glare from Thorin could drop an orc. Murderous intent exuded from every pore of the Prince, his brows drawn so deeply over his eyes as his teeth flashed in a barely there sneer. Bilbo caught the way his hand twisted around a fork, strained, and his ears picked up the distinct squeak of metal. He was restraining himself, but Bilbo wondered for how much longer.

Suddenly, Thorin released a snarl with a mighty swing of his arm and slammed his fist into the table; he was gone before Bilbo could draw in another breath. The table was left in a sort of limbo where no one spoke or moved— even Gorbadoc had the common sense to realize something went terribly wrong. Bilbo zoned in on the mangled fork sheathed in the table, embedded over halfway into the rosewood. Better the table than his uncle’s forehead, he supposed morbidly.

Finally, the spell was broken when Mirabella made an offended noise before smacking her husband on the arm. There was an exacerbated sigh, from Balin, and a miffed huff, from Dwalin. Layla fanned herself and quickly moved away before she fainted right into her food.

“I will go and retrieve him,” Balin said, shifting to stand, but Fortinbras motioned him to remain where he sat. He stood instead and propped a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“No,” Fortinbras asserted firmly, “Bilbo will go.”

Bilbo squeaked in disbelief. All eyes turned on him, and he could see the skepticism. He felt the exact same.

Fortinbras continued, “he is your official guide, afterall, and Bilbo knows this area like the back of his own hand. It would do no good for you all to get lost on your first day. I assure you, my cousin will make things right.”

I will do no such thing ! Bilbo objected in his head as he was coaxed to his feet and in the direction of the runaway dwarf. His feet betrayed him as they walked him aimlessly right out of the banquet hall, leaving the expectant gazes and boisterous revelry behind (somehow, the other hobbits and dwarves missed the absolute disaster in their midst. Bilbo marvelled at their luck and prayed no one else noticed before they returned.)

Fortinbras certainly chose the worst time to grow a backbone and act like The Thain, and Bilbo silently cursed his squash patch as he moved through the Great Smial’s halls. May they turn black and mushy for the inconveniences he’s caused Bilbo.

Goodness, it had been quite a while since he’d snuck around under the rafters and through those passages. As a faunt, he had jumped about, hoping to find elves the size of his thumb— now he was hoping to find a dwarf the size of a bear. How age has changed him, he joked mirthlessly.

How in Middle-Earth was he to find this dwarf if he hadn’t an idea where he tromped off to? Bilbo knew his way around, somewhat, but he wasn’t a tracker! A niggling thought urged him to simply return and say he lost him, but then he heard the distinct whistle of wind. It lured him through the smial right up to the front door where it swung lightly from the pressure of the outside wind.

Too angry to close the door behind him, it seemed. Lovely.

Bilbo slipped through the door and pulled it closed with a proper clunk behind him. As it secured, it wasn’t difficult to notice the large shape stomping away into a cluster of trees. He was getting away, and he was getting away rather quickly. Oh dear…

“Y-Your Highness!” He called, albeit a little hesitant. The shape kept onwards. With a great sigh, Bilbo followed.

He tried getting Thorin’s attention again as he said, louder and more urgently, “please, hold on just a moment. Your Highness!”

It was a slight problem keeping with the Prince’s pace; clearly, he was not interested in company, but Bilbo persisted.

“I, um, I am profoundly sorry for my uncle’s words, Your Highness, truly. He knew not what he said— er, well, n-no, he did know what he was saying, but it was not said maliciously, I promise you that much!”

Goodness, what was he saying? He was honestly just making it up as he went— anything to stop the Prince from running off.

“I swear he would tell you as much if you, you would just turn right around and return with me. Rest assured my aunt Mirabella won’t let his insult stand, a-and neither will I! A Master of Buckland he is, yes, but his words do not fully represent hobbits and their views of dwarves. I assure you I do not think—”

“ Silence! ”

It boomed like a tree splitting from a lightning strike. Thorin pivoted in his retreat and met Bilbo, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, towering over him once more. If Bilbo had not stopped in his tracks, he would have run straight into him.

He stared wide-eyed and afraid at Thorin.

The shout shook him to his very core as it shook the trees around them, and a tremble wracked his body as a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

Far too late, Bilbo realized he was caught outside, completely alone, with a dwarf that contained a wild, feral look in his eyes. Beautiful, still, and yet it was the scariest thing Bilbo ever faced. He could not breathe past quiet gasps for he feared it might break the silence commanded by Thorin Oakenshield. Despite the hobbit’s obedience, Thorin still did not look appeased. The dwarf advanced on him as Bilbo scrambled to keep what distance was left between them.

“You are no worse than an insistent insect stuck in my ear!” Thorin bellowed, “I do not care for your uncle or whether he is a master or not, for I will not sit and allow you and yours to insult my people. ‘Gold and trinkets and bobbles’!? I would not expect a race of soft-handed grocers and farmers to comprehend a dwarrow’s pride in their craft. A dwarrow’s lifework is no such simple thing, halfing, but how could you ever understand that? Return to your frivolous pleasures, ‘gem of the Shire’, and leave me be. I have no desire to stand the sight of you.”

Each word, each venomous syllable, was spat at Bilbo with such disdain and hatred, Bilbo could do nothing more than stand there and let it fester on his skin. He flinched as the word “halfing” flung itself at him, hitting harder than any thrown stone. Once done, Thorin returned to his mission of escape, hastily shifting into the darkness. Although Bilbo remained standing through the tirade, his legs wobbled as all strength seeped into the ground beneath him.

Like a sudden storm, outrage ripped through the little hobbit as he stared after the Prince’s back while he dissolved into the night. His own venom dripped on his tongue, ready to fire, but he swallowed it down as quickly as it came. And, with its absence, a stronger wave of anguish swept tears into his eyes.

This did not go at all how he hoped, and it was a far cry from his worst thought-up scenarios. What had he been thinking? This wasn’t a fairytale, and he knew that better than any hobbit, and yet he still let his heart dream. Age allowed for him to heal and accept his fate, but this was by no means what he imagined.

So, with a heavy heart and watery eyes, for he refused to cry like a foolish child, Bilbo trudged back towards the Great Smials. He hadn’t realized how far he’d followed Thorin until he breached the tree line and spotted the glowing windows of the smials. As if to add salt to the wound, a hulking dwarf approached him with a clear air of animosity. A mighty glare burned through Bilbo where it sat below a bald head and above thick, crossed arms as Dwalin growled at him.

“Where did he go?” He snarled.

Bilbo dropped his head down and hiked his shoulders up as he pointed quickly behind him. There was another displeased noise before Dwalin bypassed Bilbo and followed Thorin into the darkness. Bilbo simply continued onwards back to the party.

The party-goers still roared and indulged themselves around the banquet hall as Bilbo entered. No one spared him a passing glance, the tiny lump of a hobbit who looked smaller than a pill bug and who wished he could curl up and hide like one. The only people anticipating his return jumped to their feet at his return, but when they saw his face, they all slumped back into their seats.

Fortinbras put his head in his hands as Balin shook his. Gorbadoc’s face was somehow as pale as a ghost and as red as a poppy while his hands nervously strangled a handkerchief. Only Mirabella drew Bilbo to his seat, holding his hand delicately and asking after his health. Apparently, he did not look well, but he eased her worries away with a barely audible reassurance he was fine. If only Bilbo believed his own words.

Chapter Text

Bilbo knew it wouldn’t be a very good day when his cravat refused to do as he demanded of it. The knot was either too loose or too tight, no matter the number of times he re-tied it, and it never folded into his waistcoat as he liked. After so many attempts, he gave up with a disgruntled huff. To stop his fingers from fiddling with it any further, he took to running them anxiously through his mess of curls— another thing that disobeyed his whims. He felt he looked a bit like a disaster, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he should just cancel and lock himself in his study for the rest of the day.

Well, if he were honest, even if he looked his absolute best, Bilbo would still have preferred to cancel his plans for the day.

He’d put it off for far too long, though. Eventually, he would need to face the Prince again, especially with his ridiculous title of “guide” for the dwarven entourage; he still had yet to forgive Fortinbras for such a transgression.

Bilbo had pushed the limits by waiting almost two weeks to reach out and request a day to show Thorin around and indulge in “hobbit culture”. If it weren’t for Aunt Mirabella, he would have waited even longer, but she urged him to do it sooner rather than later. Nine months or not, creating a good impression as soon as possible would be more useful than sitting on his bum and doing nothing, or so she said. Bilbo still hadn’t the heart to confess a good impression might be out of his reach now, at least after that first day.

No, instead, he had sat and listened to her lecture.

“Flowers are at the core of our culture, Bilbo, and are a major part of Lithe. Dwarves know rocks and minerals and stones, but what of flowers? To understand our ways, it’s important to understand our ‘language’, wouldn’t you say? Take the Prince down to the flower preparations and show him about, Dear. What harm can be done?”

Plenty of harm, Bilbo wanted to reply at the time, but he held his tongue.

“Or, you can skip the flower market and immediately lead His Highness into a frolic. Although I’m not certain how well he’ll take to those traditions, hm?”

Bilbo was left spluttering as she laughed. To even suggest a thing! Mirabella certainly upheld her Tookish spirit regardless of her age, teasing her poor nephew as such. Of course, being surrounded by Brandybucks were likely to encourage her more than any other family. And she wondered where Primula got it from! Her devious cackle haunted Bilbo as he straightened his waistcoat for the umpteenth time, the maroon fabric taunting him as his cheeks threatened to match its color.

What was she thinking, implying he and a literal royal go tramping about in the woods, amidst roots and twigs and dirt, to kiss and touch one another like fumbling tweens, to have Thorin , rude, volatile, imposing Thorin , kiss and touch him with scratching beard and large—

Bilbo pressed his cool hands to his face in hopes to tame the rising heat. It didn’t work.

His plans fell ten minutes behind thanks to his aunt as Bilbo was forced to calm his nerves, and then another ten when his reflection’s cravat mocked him and demanded he fuss with it further. By the good graces of Yavannah, may the day not get any worse!

Bilbo shortened his journey to Bywater by a good fifteen minutes, skipping a step or two by entering a hasty jog. He regretted it immediately. The sun and exertion worked in tandem to make him a few degrees hotter under the collar, leaving it to stick to his skin uncomfortably. As if to add to the day’s burden, when Bilbo moved for his handkerchief, he was loath to find he forgot it in his rush out the door.

Because of course he did.

Another tally to his list of terrible things to happen on a terrible day. Again, the thought of simply turning on his heels and marching himself back to Bag End entertained itself in his mind, but he could already see The Green Dragon’s front stoop down the path.

The quicker he saw this through, the quicker he could throw himself into his quilts and rue this day.

Upon entering the inn, Bilbo vainly attempted one last preen. With his fingers knotted in a wayward tangle of his hair, a heavy shadow passed over him. It was somehow dark and massive, and Bilbo, nerves still on the fritz, let out an unimpressive squawk. Like a right fool, he tripped out of the shadow’s looming shape. He forced a grimace down as he dared to make eye-contact with a pair of chilling blue, set into an expression of clear displeasure.

So, the Prince preferred punctuality. Duly noted. Bilbo scrambled to explain himself.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for my late arrival, Your Highness! I swear, on my mother’s spoons, I had every intention of arriving on time— arriving early , in fact, but, you see, there were many delays that, uh, that were necessary but time consuming. But, at any rate, I am here, and might I say—”

“Enough.”

Thorin’s deep tone was harsh and final. Bilbo clicked his mouth shut. A flush, not of sun heat but humiliation, burned its way up his neck, and as the heat burnt his skin, a chill ran down Bilbo’s spine. They clashed and created a whirlpool of dread when a replay of their last interaction flashed across his thoughts.

“You are no worse than an insistent insect stuck in my ear!”

“A dwarrow’s lifework is no such simple thing, halfing, but how could you ever understand that?”

“I have no desire to stand the sight of you."

He had waffled his way into Thorin’s bad graces, and now he had done it again.

You right sod , Bilbo berated himself, eyes squeezing shut in preparation for the ensuing beration, I knew I should have stayed at home .

Shoulders hunched, fists balled, and whole body rigid, Bilbo waited… but when nothing happened, he chanced a glance.

The Prince watched him, having not moved a muscle. His eyes were just as severe as always, but he appeared to be waiting as well. They stood in uncomfortable silence.

Well, of course now Bilbo felt embarrassed, ashamed, and downright silly. He can only imagine what Thorin thought as he gazed at the ridiculous hobbit before him, nothing but a sniveling little thing that did nothing but annoy him.

Straightened back out, Bilbo anxiously said, “yes, right. Erm, let us be on our way, then.”

And, they left The Green Dragon: a dwarf who looked like he’d much rather be anywhere else, and a hobbit who looked very much the same.

Bilbo led Thorin back towards Hobbiton, where the Party Tree and festivities were always held. Any and all preparations would be conducted there, leading to the celebration.

Today marked the day Tookbank’s floriculturists would bring their best stock! Mirabella said it would be the best time for a tour, which Bilbo couldn’t disagree with. Just half a mile from Hobbiton, Bilbo already smelled the large array of blooms wafting on top of the breeze. It loosened his body and soothed his mind— to an extent, anyway.

On their short jaunt, Bilbo had set to his job and explained the reason behind their trip. He expounded about the nature of hobbits and their ties to the goddess Yavannah, how flowers and plants were incredibly important to them, and that Lithe was meant to celebrate their love of all things natural, green, and beautiful.

Goodness, Bilbo loved a good history. He’d done a small amount of tutoring for a few younger cousins over the years, so this wasn’t completely new to him. While he might be long-winded, his knack for storytelling left any bright-eyed faunt enraptured with his teachings. However, over the course of his lecture, Bilbo gained the distinct impression Thorin held no interest in anything he said.

Whether it was because of the topic or because it came from Bilbo, he could not say.

The dwarf did not spare Bilbo a glance to imply he held his attention, he did not nod to encourage him to go on, and he did not ask any type of follow-up questions to at least pretend like he cared. Even the most uncouth of hobbits knew to follow those simple social cues! Not dwarves, it turned out. The Prince, His Almighty Highness, decided to keep a wide berth between him and Bilbo as he tramped along the path, and his expression never lightened past what Bilbo scathingly titled “broodingly boorish”. A bubble of annoyance caused Bilbo’s smile to stretch from tentative to strained.

I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, you absolute lout. Is it really so hard to throw me a bone and act like you're listening? Thought Bilbo as he allowed an uncomfortable silence to wash over them, adding to the weight of the sun’s heat even the sweet wind couldn’t lighten. He sighed under his breath. This day truly couldn’t end quick enough.

Hiding somewhere in his mind, a voice questioned how quickly this pact would fall through if this was the pattern of their interactions. Bilbo huffed at it, annoyed.

It’s not like it’s my fault for a lack of trying! He snapped at it, and the voice went silent.

Within their silence, they found their way through Hobbiton and to The Hill. Ah, so close was his quaint green door, enticing him to abandon his rude charge and lock the bolt behind him. Bilbo glanced with longing in its direction as he led Thorin towards the bustle of the party field, and his green door disappeared behind hills.

If Bilbo could not have his armchair and book, then the excitement and beauty of the flower market could serve as a substitute. It never failed to amaze him— the ranges of colors like a rainbow in a soft summer mist. Bilbo felt a sort of invigoration, a flicker of hope. Perhaps Thorin also sensed the infectious beauty as he witnessed it before him. How could he not? Certainly even the most sordid of dwarves could be softened by such loveliness.

With a furtive glance, Bilbo confirmed that even the most sordid of dwarves were not softened by such loveliness.

Such a shame that a face so handsome appeared permanently stuck in a sulk. The hobbit almost reached out to see if the deep furrow between his brow could be released or if it were carved into his skin like stone. Well, wasn’t it said dwarves were carved from stone? There must be truth somewhere behind it if Thorin was the specimen of study.

Bilbo shook himself from his thoughts when he realized he’d been staring. Enough daydreaming, Bilbo Baggins! You didn’t come here to moon over a moody dwarf. Time to get to work!

“Your Highness,” Bilbo said, loud enough to call attention to himself, “allow me to present to you our flower preparations for our Lithe festivities, lovingly titled ‘The Flower Market.’”

Thorin offered no acknowledgement. Bilbo’s nose twitched as he ignored Thorin ignoring him, simply walking into the market with the hope Thorin followed. The scuff of boots falling in-line behind him was his only sign.

They weaved in and out of hobbits also purusing the flower selections. There were many youngins: faunts to tweens to young hobbits, but there was a good number of older hobbits as well.

“As you can see, with Lithe right around the corner, everyone is out to buy a bushel of flowers,” Bilbo explained. He stopped to allow two giggling fauntlings to run past.

He continued, “many of the little ones get quite riled up around this time. They’re all invested in the Flower Crown Competition on the first day of Lithe. They’ll practice and practice as much as they can these last few days, studying their flowers and what looks best together in what arrangements, all in hopes of wooing this year’s judges.”

Like every year, the judges consisted of the Master of Buckland, the Lithe Maiden, and a special guest judge. Why it was that lineup, Bilbo had no clue; it simply was.

“It’s all meant to prepare them for when they grow into proper hobbits, of course. Flowers represent many things, and offering flowers to someone on Lithe can be very monumental, indeed! It’s, er, a couple staple, really, to offer a flower wreath or crown during Lithe.”

Not to mention a proposal of utmost importance, if the right flowers were used. He let his head drop a bit as the tops of cheeks grew a bit warm.

It’s inevitable, isn’t it, this conversation? Of courting and marriage? Bilbo wasn’t sure he was ready for it yet. He feared Thorin certainly wasn’t.

He decided to try anyway, hopefully pulling at his collar in a casual manner. “While I am on the subject, Your Highness, I would like to extend a grace period before we truly enter, erm… courting . You are here to enjoy the festivities, after all! Please, do not feel the pressure to engage in any activities you do not feel comfortable with. It is not necessary for you to, to weave me a crown, nor will I do the same, for the time being.”

“Good.”

Bilbo’s teeth rattled in his mouth with how quickly he snapped his jaw closed. They ached as they ground together, but it was better that than releasing the words building his throat.

Insufferable dwarf, he fumed in his head. The second word he could get out of the stony prince, and it was a snuff. Bilbo didn’t know what that one word meant: “good” that he had a grace period, “good” that he didn’t have to participate in such a silly tradition, “good” that he didn’t have to participate in such a silly tradition with Bilbo— whatever it was, the one word, one word , dared to test Bilbo’s patience past his limits. He didn’t think anyone but Sigismond could do that.

In a fit to control himself, Bilbo rolled his shoulders and pressed his lips into a thin line. He refused to look in Thorin’s general direction.

“Right,” he ground out, just as jaded. He could play this game, too, if push came to shove.

Eru Above, what kind of marriage would this be? They’d be lucky if they lasted the rest of the month.

The silence happily settled over their shoulders once more. There was little that Bilbo could do at this point as he allowed it to happen. Somehow, the quiet was better than hearing another scathing one-word insult. Bilbo almost laughed at the thought— when did “good” and “enough” become insults?

When a self-righteous dwarf spat them at my feet, Bilbo thought bitterly.

“Oh! Bilbo, Darling, over here!”

Like a breath of fresh air, Bilbo spotted his two aunts further inside the market. Donnamira approached first, a faunt on her hip and another attempting to squirm his wrist from her hand. Odovacar’s chestnut curls bounced as he fussed, but his grandmother was experienced in the ways of wild faunts. She held steadfast. Vico, the sweet darling, stared with his large brown eyes. He was simply happy to be there.

“Aunt Donna! I was not aware you’d both be here today. What a pleasant surprise,” Bilbo said warmly.

“Yes, well, you know, faunts. All they want to do is play with the flowers the one time of year they won’t get yelled at for kicking up a garden,” she joked. “And, of course, I am never busy, so why don’t I take the little dears for a day of fun? I have plenty of time on my hands, or so thinks my children.”

Bilbo could hear the roll of her eyes in her tone. Donna quickly fixed her grip on her twisting grandson as Mirabella arrived with her own bunch of children. Luckily for her, they were all grown past the age of rambunctious runaways. Well, all except one. She had plenty of siblings to keep her in check, though.

Mirabella greeted Bilbo, followed by her collection of children: Rorimac, Asphodel, Dinodas, and finally Primula. Bilbo expected her usual personality, but the young Brandybuck stared off into the distance. How curious. Whatever captured her thoughts, Bilbo left her to it.

Bilbo hadn’t realized how long it's been since he’s seen the older of the Brandybuck children. At a certain age, they’d rather be off with their friends than playing with Cousin Bilbo in Hobbiton. Rorimac had taken more after his father through the years, Asphodel’s hair had darkened since her childhood, and Dinodas had finally grown into his ears.

“Rory! Gosh, my how you’ve grown,” Bilbo chirped. There was a satisfaction at the blush creeping over the young hobbit’s face. He was always the easiest to tease. No matter the age, he still remained incredibly shy. Such an unfortunate trait for the hobbit to be the next Master of Buckland.

Mirabella cut in for her son, “hasn’t he? He certainly didn’t get it from me! He grows like a mushroom: best in damp, dark places… like his study. I told him he needs to get out more. Before long, people will think he’s as legendary as those walking trees.”

“Ma!” Rorimac gasped, his cheeks turning redder by the second.

“I know, I know! The Master must know his studies, but he must mingle with others from time to time, too.” Rorimac had nothing to say to that, deciding to hide himself further between his shoulders and siblings. Bilbo smiled, understanding in a way. Belladonna was the same with him as he grew up. By the Grace of the Green Mother, she would not allow Bungo’s habits to rub off on her son! Funny how fate played its games.

“Well, it’s good to see you all, and before the holiday, too,” Bilbo added. They all chatted amongst each other; the adults happy to carry the conversation while the younger hobbits stood about awkwardly. Just then, the excited Odovacar wrested his grandmother’s hold away with a triumphant cheer! He made quick with his escape. Running after a faunt with another on your hip was nigh impossible, but Bilbo had no such qualms.

“No you don’t, you little menace! Come here!”

With a large sweep of his arms, Bilbo captured the wiggling faunt with only a little bit of a struggle. Five years was still small enough to cuddle like a babe, but Odovacar was a Bolger, alright. His size was a challenge, but Bilbo secured him tight, ignoring the squeals of delight. All faunts love a good cat and mouse chase— the catching, for some reason, was their favorite part.

It was then, during the enjoyment of familial games, Bilbo remembered why he was there. His heart dropped quick into his stomach when Odocavar’s feet nearly connected with an immovable object just behind Bilbo. He tried to contain his wince as he prepared yet another apology. What’s one more to add to the day, right?

What Bilbo expected was the same as he’d received up to this point: disgruntled attitudes, churlish glares, and complete impassivity. Something along the lines of “w hy waste my time with this pointless drivel? Get on with this tour so I can be done with you” or something of the like. What he found was not that. What he found caused Bilbo’s heart to skip from his gut straight to his throat. He swallowed it just as quickly.

No, he did not find the usual ill-temper. Instead, Thorin’s eyebrows had removed themselves from their heavy seat above his eyes. It allowed the sunlight to play through the blue color, dancing like bluebells in the wind, and his mouth hung open the slightest bit as if in surprise. If Bilbo was honest, it wasn’t much of a change, and yet without all of the upset lines marking his face, Thorin drew a very gentle picture. It made Bilbo yearn for something… whatever that something was, he had no clue, and he had no plans to discover it as he shoved it back from whence it came, thank you! Right next to where he swallowed his heart to.

Donnamira collected her grandchild promptly as Bilbo attempted to collect his thoughts. 

“Ah, uh, Prince Thorin! Forgive me for not making introductions. Ahem, these are my maternal aunts, Donnamira Boffin and Mirabella Brandybuck— well, you’ve met Aunt Mira already. These are—”

As Bilbo rambled off his cousin’s names, he couldn’t help but notice the flicker behind the Prince’s eyes. The sunlight allowed Bilbo to study it, and while he couldn’t place the emotion, it was a far cry from the usual haughty aversion normally there. It was lighter, softer, much, much warmer, and Bilbo wondered what changed.

Then, as Bilbo’s curiosity threatened to take form, the light in those eyes slammed shut faster than a prison cell. The frown and glare readily settled themselves back within the blink of an eye, and Bilbo wondered briefly if he’d imagined the whole thing. The heat created mirages from time to time.

Yes, it must have been the heat. Bilbo decided that was the most logical conclusion.

After Bilbo completed all the introductions, Thorin at least offered a nod of recognition. It was more than Bilbo expected (or got in return). Like a wet blanket, the Prince’s very presence brought on a drab, uncomfortable silence. Even Odocavar respected the new shift in atmosphere by not moving a muscle. His round eyes trained themselves to the strange creature before him. Bilbo conjured up old wives’ tales of evil creatures snatching up naughty faunts in his mind, and he had no doubt the poor thing had the same thoughts. Thorin fit the bill to-a-T.

Right, well, perhaps it was time to get the cart rolling.

“As I explained earlier, Your Highness, the faunts come here to practice their flower weaving skills for the competition. It’ll be quite busy as the day goes by, so we shan’t be bothering you all any longer! Good day, everyone! It was lovely seeing you all—”

“Doesn’t he want to see?” A light voice asked.

Bilbo was struck speechless. Like a whirlwind, Primula entered the conversation. Her stare drilled straight through him. Whatever held her attention earlier was gone, leaving her free to implement her mischief. He could see it in the twitch of her nose. Bilbo smiled, although it wobbled a bit.

“Want to see… what?” Bilbo asked in return.

“The flower crowns, of course! Isn’t that why he’s here?” Primula said, an eyebrow arched like she already knew the answer. All of her siblings wore varying degrees of disbelief at her frankness while Mirabella’s face expressed a clearer exasperation.

Bilbo fumbled his answer, “ah, no! You see, Prim, while we are here for the flower market, I wouldn’t say the Prince would be interested in watching—”

“I would not mind.”

Bilbo froze in his tracks. Afraid he misheard (as, clearly, the Crown Prince was not in a multiple-word-phrase mood today), Bilbo slowly turned to regard the dwarf. He had been making up a lot of mirages today, who's to say he wasn’t having auditory hallucinations, as well?

As expected, Thorin continued to wear his mask of stone, but his attention was not on Bilbo. He met Primula’s daring gaze. He had directed his words to her. Made sense why it was more than one word.

Bilbo heard the delight in Primula’s response as a large grin spread itself across her rosy face. “Really? You wouldn’t?”

Bilbo suspected, even without the sun, the spark from before flashed fleetingly within Thorin’s eyes.

“I would like it very much,” Thorin spoke quietly, but it carried like a command. Bilbo couldn’t believe it.

Then, under the direction of Primula herself, a mock competition was set for the viewing pleasure of Erebor’s heir. It was a monumental occasion, of course, so it required all the young hobbits to participate, much to the mortification of Rory, Asphodel, and Dino. A tight-lipped smile from their mother put all complaints away, however. Maneuvering to a table with supplies (provided by very giving vendors), all participants sat themselves and began their crowns, some more invested than others.

While it wasn’t how Bilbo thought their little visit would go, he certainly wasn’t going to look a gift pony in the mouth. This was the most he’d seen of Thorin actually paying attention. And caring . Well, his face and posture hadn’t moved an inch from indifference, but his eyes followed the workings of the hobbits’ hands with a master’s scrutiny. Bilbo thought it too intense for simple flower weaving, but Thorin was a dwarf; they seemed to do everything intensely. Eventually bored with watching a stone statue, Bilbo turned his eyes to the little competition as well, and he couldn’t help but genuinely smile.

Lithe brought on so many fond memories. All hobbits had at least one as a faunt participating in the Flower Crown Competition. Bilbo’s own memory was his very first competition, when he was a wee faunt of five. The memory was fuzzy from the stretch of years, but he remembered the feelings. Oh, the crown was certainly atrocious (something very similar to whatever amalgamation Odocavar was building), but it wasn’t the crown that made it memorable— it was his parents. Usually, faunts made their first flower crown for their mothers, but Bilbo gave his mother flowers all the time. Little Bilbo thought it only right to dedicate his first crown for his father. Goodness, Bilbo didn’t think he’d ever seen his father bawl as he had. It scared Bilbo into crying, too, and then Belladonna had two hobbits she needed to coddle. She probably wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Clearly, age showed a difference in skill. Although reluctant, Rorimac, Asphodel, and even Dinodas’ crowns were well crafted; not only were the designs neat and tightly woven, but the flower arrangements were expertly decided on. Rory’s was a delicate mix of magnolias, sweet peas, and lavender heathers. Asphodel made hers with strong white hollyhocks outset by bundles of lady’s mantle. Dinodas was maybe the simplest with his mullein and azaleas, but even a moody tween holds pride in their ability in flower weaving.

Primula was the one who took the utmost care for her crown, though. It made sense, in a way, as it would be her last year eligible for the competition, but she chose her flowers with particular care, from meaning to quality, and then spent an exuberant amount of time making sure every detail was perfect. Bilbo suspected there was more to this mock competition then she let on.

Finally, time was up, and all crowns were laid out to be judged. Donna and Mira oohed and aahed for sweet little Odocavar, and Bilbo offered an affectionate scrub of his hair for his efforts. With a glance, Bilbo noticed Thorin’s eyebrows formed that crease between them.

Ah, right , he thought, dwarves don’t know flower language. They probably just look like pretty little bouquets to him. Bilbo got a wicked idea.

“Well, now,” Bilbo said, “why don’t you all offer an explanation for your crowns, so His Highness can pick his choice.”

Bilbo pressed his lips together to stop the smarmy grin when Thorin whipped his head up, staring at the hobbit like he’d just told him to cleave his arm off. Tilting his head innocently, the hobbit awaited Thorin’s denial, but there was none. The prince resigned himself to his new position, although Bilbo received quite the scathing glower.

Ha! Let him flail a little! If he wanted to be so rude and off-putting earlier, then let this be a punishment for his bad manners. Bilbo offered an encouraging smile to hide his true devilishness as Odovacar was first up. Thorin’s jaw shifted like he was uncomfortable in this new environment, but he listened intently to the little faunt from start to finish… although his explanation really didn’t make much sense even to an experienced hobbit. Faunt babble was always adorable, though.

Rory went by, and so did Asphodel and Dinodas, all who looked just as uncomfortable as Thorin and who were happy to be done with it all after their turn. Primula was last, and again, she stared into some far off place, burning holes into her flower crown. Only with a throat clearing from Dinodas was she jared from her imagination. Bilbo didn’t think it was possible, but the brash Primula Brandybuck, with a bashful twirl of hair around her finger, blushed and hid behind her hand.

“Erm… my crown is, uh… for someone special,” she squeaked. It was the only explanation she gave. Bilbo truly analyzed her crown after that. Primroses galore, painstakingly arranged with dog violets and periwinkles. It was beautiful and well thought-out, and the pieces fell into place. His mouth popped open in shock.

Oh my!

Dinodas took to teasing his sister as Bilbo caught his aunt’s eyes over their heads. Her wide stare matched his. So, she wasn’t aware of this either. Interesting, indeed. Well, Primula was a faunt on the cusp of tweenhood. The love bug bit like crazy at that age. Bilbo was lucky he escaped it back in the day (regardless of whether it was of his own volition or not).

Having forgotten he was there, Bilbo jerked as Thorin moved. For someone so larger than life, he was quick to blend into the background. Thorin thoughtfully stroked his chin as he studied the options before him, and Bilbo wanted to laugh at the image: a dwarf prince acting like the decision of favorite flower crown was on par with the likes of war council. It would be endearing, he supposed, if it were literally anyone else.

Finally, a big hand descended, index finger pointed out with his final decision— pointed directly at Prim’s crown. She lit up like a firefly. Suddenly, the tables turned with the teasing as she began poking fun at Dinodas, for she was the winner. If Bilbo hadn’t been tricked by the sun’s mirages all day, he might have thought he saw the slightest hints of a smile soften the Prince’s face. Of course, it was just a mirage. No need to look too deeply into it.

With all of the excitement, it came to no one’s surprise when darling Vico yawned and grew fussy— and of course, Odovacar wasn’t one to be upstage when it came to fussiness. Time for naps, Aunt Donna announced, and the rest dispersed from there.

Bilbo waved them all goodbye for the both of them as Thorin made no move to do so. And with a glorious return to nowhere, Bilbo was back to square one in dredging up a conversation with the dwarf. They walked together, but it was like nothing had happened. Thorin attempted no words, and Bilbo feared he had no desire to attempt anymore, even though he had no actual choice. He got his petty revenge, and now where did that get him? No step further, that’s for certain.

Regardless of his feelings, Bilbo heaved a big breath of air and continued their tour. He moved between stalls and vendors, explaining flowers as he went.

Freesias represented trust and friendship, gardenias were meant for secret loves, and globe flowers were a great welcoming gift. Hollyhocks showed succession and ambition, and if you were ever in a pinch with a relative, a hyssop for forgiveness was always a good start. The longer Bilbo droned, the stormier Thorin’s expression grew.

It was in the middle of Bilbo’s lecture of the many types and colors of roses, an important but tedious explanation for any to understand the flower language, when a third joined their party.

“Honestly, you just can’t go wrong with a red rose. It’s very simple, really: I love you, I want you— there’s no getting that one wrong,” Primula added, head turned in thought as she interrupted Bilbo. If Bilbo jumped a little, Thorin probably didn’t care enough to point it out.

“Primula Brandybuck! Goodness me, you can’t go jumping out at people like that. You’re a hobbit, not a squirrel. What if I was Uncle Hildigrim, hm? Would have popped his heart like a seed pod, I bet,” Bilbo exclaimed.

“Sorry, Cousin Bilbo.” Her apology rang like she really didn’t mean it. He waved it away.

“Now, what in the world are you doing?” Mirabella had rounded her children up to go practice diplomatic relations amongst the floriculturists, and poor Rory had turned paler than a ghost. With a quick glance around, Bilbo saw no other Brandybucks buzzing about.

Prim played with a stem clipping nonchalantly, humming, and answered, “helping you make your tour for His Highness less dull.”

Bilbo sputtered. “Primula Brandybuck—”

“Ooh! Your Highness, did Cousin Bilbo tell you about tansies? I bet not! I think you’ll especially like them.”

And like that, the young lass swept Bilbo’s tour— and Thorin— away, taking on the leading role as head of the company. Her tour was much less organized than Bilbo’s as she bounced between flowers and plants she liked, spitting fun facts and funny little folktales that came to her mind, instead of moving cohesively between the stalls. Bilbo fretted after her, worried this would only end badly, but it was not so.

Thorin readily kept up with the little hobbit’s pace, listening intently to every little tidbit she spoke of, even backtracking obediently when she forgot something and deemed it important to go back and explain the things she remembered. Bilbo didn’t know what to think.

Certainly, it hurt his pride as an academic for someone like Thorin to prefer the prattlings of a child over his educated words, but not for very long. The longer he watched, the more Bilbo recognized the indulgence of someone who was fond of little ones, used to their strange eccentricities, and Bilbo felt stumped. It wasn’t what he expected, and yet that was what he saw.

The longer the tour went, the more off topic Primula got. She began with flowers and tried her best to stay on track, but eventually she grew bored of that. Bilbo watched as, slowly, she shifted into talking about the Shire in general. She spoke of her family and Buckland, her home. She spoke of nature, what she likes best and what she hates most. She spoke of her friends and their mischief, one such story getting a mild clearing of the Prince’s throat; Bilbo realized later it might have been a chuckle. Primula never showed interest in literature, prose or poetry, and yet she spun very beautiful scenes for Thorin to enjoy. Eventually, Bilbo was quite content to bring up the end of the procession’s line; she was doing a far better job, and Bilbo was willing to watch from afar.

The view wasn’t half bad from where he stood, either. The way the wind caressed Thorin’s hair made an entertaining watch for Bilbo.

It was only when Primula snuck a squinted look back at him, hand coming up to whisper conspiratorially, that Bilbo tuned back into the conversation.

He caught the tail end of her plotting: “... it’s where I always go to blow off steam and just think. So big I can fit inside pretty easy, and I bet you could, too! If you, you know, hunched your shoulders a bit. You’re more than welcome to use it, Your Highness, if you ever need to get away from Cousin Bilbo and his peculiarities.”

Right! Now, some interventions were in order! He stomped right up, fists on his hips, but she already pulled away and began playing her innocent act. That most certainly won’t work on him— he’s the one who taught her it!

“Primula Brandybuck!” Goodness, he’ll have run her name into the ground by the end of the day if this kept up.

“Oh!” she gasped, “Cousin Bilbo! I didn’t see you there! I was just telling Prince Thorin how lovely the oaks were in the autumn times, he’s so very lucky to stay in the Shire long enough to see them! The one’s to the south of Bywater are some of the loveliest, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bilbo didn’t so much as blink, and Primula flashed a Tookish grin in response. Before he could really let her have it, though, a voice rose above the crowd around them. That took the spark out of Prim’s eyes, and it was Bilbo’s turn to smile. Asphodel rounded a couple of lovesick tweens, red skirt kicking up around her as she caught sight of her target. The fiery look on her face could singe hair as she grabbed at her little sister, Primula immediately whining.

“Mama was calling for you, Prim! She told you not to bother Cousin Bilbo any further. You’ll just make it worse,” she hissed, and Bilbo knew it was probably supposed to be just for Prim’s ears, but a hobbit’s hearing trumped all other free people’s. He just hoped the Prince couldn’t also hear it.

Prim glared at her sister, the kind of heat only a sibling could have, “Actually, I was making it better —”

A pinch to her arm startled her words and left Primula stuttering, but no less provoked, as Asphodel hastily apologized to Bilbo and Thorin, and then rightfully pulled the wild lass behind her. He could hear their bickering even once they lost sight of them.

Well, Bilbo supposed that was a marker as any that the tour was well and truly done. Bilbo didn’t need to look to know his companion agreed. Without a word (not that Bilbo expected any), they both turned, and Bilbo escorted the Prince back to his lodging.

No words were spoken on their trip back, and as Bilbo bid his goodbyes and well wishes and hopes the tour wasn’t too dreadful, Thorin didn’t so much as look back as he skulked through the Green Dragon’s door and closed it behind him. Bilbo let out a sigh, the one that had built itself over the day. He literally deflated with frustration, futility, and an actual bellyache. It grumbled at him, begging for a nice, comforting cup of tea. Bilbo wasn’t likely to deny the request as he trudged himself back to Hobbiton, back to Bag End.

Bilbo simply didn’t understand dwarves— not that one, at least. Whatever Primula did, it wasn’t something Bilbo could recreate. He needed to figure this out and fast before things really took a nosedive. Luckily, he knew a couple of dwarves who could help.

Chapter Text

Rap! Rap! Rap!

Bilbo removed the cake from the oven just as the knocking finished echoing through Bag End. Wonderful timing, if he said so himself. The kitchen wafted with a citrusy smell, cloying and rich, and while Bilbo wasn’t especially fond of his smial smelling stronger than an orange grove, he promised his guests he’d make Great-Aunt Mimosa’s Famous Orange Bundt Cake next they visited. With the way their faces had lit up, there was no way he couldn’t follow through with his promise.

Tossing his oven mitt onto the counter, he moved swiftly for the front door. He knew if he didn’t answer promptly, his guests would continue to pound on it, and he couldn’t have that. It required a fresh coat of paint, certainly, but that didn’t mean they needed to go chipping it further! He pulled his door open and offered a friendly smile to the two dwarves standing upon his stoop.

“At your service!” They greeted in unison, as they usually did, luscious hair sweeping over their cloaks. Bilbo repaid the greeting, bobbing in a bow, and then waved the two inside. Both dwarves went about their routine of removing their layers in a proper manner, something Bilbo practically beat into them their first couple of visits. There were only so many times Bilbo could take cleaning mud from Eru knows where all around his home— the ceiling was the last straw!

“Ah! Gíli, you better keep those boots away from my mother’s glory box,” Bilbo didn’t need to turn to know he’d caught the culprit redhanded. The ensuing giggles from Míli and the eventual scuffle of two brothers told him all he needed to know. He rolled his eyes and headed into the kitchen to brew some tea and set out the cake onto the dining table.

Like clockwork, since Bilbo met them about six months back, he’d hosted afternoon tea on Highday with Míli and Gíli. He grew quite close to them over the course of their time together, enjoying their conversations and good-humored personalities very much. They were dwarf warriors sent from Erebor to enforce the Bounds, as the pact dictates. Majority of dwarves within the Shire were as such. A rotation occurred regularly, dwarves returning to Erebor as new ones replaced them. Gíli and Míli happened to be a part of the latest troop. King Thráin was very giving in that regard, sending so many of his well-trained warriors to protect the Shire.

It was strange, though. Over the years, they’d never received new warriors in the middle of winter. It was just far too unpredictable, and that was certainly proven, what with him discovering the two brothers practically starving, passed out in the snow just outside The Hill. Then again, he had heard talk of orcs being on the move. More warriors wouldn’t hurt if that was the case!

At any rate, he had two dwarf friends who might be able to help with his current dilemma.

Bilbo grabbed the kettle and cups as both of his guests finally made their way into the dining room, sitting themselves down as they each carved a hefty piece of cake to take for their own. Bilbo felt no need to hide his self-satisfied smirk as both boys groaned at their first bites; they devoured their plates while swiping more pieces to meet a similar fate. He allowed them time to relax, as he knew they were probably on constant duty. He noticed the way Gíli favored his left side, and there was no missing the occasional wince from Míli when he pulled his arm a little too far. Nothing stopped them from enjoying themselves, at least.

Gíli ate with gusto, almost as good as any hobbit, occasionally wiping crumbs from his whiskers before replacing them with another bite; Míli held himself with a bit more decorum, but just barely— Bilbo supposed crumbs were harder to get out of the braids that framed his mouth.

Bilbo knew they were brothers because they had told him so, but he also picked up on the similar names and mannerisms. Not twins, per se, they look far too different, what with Gíli’s dark, rugged appearance compared to Míli’s more refined characteristics. Míli confirmed Bilbo’s assumption when, one day, the young dwarf very adamantly emphasized the fact he had five years on Gíli, making him older and better— Míli’s exact words. The ensuing fight left them both with large goose eggs upon their heads from Bilbo’s rolling pin.

“How have you been, Master Baggins?” Gíli asked, finished gobbling cake for now. Míli was still working on his latest slice at an easier pace.

“Aye, what have you been up to?” Míli added.

Bilbo, unfortunately, felt his spine lock up despite trying his best to appear casual. How to broach the topic without being obvious? He couldn’t simply say, Your Prince is a right jerk and I’m this close to walloping him back to his mountain, but I can’t do that, so how do I get to know him without wanting to thrash him before the wedding night? Yeah. That won’t cut it. But, how does one say that politely?

Bilbo’s piece of cake, the one he was able to swipe before the boys ate it all, sat uneaten as he rolled his options around in his skull. The boys watched him with a growing wariness the longer he failed to respond. Their brows pulled inward as they fell quiet, and where had Bilbo seen that crease before?

“Ah,” Bilbo scrunched his nose, “yes, well, as good as I've ever been, I’d say!”

His fingers itched to fidget, so he finally began to pick at his dessert. It crumbled apart under the pressure of his fork.

“Really?” Gíli sniffed, unconvinced, “That’s… good.”

He shared a look with his brother, their eyes speaking a secret language between them.

Bilbo tried again, “well, what with Lithe around the corner, there’s much to do, much to prepare! I mean, it’s as we’ve always done every year, but everyone is especially focused on making everything perfect for our recent guests as, erm, as you know, of course.”

Then, it was their turn to tense up. They snapped to attention, backs strung tighter than a bow string as they refused to move a muscle. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, he’d think a wizard casted a spell to turn them into impressive statues!

Not the reaction Bilbo expected.

Was the entourage and Thorin such a heavy topic for simple dwarf warriors? He knew dwarves kept to themselves, considered incredibly secretive about their customs, but the boys were always happy to share what they could with Bilbo since they became fast friends. Maybe with the Prince in the Shire, things were kept on tighter wraps.

Just as Bilbo thought to change the subject, Míli spoke up. “That’s right! The Prince is here,” he shares another look with Gíli, “must be quite… excitable!”

“Oh, yes! Most certainly!” Bilbo agreed. 

“Have you, uh, seen him? The Prince?”

Bilbo’s fork scraped the plate, an ear-aching screeeech lighting up the room, causing all to cringe.

“Yes!” Bilbo winced at his volume, clearing his throat to try for more control, “Ahem, I have. He cuts quite the figure of a royal, I must say. Never seen one in person before, but he definitely has that air about him.”

“Yeah, or something like that,” Gíli mumbles under his breath, only to yelp. He shot a glare at his brother as Míli leaned subtly closer to Bilbo, across the table.

“How was he? Did he seem alright?”

Bilbo nodded, “I’d say the journey treated him well.”

His answer quelled something inside both boys, as they relaxed slightly to his words. They are quite loyal to their crown to care so much for the well-being of their Prince.

“Have you seen him recently?” Gíli jumped back in eagerly.

“I saw him just yesterday, actually.”

That stumped the boys a bit. “You did? Where at? Here in Hobbiton?” Gíli asked.

Bilbo nodded. “I brought him to the flower market at the party tree. It was a rather short jaunt, but I hoped he enjoyed himself.” Hope was a strong word to use when Bilbo knew for a fact Thorin felt no such thing. That crease between the brothers’ brows grew in tandem.

“ You brought him to the flower market?” Gíli’s tone was quite accusatory, but Bilbo knew he didn’t mean it offensively. No beating around the bush, he was just very honest like most dwarves tended to be. Bilbo appreciated his candidness, even if it took a bit for him to grow used to it. Hobbits were much more… floral and long-winded.

With the cake finished off and tea cups empty, Bilbo took up his position as a good host in order to keep his hands busy. Each plate clacked together as he moved about the table. Gratefully, both boys accepted a topping off of their cups as Bilbo offered the kettle.

“As expected of his guide, I suppose. I must indulge him in ‘hobbit culture’, or whatever ridiculousness my cousin claimed when he set me up for the position,” Bilbo murmured that last bit to himself, but he wouldn’t be upset if the boys heard him. He was still none-to-happy about the impromptu decision without his input, especially after yesterday. He caught a glimpse of both of the dwarves’ faces as he moved about; Gíli’s eyebrows created quite the mountain between them, and his puckered lips reminded Bilbo of a puzzled faunt, attempting to figure a tough riddle; Míli took to caressing his right mustache braid, contemplation written all over his face.

Stumped, Gíli continued to ask his silly questions, “you’re his guide?”

Bilbo gave him a funny look as he maneuvered precariously into the kitchen, “I am.”

“Why are you his guide?”

“I asked myself the same question. The Thain thought it would be a good idea to, I suppose, encourage relations.” Bilbo deposited all dirty dishes into the sink and returned to his seat, his feet pattering over the rug softly. “To speak plainly, I do find it a bit redundant. You’d think being his betrothed was enough what with—”

Bilbo barely jerked out of the way as Gíli’s tea spewed all over the table, followed by a terrible coughing fit, and before he even regained his breath, the young dwarf was pointing an accusatory finger at Bilbo.

“ You’re Thorin’s betrothed!?” He choked.

Bilbo let out an affronted noise as Míli, caught in his own stupor of saucer-sized eyes and gaping maw, swiftly knocked his brother across the back of the head.

“ Gíli! ” Míli hissed before turning pleading eyes to their host. “Sorry, Bilbo, he didn’t mean anything by it. We, uh, we just hadn’t been aware you were the one who was Prince Thorin’s betrothed. We knew it was a hobbit, mind you, just not…”

Ah.

Bilbo flapped his hands about, “no apologies necessary! I am at fault for assuming! The Pact happened such a long time ago— and the initial thrill with it. Hobbits don’t normally discuss it anymore, and certainly not outright with Outsiders. I suppose it must be similar with you dwarves.” Confound it, Bilbo! Causing such a fuss. Of course they didn’t know , Bilbo scolded himself, a self-reproachful shame settling over him. What if it was a secret amongst the dwarves? Were the warriors not to know? Was Bilbo such a horrid blight on their royalty that it must be hidden from the common dwarf?

Not a good train of thought. Bilbo nipped it in the bud to later be tossed about as he laid awake at night.

Eventually, the hubbub died down as all three sipped from their teas, Gíli woefully mourning his spilled portion. Fortunately, those creases between their brows decompressed and no longer marked their faces, but a new story played between their stares as they made eye contact over their brims. Bilbo was lamentably out of their loop for he knew not what words they silently exchanged. A little rude, but something he learned to accept with the two brothers.

Then, like a matching set of dolls, they leaned across the table towards him, and suddenly, Bilbo wished their intense stares remained between them. They left him feeling quite unnerved under their duress. Their eyes, a set of brown and blue respectively, compelled Bilbo to think they knew something he didn’t.

“You said you were with Prince Thorin yesterday, at the flower market?” Míli prompted. When Bilbo nodded, he pressed on, “what was he like?”

Well, now that was a loaded question— one Bilbo absolutely could not honestly answer. Bilbo twitched his nose as his eyes flitted about, fingers drumming around his porcelain cup.

“Well now… erm. He’s very regal.” Bilbo played it safe. Neither brother took the bait.

“Aye, royalty tends to do that,” Gíli chimed in, a sort of lilt to his voice like he told a joke. Bilbo didn’t get it. “What, exactly, was so regal about him?”

Bilbo studied a lovely pastoral painting on his wall. He never realized how captivating it could be until he was being interrogated. He cleared his throat. “His… walk. It’s a very good one. Uh… I’d say he carries himself like a royal, what with his stance— and his standing. He does it quite well!”

“Uh-huh. And during this standing , did he… talk?” Míli smirked, another unspoken joke.

“Or, did he do nothing but occasionally bark a word at you?” Gíli laughed, and Bilbo’s mouth popped open. Neither dwarf let him answer as they answered for him.

“And he glared at any and everything in his path like it was at fault for being in his presence?”

“Haha, right? Like it had the audacity to annoy him.”

“He probably stomped around, arms crossed, making himself the worst conversationalist!”

“I bet he grunted from time to time, just to let you know he didn’t want to be there—”

“Oh absolutely! Probably acted all broody because he can’t stand crowds—”

“He definitely did his signature—”

And like that, somehow, the boys detailed every single thing that Thorin did during the tour. Well, everything he did when it was just him and Bilbo. A refreshing feeling lifted Bilbo’s spirits as they bantered because— goodness, someone else understood! He wasn’t alone in noticing the impertinent attitude used against him. He wasn’t crazy! He knew something wasn’t quite right. 

Under the exhilarating feeling, however, a voice questioned how two lowly warriors knew their Prince so well, down to naming such minute details, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was they could potentially be exactly what Bilbo needed! His heart ran on skipping feet as excitement surged through him.

“Yes… yes, exactly! That’s exactly it!” He started quietly, growing louder as hope grew alongside it within his chest. The boys, forgetting they were originally talking to Bilbo, turned their attention back to him. At his exclamation, twin expressions of sympathy greeted him. Gíli even reached out to press a hand of condolence to Bilbo’s forearm.

“He’s… a complicated character to deal with, Master Baggins. We understand he isn’t the most pleasant dwarrow to be around, and on his best days,” Míli empathized.

“But he’s not bad, either! He’s just…” Gíli trailed off, another shared look between the two. Neither finished the thought, whatever it was going to be. Bilbo wished he could steal into their brains and hear what they’re saying. He knew it had to be important, and he needed everything he could get. Bilbo’s body sagged deeper into his seat.

“I know he is your Prince, lads, but please, I need… something. I can not reach him no matter what I try!”

Míli ran a hand through his blond locks, sucking his teeth as he mulled over his thoughts. The dining room swirled in silence and lingering orange tang as he thought. Finally, he must have settled on something as he heaved a sigh and let an encouraging smile split his handsome face. Upon seeing it, a similar smile crossed Gíli’s. If Bilbo peered closer, he swore he could see twinkles of mischief dancing about in those pearly whites.

“Don’t worry, Master Baggins. We think we can offer a little bit of a helping hand. Maybe with some of our advice, we can help you crack some of that armored exterior.”

It was exactly what Bilbo wanted to hear.

Ladle in hand, Bilbo prayed everything would go well.

After a lengthy debriefing, Bilbo plotted with the brothers a plan to get on Thorin’s good side. Gíli said the plan was “fool-proof”, but Bilbo worried he was being too optimistic; the way Míli’s measured smile could be confused for pity was a dead giveaway it wasn’t as easy as Gíli assured.

At the very least, he did as they had told.

They informed him the second way into a dwarf’s heart, after forge-crafted gifts, was good, hearty food. Bilbo could get behind that! Meals heavy with red meats, root vegetables, and potent spices satisfied any dwarf’s robust palette. Easy! Bilbo had needed to go to the market, especially for the specific recipe Míli relayed to him, but it certainly wasn’t outside of his scope as a cook. It was the conversation part he fretted about.

“He may not look it, but Un— uh, Prince Thorin cares deeply for family. Deep familial bonds are important to him, so if you show him you have that, he might learn to respect you more.”

“He’s a huge softy for children! Pebbles are so rare for dwarrow, a child from any race is seen as quite precious. If there’s one dwarrow out there with the softest heart for them, though, it would be His Highness!”

“You’ve probably noticed, but he’s not especially… fond of the Pact. Don’t talk about it, if you can. Reminding him you're betrothed because of it will instantly sour any mood he’s got.”

Yeah, easy as pie, if it were literally anyone else. The only other option worse would be a Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo’s stomach flopped about just at the idea of speaking another word to the surly dwarf; even the lovely wafts of venison boiling in his well-crafted broth couldn’t pull his appetite out from where it had hidden itself away. Such a shame, it was. Bilbo adored a good stew.

As if his heart wasn’t already battering itself around in his rib cage, the abused thing practically keeled over when a distinct thudding echoed from his front door. His poor heart followed suit and repeated the angry beat. His guests were here, and Bilbo quailed at the idea of facing them. Alas, it must be done. Bilbo drew in a shaky breath to replace his courage before crossing rooms and halls to answer the daunting knocks.

Bilbo steeled himself each time— goodness, he thought he desensitized himself over the years with the portrait— but the dwarf prince really cut a most extravagant figure. The haloing of the afternoon sun behind him helped Bilbo none. It was really quite unfair. 

Like always, Thorin’s glossy hair cascaded like black rivers over his shoulders, holding the sun like silk. Bilbo wondered if he had any attire that was not so resplendent, but then he wondered if it was not the dwarf within the clothes to make them appear so regal. The blue of his tunic, embroidered with thread that shimmered silver like the greys shot through his hair, rivalled the color of his eyes. The day was especially hot, the peak of summer, but that did not withhold Thorin from his impressive furs draped over his shoulders, a blend of grey and white and black. Wolf, perhaps? At any rate, there was barely a scrap of skin showing anywhere on the dwarf. Bilbo commended his tenacity to adhere to his royal garb regardless of the temperature. The whole picture was very entrancing, like a fairytale, but also unbearably hot just to look at. And yet, not a single bead of sweat swept over Thorin’s impressively stoic brow.

At least Balin dressed appropriately for a common-place luncheon and didn’t make Bilbo feel too conscious about his thin shirt, lightweight waistcoat, and trousers. Bilbo fumbled a bow, almost forgetting his propriety as a host, as Balin returned the gesture. Thorin gazed down his nose at Bilbo instead, chin held high. Well, nothing new, it seemed. Bilbo quickly invited them in.

“We thank you, Master Baggins, for the formal invitation to lunch. It was very kind of you to invite us to your home,” Balin remarked graciously. He gently ran a hand down his impressive beard as he gazed about Bilbo’s smial, eyeing and admiring the many mathoms and trinkets about. Thorin, too, found his eyes wandering to the impressive structure of Bag End. Bilbo swelled with pride just a little.

“Of course, Mister Balin! It’s no problem at all to have you both here. After all, I would like your stay here to be enjoyable, and how can you enjoy the Shire without proper Shire comforts? A fine luncheon with acquaintances and conversation is but a staple in any hobbit home.” Bilbo feared for a moment he might be laying his hospitality on too thick, but neither dwarf made any comments. He consciously kept his hands inside his pockets to curb his fidgeting as he led them about his home, through the rooms and halls to the dining room. They both appeared interested in the intricacies of Bag End’s architecture, at least.

Bilbo settled them comfortably at his dining table before peeling into the kitchen to gather the stew and bread, baked as recently as that morning. He dished out portions generously, Balin thanking him kindly while Thorin lifted a curt hand to tell Bilbo he did not need more. Bilbo wanted to sniff at the rudeness, but Thorin was his guest. If he wanted only half a portion, then who was Bilbo to force him. His loss! More for Balin and Bilbo, if they so wished.

Just as Bilbo settled into his own seat, spoon poised to take a much anticipated sip, Balin’s voice caught his attention.

“Master Baggins, if you do not mind me asking, who painted those portraits above your fireplace? They are mighty well-crafted.”

Bilbo blinked, nose twitching, as he absorbed the question. Balin waited patiently enough, eyebrows raised like white caterpillars above his bright eyes. It took a moment, but something clicked for Bilbo as he studied the expectant look from the older dwarf.

The perfect segue into a conversation, and Bilbo didn’t even need to bring up the weather! Was it intentional? Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was just seeing things, but Balin’s friendly smile held an almost sly tilt. Whether intentional or not, Bilbo gladly snatched up the opportunity. The hobbit dropped his hands into his lap politely.

“Oh, well, you have a good eye! They were painted by a dwarven artist, although I do not remember his name from the top of my head.”

“Ah!” Balin grinned, “I thought so. The handiwork is very dwarric in style, and I had to wonder. Pray tell, who are the people in the portrait?”

Bilbo smiled in turn. “They are of my parents. The paintings were a wedding gift to them from one of my mother’s dwarf friends from her younger years. Both paintings are older than I, and yet they’ve stood the test of time!” Bilbo did not miss the shared looks of surprise between the two dwarves.

Balin placed his hands before him, that smile never waning. “A ‘dwarf friend’, you say? Every master dwarrow ensures all they make is of the best quality, and it is clear this friend of your mother’s cared for her deeply to offer such a finely made gift. Dwarrow are not quick to find friends in other races, after all.”

Bilbo felt his own hands wrinkle the bottom of his table cloth. “My mother had friends of all calibers from every corner of Eriador, would you believe it! She traveled much before she settled with my father. Although, I will say, she was quite partial to the dwarves of the Blue Mountains. They visited a few times when I was but a faunt, but… I’m sad to say I have not seen them since my mother’s passing.”

Immediately, Balin offered his condolences, but Bilbo quickly waved them off. Thorin sat silently, and that crease had returned. If only Bilbo knew what it meant.

“Think nothing of it, Mister Balin, you have caused no slights by bringing her up! I’m very happy to speak of her— both of my parents, in fact. I, well. I miss them dearly, and they are not brought up as often as I would love to speak about them.” It was a bold step, to be so open so suddenly, but he was not slighted for it. He thought he actually saw Thorin shift slightly forward at his sincerity. Well, it was really hard to tell for certain with how stiffly the prince conducted himself.

“Indeed?” Balin replied, “the discussion of lost kin can be difficult. If you do not mind, how long have they been gone?”

Bilbo thought for a moment, counting the years. “My mother passed about 28 years ago, and my father not a few years after that. They… they loved each other dearly, and the loss of my mother was detrimental to my father’s health.”

Something shifted in Thorin, his eyes flickering as he looked from Bilbo to the table, and his shoulders tightened like a spring, if that was even possible. Bilbo, unsure of what that could mean, praying he had not said anything insulting, returned his attention to Balin as the older dwarf nodded his head in understanding.

“It is quite common amongst dwarrow. Love is precious, and the loss of something so strong is devastating.” Bilbo pressed his lips together, a familiar pang rattling his heart. The dreary conversation threatened to take his appetite once more. He needed to lighten the mood.

“Yes, their lives are sorely missed, but! It is not the hobbit way to mourn what was lost. Instead, we like to remember the good times! Living in Bag End reminds me of the wonderful memories they provided me. Honestly, this home is such an important staple to my childhood, I don't know where I would be if my father hadn’t built it.” Well, that certainly got both dwarves' attention! He suspected he saw interest as they surveyed his home, and it appeared his assumption paid off. Bilbo attempted to not cheer as a light flashed in Thorin’s eyes, akin to interest. Bilbo found some bait, now to keep him on the hook.

“Your father built this burrow? Was he a carpenter by trade?” Asked Balin.

“Oh, no! It is actually an old custom of courting— really not very common, not anymore, mind you, unless you're from an old family like the Baggins. To build a smial was to show you can provide for a family, and clearly, my father intended to show he could provide! Bag End is actually well-known around the Shire for its size and artisanry.”

“Explains the title ‘Master of Bag End,’ then! This smial, you say, is quite large. Excuse me for assuming, but I’ve noticed halfling families run quite… full to capacity.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh at Balin’s way about words. Somehow, the conversation hadn’t turned entirely sour yet, and he was quite enjoying it. Even if the word “halfing” made him cringe, he did not allow it to ruin the momentum they’ve collected.

“You would be correct in your assumption, Mister Balin, as hobbits do tend to foster large families. ‘As fertile as the gardens we grow, more stubborn than the weeds’ I think was my father’s phrase for it— quite crass for him, actually.” He couldn’t help but laugh once more at the shocked looks on Balin and Thorin’s faces. “Is it not the same for dwarves?”

Balin offered a soft chuckle in return. “Nay, it is not. Dwarrowdams are rare, marriages even more so, and for marriages to produce offspring rarer still. If a couple were to attempt, often one child is the safest. Three babes is the most any would attempt.”

“Goodness! I’d say many couples in the Shire think five fauntlings running around to be the best number.” Again, the wide eyes were a delight to see.

“And you, Master Baggins? Were you amongst a litter of pebbles?” Balin joked lightheartedly. Bilbo smiled sadly, although he tried to keep his cheer.

“No, I am an only child in that regard. Oh, please do not apologize, I took no offense! It’s uncommon, but it was just not something my parents pursued. I never really knew why, and I can’t ask them now. Bag End was built for a large family, after all, or at least that is what most assume. But…!” Bilbo took great pleasure to dive into discussing his extended family at length. His aunts, uncles, cousins, all of them! Both dwarves listened on attentively, captivated by his stories and anecdotes of how Bag End never really felt empty. It was the longest Thorin had ever dared to offer his attention compared to their last time together. His face did not read very amused or entertained, but he listened, and Bilbo considered it quite the important bit of development between them.

It reminded Bilbo of the flower market, of the dwarf prince’s leniency with the energetic Prim, and the hobbit dared to take a deep breath before purposefully addressing Thorin. It almost seemed to stun Thorin when Bilbo turned and met his eyes with what he hoped was a gentle, grateful expression.

“Actually, Your Highness,” Bilbo breathed, mustering his courage, “I would like to formally thank you for your indulgence of my cousin, Primula. Goodness, Little Prim has taken to you as easy as a bee to pollen. She might seem like she’s got a lot of pluck, but she is actually a timid faunt around Outsiders.”

Balin shifted a subtle smirk to his prince at Bilbo’s words, like he knew something. Thorin refused to meet it as his glare slipped to his bowl of stew. Bilbo remembered what Gíli and Míli said about Thorin’s soft spot for children, and he felt it must be true if Thorin’s own advisor appeared to tease him. Suddenly, those scathing blue eyes stole a glance at Bilbo, and he found his heart stuck in his throat when he realized they were not scathing in the slightest. No glare, instead replaced by considerate acknowledgement. The prince nodded, a barely there twitch of his head. It was quick, of course, but it was enough to leave Bilbo flustered and feeling heat burn the tips of his ears.

“A-Anyway! I’ve blathered for long enough, I’d say! Your stew will be frozen by the time I finish, so please! Let us eat!”

Surveying the spread of stew and bread before them, both dwarves graciously began to eat. Balin took no time in tearing a chunk of bread to dunk into the broth while Thorin moved a bit more slowly, his spoon scooping a thick chunk of venison and potato. Bilbo watched anxiously, but not obviously, as he sipped from his own spoon. The taste was stronger than Bilbo was used to, Míli specifically instructed double his usual spices, but it was still mighty delicious! Bilbo thought he did well, but the dwarves’ reactions would be the final test on whether he successfully pulled off the recipe.

Bilbo didn’t need to wait long. The wide eyes were a little nerve-wracking at first, but when both dwarves quickly dove for another bite, he willed his pulse to calm down.

“Where did you learn to make this?”

 Bilbo’s heart rate skyrocketed at the deep rumble of Thorin’s voice, sounding like the scrape of metal against metal. It was not rude nor accusatory, but Bilbo wouldn’t ascribe it to be kind either. When Bilbo dared to meet his eyes, that blank, aloof stare did not sell him any secrets of emotions, either.

“I have some dwarf friends of my own who say it is their favorite. I thought it might be a nice meal to welcome you— being away from your home and all,” Bilbo said. His reasoning was accepted readily as the dwarf prince returned to his bowl without another utterance. The table fell into silence outside of the occasional clink of dishes and slurps of stew, and Bilbo observed smugly as Thorin ladled himself another helping. He hid his smile behind his slurping.

No more conversations found their way into their neat little luncheon, and Bilbo wasn’t too upset by it. He felt he successfully completed his mission, in some ways. The bowls, so clean you might think his guests licked it so, sat empty while the dwarves sat full and satisfied. Bilbo, too, anticipated a nice, long smoke after he found himself alone once more. Nothing better than a long drag of his pipe after a gratifying meal. Without much fanfare, Balin and Thorin stood themselves from the table and allowed Bilbo to escort them back towards the front door.

Balin presented a jolly smile, as though he were impressed, and Bilbo did his best not to preen under the positive attention.

“Thank you very much, Master Baggins, for the lovely lunch. It was a welcomed surprise,” the white-beard dwarf complimented.

“Think nothing of it, Mister Balin. Hobbits love a good meal, and we love it even more to share it with good company. If anything, I should thank both you and Prince Thorin for accepting my invitation,” Bilbo countered. This left Balin laughing softly, a light sound from his belly.

“Actually,” Bilbo swallowed his nerves, “if it is not too much trouble, I would like to extend the invitation. As you noticed, Bag End is meant for the hustle and bustle of company, and I would be honored if His Highness and you, his chaperone, would be willing to continue this luncheon in the upcoming weeks, as well?”

Butterflies fluttered all around inside Bilbo’s gut, swirling his belly of stew, as Balin turned to his prince for his assent. Thorin’s eyes cut sharply to Balin, and Bilbo’s butterflies buzzed as he feared he’d answer no. No words were exchanged, and yet Balin’s warm smile spread like easy butter into a bright grin across his face. He turned back to Bilbo.

“I believe that is a fantastic idea, Master Baggins. Now, we shall return to our lodgings for the day. Again, thank you for the opportunity to tour your home and enjoy your cooking,” Balin bowed deeply, completely bent at the waist, leaving Bilbo quite flustered. This isn’t the first time Balin has bowed to him, they quite literally greeted each other in a similar way earlier, but for some reason, this one felt different.

As Bilbo was about to tell Balin to stand up for there was no need for such formality, at least not to such a simple hobbit doing what he loves to do, Bilbo froze as Thorin inclined his head slightly.  It was hardly a bow, if that was what it was meant to be, but it was an acknowledgement Bilbo hadn’t anticipated. With Bilbo struck dumb, Balin and Thorin excused themselves and left swiftly down his front steps, out his gate, and down the path.

Bilbo blinked himself back to the living world, pursed his lips in thought before finally deciding he’d fetch his pipe for that smoke he was looking forward to. He had plenty to think about now, after all. He couldn’t wait to tell Gíli and Míli about their progress!

Chapter Text

The chattering of sparrows roused Bilbo, although he didn’t remove himself from the cradle of his bed until the sun spilled over his eyes and refused to leave him be. He washed his face and dressed himself, even if his choices in fashion demanded some consideration— he’d be outside all day today, so light clothes would be necessary, but he should not sacrifice propriety for comfort. He’d pick up a shirt, face scrunched as he weighed his options, then he’d grab another and do the same. Bilbo cared about how he looked, at least enough to not want to cause a fuss in public, but maybe he was going a little overboard.

It was only the first day of Lithe, Faunt’s Day, but he also would be spending the whole of it with Prince Thorin; it was a dilemma that demanded Bilbo’s attention for a good bit of the morning. He almost missed second breakfast because of it!

Almost.

Bilbo chewed his biscuit slowly as he trotted down the path to the Green Dragon. He ended up settling with a cotton shirt and a linen waistcoat, both breathable to combat the summer heat, and the pale yellow matched the light color theme of Lithe— the embroidery was some of his favorite, too, of intricately woven leaves and stems throughout the fabric. No cravat, sadly. He’d sweat right through it. His hair chose to cooperate, luckily, his curls not resembling a bird’s nest for once, and his feet looked especially well-kept after a quick brush… or three.

While Thorin had been to Hobbiton several times before, especially since Bilbo just hosted another luncheon yesterday, Balin requested Bilbo escort His Highness for the celebrations while the advisor was preoccupied. Bilbo thought it strange, but Balin explained it away with some excuse about how Thorin had much on his mind. Sometimes, it arrested all of his functions. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, it sounded like he was implying Thorin did not do well with directions.

Well, at any rate, Bilbo had agreed to the task. Now, he found himself standing inside the Green Dragon Inn, made small by the towering dwarf before him, dressed in his finery of furs and draperies. So similar to a few weeks ago, and yet slightly different. Thorin provided no answer to Bilbo’s greeting, choosing his usual silence, and yet…

Bilbo thought those piercing eyes did not glare as much as they had before. They did not burn him, scold him with hostility, and the knit between his eyebrows was softer. Or, possibly not. It could easily be Bilbo’s mind seeing things that weren’t really there. Thorin did not snap at him, at least, and Bilbo accepted it as a good sign. Their journey back to Hobbiton, too, held a better atmosphere. Bilbo talked, but he did not do it to fill the empty space between, and he found their proximity not a giant chasm like before. Well, if Bilbo stretched his arm out, he wouldn’t even be able to touch the dwarf prince’s arm, but it was closer still.

Within no time, they rounded on the party tree where the excitement was already in full swing. Bilbo heard the swell of voices as they crested the hill, the lilted songs of faunts squealing as they played. The turnout was wonderful! Goodness, Bilbo didn’t think he had seen so many children on Faunt's Day since he was a participant. Babes crawling in grass, toddlers showing each other bugs, and the older ones running about amongst their peers with not a care in the world. It warmed Bilbo’s heart; they had the chance to experience a proper Lithe, no curfews or fears, in part thanks to the dwarves. Bilbo never really realized how much brighter the Shire shone in the last decade or so.

It almost brought a tear to his eye as he began to trek down the hill, but he stopped when Thorin’s heavy steps did not follow. Bilbo quickly turned, eyes darting for any signs of temper. To have a surly prince on Faunt's Day would not do— if it must be done, Bilbo would just have to turn His Highness right around if he wasn’t in a festive mood. 

However, that wasn’t what he found.

By Yavannah, Thorin’s eyes sparkled. Bilbo harkened back to the flower market when he thought he saw something, but the light in Thorin’s eyes was so clear now it almost cut like glass, straight through Bilbo’s chest. His face was alight with an emotion of awe, wonderment, and the lines on his forehead and around his mouth were less severe— more soft. Like laugh lines instead of frown lines. He really was very, very handsome, devastatingly so when he appeared so tender, and it struck Bilbo. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the sight.

Bilbo lost himself in a field of bluebells, imagining the way the breeze would make them ring, if a certain someone would take up his hand and lead him through the flowers, drop a kiss upon his cheek…

He quickly shook himself awake from his daydream.

“Prince Thorin?” Bilbo called gently. Thorin snapped to attention, and Bilbo watched with disappointment as everything was closed off once more. “The mushroom scavenger hunt will begin soon. We’d best find a viewing spot before they’re all taken.”

No response was given, but Thorin obediently fell in line beside Bilbo as he led them towards the picnic tables. As Bilbo expected, families of all shapes and sizes filled the tables, spilling onto blankets spread around them, and he worried they may be forced to do the same. Bag End wasn’t far, Bilbo could quickly grab a blanket and return, but it did not feel right to force royalty to sit on the ground. Luckily, off to the left of the field, a single table had yet to be claimed. It was quite a ways away from the main stage, but it was better than nothing. Bilbo hastily shepherded Thorin to sit before someone came to snatch it up. If the dwarf prince shot him a warning glare for his pushiness, Bilbo willfully ignored it.

They arrived just in time, it seemed, as a bell rang out to collect the faunts and hand out the scavenger lists. Bilbo smiled as a pair of siblings, one barely able to walk, held hands and waddled towards the stage with their mother right behind them. He put his chin in his hand as Fortinbras stood atop the stage and explained the rules, more for the parents than the children, even though most were probably not listening, anyway. Many knew the rules through years of participation. Of course, there were a few who considered this their first year of Lithe. Speaking of…

“He’s given them a list of riddles,” Bilbo pointed towards his cousin, “every year a new list is drawn up, and then each faunt gets that same list so it’s fair play. It’s all fun, of course, but it also serves as a lesson in mushroom identification. It wouldn’t do to have a faunt wander across an unknown mushroom and eat it— there are far too many that can be deadly for one so small. And, what better way to teach them than with riddles? Every hobbit loves a good riddle, so the parents get a kick out of helping, too.”

The bell rang again, and then the faunts were off! The bigger ones didn’t need their parents' help for very long before they bounded off towards the tree line, but there were a few clusters of small fauntlings gazing up at their parents as they couldn’t quite read yet. Bilbo hummed happily, enjoying the spectacle.

“It also encourages literacy, but many of these faunts are too young to learn yet, anyway. By the time they’re old enough to read and write independently, they’ll have aged out of the scavenger hunt.” As Bilbo turned his gaze away from a wee lass, whose pigtails bounced along with her skipping, he found Thorin was not watching the hunt.

He was watching him — he was watching Bilbo.

It was a little startling! One could not blame Bilbo for not being prepared to be caught in that all-encompassing gaze, the way it bored into his soul.

The fact Thorin decided Bilbo’s frivolous ramblings about mushrooms and riddles and literacy was important enough to warrant his attention… well. It was a little overwhelming, and it left him squirming.

No , Bilbo insisted to himself, he’s just learning about hobbit culture. Wasn’t that the whole reason for being here today? That’s all it is, you dummy. No need to overthink!

Thorin raised an eyebrow at Bilbo’s sudden silence, a slight twitch of his face as if asking if he was going to continue, when a little tawny head of curls and big ears sprung into Bilbo’s peripheral.

“Mister Bi’bo! Mister Bi’bo!” Accosted the tiny voice, grabby hands yanking at his shirt tails. Bilbo, happy for the distraction, peeked over his shoulder to see tiny Paladin Took, frantic as he continued to wrinkle the shirt caught in his grip. Bilbo offered an amused hello.

“Hello, Cousin Bilbo,” another voice said, albeit a little out of breath. Aldagrim Took quickly shook his son’s hands from the back of Bilbo’s shirt, hiking little Esmeralda higher on his hip. She cared not to greet Bilbo, which was fine; it appeared she was busy teething on a little tattered doll’s leg.

“Hello, Cousin Aldagrim! My, are you in charge of the littles today?” Bilbo said. Aldagrim smiled, a little tiredly but no less content.

“Oh, well,” he started, “the Missus is with the girls, but I’m more than happy to help with the scavenger hunt. Actually, ah, that’s why we’re here.”

Bilbo twitched his nose in interest as a little list was thrust into his face. “That one, Mister Bi’bo! Hurry, hurry!”

He gently took the paper as Aldagrim chided Paladin for being rude. Aldagrim explained they were stuck, and little Paddy was getting quite anxious to not fall behind. He advised his son to come and ask Bilbo nicely , and since it was a spot of pride that he was known for his riddle skills, Bilbo forgave the little faunt’s temerity.

He read the elegant script:

    I’m small and round, with a delicate taste.

    In salads and soups, I add a fine grace.

    With a soft exterior and a creamy surprise, guess this mushroom, a true culinary prize?

Bilbo grinned to himself. Paladin waited with baited breath while his little sister found the doll’s left arm a better snack and their father watched his children with a gleam of paternal affection. Bilbo played up his analysis, pretending to be stumped, turning the list this way and that, before lighting up with an Ah-hah!

Paddy gasped.

“I think, with my deduction skills, the mushroom you are looking for… is… a… button mushroom!” Bilbo announced. In an instant, the little faunt shouted in glee, toddling away to where he knew some button mushrooms to be. Aldagrim, always kept on his toes, promptly gave Bilbo his thanks before chasing after the little dear. Bilbo heard giggles as Esmeralda delighted in the bouncing of her father’s trot.

While Bilbo watched the family disappear into the tree line with the others, he couldn’t help but imagine how differently their lives played out.

All those years ago, sat in Gerontius’ study, Bilbo tried to throw Aldagrim to the wolves— well, dwarves — to take his place in the pact. Bilbo almost forgot about it, it was so long ago and such a trifling moment. But what if that had happened? What if Bilbo was allowed to live his life however he liked, beholden to no stipulation or marriage? Would Aldagrim be sitting on the picnic bench while Bilbo ran contentedly after his faunts— a family he created and called his own? Would Aldagrim have suffered years of uncertainty, desolation, as he came to terms with his future while Bilbo blissfully lived out his days as his father and mother probably hoped for him?

While Bilbo ruminated, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at Thorin. The prince seemed just as lost in thought, entranced by the families, the copious amounts of children, as they milled about. There was no obvious spark like before, but his face had softened around the edges. It was a side of Thorin Bilbo felt willing to learn more about if given the chance. At that moment, Bilbo didn’t think he’d want to give this up to Aladgrim. If all went well, then Bilbo wouldn’t have to give it up at all…

Eventually, the hunt ended and everyone broke for elevenses. Bilbo missed out on who won, but it was fine. He showed Thorin to the food and refreshment table, courtesy of the Goodchild family this year, Bilbo believed. The spread was especially assorted! The Goodchildren always knew how to fill a table with goodies. Both hobbit and dwarf ate their fill at their solitary table, Bilbo happily munching on a wonderful sourdough bread with a cinnamon butter as Thorin picked at some sausage links wrapped in a flaky pastry. A whoop suddenly caught their attentions.

Whipping around, Bilbo caught sight of four burly bodies sauntering their way. He knew one of them right away. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the tattooed head of Dwalin nor ignore the nerves that built inside the hobbit’s chest at his arrival; their last encounter didn’t bode future ones very well. Swallowing a large bite of bread along with those nerves, Bilbo focused on the new faces, and beards, as they approached.

Truly, the diversity of dwarves was very refreshing, in a way.

Hobbits' curls, freckles, and eyes were all some sort of the same variety. All very distinct for a hobbit of course, but, unfortunately, it was quite common for other races to find it difficult to tell one hobbit from the other. The number of times Bilbo was confused for some Underhill lass was infuriating! His trips to Bree were always harrowing.

Dwarves, though— they were different. Dwarves added ornaments, adornments, braids . Their hair was an accessory, almost like the hair of a hobbit’s feet, and each were unique to the individual, no two the same! It encouraged Bilbo’s scholarly heart to want to know more. What do they mean? Do they represent anything? Certainly they must.

The dwarf to Dwalin’s left sported quite the set of braids, actually, curling up as his extraordinary hat curled down, and his mustache seemed to match. The duo to his right were just as different— the intricate white braids that looped and curved elegantly around the dwarf’s head contrasted the other’s, barely a proper scruff grown on his chin, braided with ribbons, as a clean chop of bangs framed his forehead. Very unique, indeed.

They all stopped before the picnic table, Bilbo rushing to stand as Thorin made no such move to join him. Bilbo bowed low, greeting their new guests. Dwalin barely curled his upper lip as his arms crossed in front of his chest, but at least the other dwarves were much more friendly.

“Bofur, son of Bomfur, at your service, Master Baggins!” Declared the one with the funny hat. His smile reminded Bilbo of a playful uncle, or an old friend.

“Dori, son of Zhori, at your service,” said the white-haired dwarf, a slight smile offered but gone just as quick. Polite, but impartial. Diplomatic. Wary, even. He gestured mannerly to the last dwarf beside him, whose expression appeared quite timid. “And my brother, Ori.”

“At your service, Mister Bilbo,” Ori mumbled softly. Bilbo perked up at the title.

“Mister?” He asked. It was the wrong choice, apparently, as Ori immediately curled into himself. Bilbo definitely didn’t miss the way Dori stepped between Bilbo and his brother, very protective. All eyes were on Bilbo, and he wiped the sweat from his palms onto his trousers.

“Ah, um, forgive me, I didn’t mean anything bad by it! You are just the first dwarf to address me as Mister,” he appeased.

“Is that not proper?” Ori looked like a trembling lamb! Bilbo wasn’t aware a dwarf could appear so skittish.

“No, no, it is! Quite proper etiquette for hobbits, actually! It was just a nice surprise, is all,” he assured. Like a deep breath, the tension deflated from the group. Ori stepped around his brother and decidedly took a seat across from Bilbo. The uncertainty in his face melted away like butter, replaced by bright curiosity. So, maybe not so much like a trembling lamb, after all.

“Oh, I had hoped so! I noticed many hobbits refer to others with ‘Mister’, but it felt a little inconsistent as not all hobbits received the title. I wasn’t too sure if it was right to use it with you, and so I thought I had made a mistake!” Ori rambled. Not a trembling lamb, indeed! An intellectual, if Bilbo had to guess.

Ori made many inquiries about hobbits and their peculiarities, from their eating habits to social stature, and Bilbo appreciated the conversation. Dori had his own questions that he’d pose from time to time, and Bofur appeared to just be happy to be there. Any conversation was a good conversation for him. Dwalin and Thorin kept to themselves, but Bilbo was growing used to that.

After elevenses, Fortinbras gathered the fauntling lasses to commence the Maypole, and that sparked another avalanche from Ori. The most shocking fact to the dwarves was not only the number of children but the number of girls.

“Pretty even number of males to females, aye? Similar to men,” Bofur chimed in, and Bilbo nodded in agreement.

“More or less, I suppose. It’s believed hobbits are distant relatives to men, actually,” he said. Ori leaned forward.

“So, hobbits do not come from cabbage patches?” He sounded so sincere as he treaded his question carefully, Bilbo couldn’t help but giggle good-naturedly. Thorin shifted slightly beside him.

“Well, do dwarves come from stone?” He countered. When all the dwarves vehemently denied it, saying not since Aulë, or rather Mahal, crafted the Seven Fathers, he smirked, “well, all the same, then. Hobbits hold festivals to celebrate Yavannah for her bounty, but we don’t really have any connection to her. The first hobbits did not sprout like cabbages, I’m afraid.”

It must have made sense enough as they all finished watching the last of the ribbons wrap around the pole in silence, luncheon’s call echoed by the excitement of the crowd. Bilbo piled his plate high with some lamb chops, topped with a delightful mint garlic sauce, and a mix of greens, but the dwarves stuck with refilling their cups. With as large as they appeared, Bilbo still struggled with understanding how small their stomachs were.

While he enjoyed himself, Bilbo listened as the furor around him buzzed higher and higher. The main event of Faunt's Day was drawing closer. Finally, with a swell of voices and enthusiastic cheers, the bell rang once more to announce the beginning of the Flower Crown Competition.

Tables settled on the stage now, filled to the brim with flowers, Fortinbras stood alone once more as all attention turned to him. The Thain cleared his throat and tightened his scarf. Bilbo thought he looked quite hot under it; he’s glad he forwent his own.

“Lady and Gentlehobbits, the time has come for the ‘main course’ of Faunt's Day!” A chorus of cheers echoed his excitement, “the annual Flower Crown Competition, began way back in—”

As he droned on, Bilbo tuned his cousin out. He loved a good history, certainly, but after hearing the same story for his past 48 years of life, it became stale. Also, poor Fortinbras wasn’t much of a storyteller. At least the dwarves listened on, engrossed in learning. Even Dwalin appeared less miffed about the whole affair.

“— now, with the rules out of the way and all participants ready, allow me to introduce this year’s judges. Our lovely Lithe Maiden, Prisca Baggins, please come to the stage!”

Bilbo clapped along as his young cousin Prisca elegantly floated across the stage. Her black curls were pinned back with sunflowers, the crown of the Lithe Maiden, showcasing her flushed face and shy smile. Tomorrow, she’d pass on her title to another up-and-coming lass of beauty and goodwill. Bilbo thought if anyone deserved the title last year, she was one of the few with a gentle enough heart.

“Next, the dependable Master of Buckland, Gorbadoc Brandybuck!”

Gorbadoc stood, waved, and made his way to the stage to the ruckus of the crowd. Bilbo’s uncle had participated as the competition’s judge for as long as Bilbo remembered, possibly even longer. He never really knew why— he assumed the Brandybuck's enthusiasm and charisma made him a well-liked and popular choice of a judge, and it simply stuck.

“Lastly, our guest judge of the year! It was decided, with the arrival of our esteemed guests, it was only right to include them in our time-honored traditions—” immediately, all bodies at their table went still, Bilbo included. While no one said anything, all eyes had turned to a very tense, stormy-eyed dwarf prince, “— please welcome Prince Thorin to the stage!”

The knee-jerk reaction to laugh at the idea of the broody prince, standing amongst faunts and flowers like a fish out of water, was easily curbed by Thorin’s expression, clouded worse than a winter blizzard. Luckily, Dwalin released quite the guffaw. It was loud enough for any too afraid to do so, so Bilbo felt satisfied regardless. Thorin did nothing to stop Dwalin’s enjoyment as he grudgingly rose from his seat, but Bilbo had noticed the deadly way he glared a hole into his guard. Dwalin must be quite the stonewall to withstand such malice— Bilbo probably would have combusted on the spot.

If anything, the glare just made Dwalin laugh harder.

The crowd followed Bilbo’s suit in not rousing too much cheer while Thorin strode through the crowd and onto the stages. As he stood alongside the other judges, he loomed over them all with his shadow, damping the good-natured atmosphere Gorbadoc created. Bilbo winced as he felt the quiet uncertainty drape itself over his shoulders, as it did the other hobbits.

At least the dwarves were unaware, Dwalin most of all with his wide grin. He clearly anticipated quite the show.

Fortinbras continued his speech, albeit a little shakily. As he already knew what to expect, Bilbo watched the judges, instead. Leave it to his Uncle to try and start up a conversation with Thorin despite their previous grievances. His body was relaxed and his hands flew about him as he spoke jovially. Thorin, on the other hand, stood with his back straight, like a soldier ready for war. Bilbo prayed to whoever, Yavannah or Aulë or even Eru, that Gorbadoc learned from his past mistakes and wouldn’t cause their guest to storm off into the forest once more, or that Thorin could keep his temper to himself. It would reflect very poorly for all, especially in front of such a crowd.

He pitied his dear Baggins cousin. Prisca continued to smile, but she eyed her fellow judges closely. If she shuffled her feet, inching herself carefully away from them as a precaution, Bilbo couldn’t blame her.

Then, Bilbo swore Thorin’s gaze cut towards their table. He couldn’t be entirely certain from where he sat. Bilbo did feel a pang of sympathy for the Prince. As imposing as he appeared, he also looked unsure— off-balance. Bilbo knew what it was like to be the center of attention and yet feel completely out of place; he’d been familiar with it since he was young. So, like a fool and before he could stop himself, Bilbo offered an encouraging thumbs up.

It was completely ridiculous. What would that do for a dwarven prince? He certainly wouldn’t need reassurance from a hobbit he barely tolerated. When Thorin quickly looked away, Bilbo  sighed heavily. He’ll be haunted by that for a while.

Bilbo pretended he didn’t hear the light sniggering from across the table as he willed the heat from his face to go away. If anyone asked, he’d claim it was the sun.

Fortinbras invited all participating faunts to the stage where each stood around the flower tables. Some were riddled with more nerves than others; it ranged depending on the age. Scanning the faces, Bilbo found Primula between two young faunts, her body statuesque compared to their anxious restlessness. It was hard to tell from the distance, but she wore quite the somber facade. Her glower could sour and wilt all the flowers on the table if she wasn’t careful.

Then, the bell rang, and little hands moved into action.

The next fifteen minutes descended into a sort of quiet chaos as all spectators respected the concentration necessary for the crafters to work. Fortinbras and the judges circled the faunts as they plucked and weaved, evaluating the techniques used. As Bilbo expected, the dwarf looked completely out of his element. He didn’t think it possible, but Thorin’s shoulders were more tense than when he first stepped on the stage, his hands held stiffly behind his back. It reminded Bilbo of their day at the flower market. He remembered how Thorin watched with wary fascination at something completely new to him, the way the children made crafts seemingly foreign to him— but that was a smaller, more intimate moment. The difference now was the eyes of all the hobbits from the whole of the Shire scrutinizing his every reaction. Bilbo considered chewing out Fortinbras, on behalf of Thorin, although he wasn’t sure how he’d go about it exactly.

Eventually, the bell chimed again, and all hands in motion flew into the air and away from their crowns, complete or otherwise. The disappointment written on a few sweet faces made Bilbo’s heart ache. He didn’t miss Primula’s, though. Her grim expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a tender sort of pride brightened her face as she gazed down at her masterpiece. Bilbo could not see her creation from his seat, but he was happy for her. It was her last official year as a faunt, after all. He was glad she ended it on a high note, though he did wonder momentarily whether her special hobbit was on her mind.

The thought was swept away as the competition moved on.

As the crafters stepped back, the judges stepped forward. Bilbo had never been asked to judge the Flower Crown Competition, and for that he was grateful. He could only guess how stressful it might be.

Gorbadoc had experience; he’d done it for so many years, it was no surprise he was the first to make a decision, an easy one at that. Ivies curled around tulips and baby’s breaths in a mature, romantic design. A very deliberate choice, if Bilbo had to guess. By the knowing smirk of the young lad who made it, Gorbadoc’s previous years’ choices had been thoroughly studied.

As the two other judges continued to circle, Bilbo didn’t miss the many flower crowns with Priscilla Gladiolus as the main flower. It was common for older faunts to attempt to appeal to the Lithe Maiden by including her namesake into their crowns. Normally, it was a surefire way to win. Unfortunately for all those clever minds, Prisca chose none of theirs. She lifted a delicate crown woven with lilacs and yellow roses.

Now, all eyes waited with bated breath as Thorin studied his choices. To most, Thorin presented the perfect image of aloof disinterest. That’s how he looked most of the time, anyway. Bilbo would have agreed if he hadn’t been learning his minute tellings. Bilbo imagined that the line between his brows was larger than the mountain he came from, thinking so hard steam could start spouting from his ears. It was a silly thought, but probably not far from the truth. He was taking his job as a judge seriously, but maybe far too seriously.

Perhaps Bilbo really should have attempted to explain flower etiquette more, force the prince to listen to his lectures regardless of it ruining the tentative relationship they’ve barely begun to build. Thorin was floundering up there, and it was painful to watch.

Eventually, after painstakingly considering his options, Thorin delicately scooped a little crown into his hands. He treated it like it was a precious thing easily broken if held too tightly. Bilbo found it quite charming.

All cheered as the three winners ran off to collect their prizes while the others plucked up their crowns, returning to their families. Bilbo enjoyed the spectacle of parents excitedly accepting their children’s creations onto their heads, regardless of the artistry, or lack-there-of.

It was as the three judges were released to return to their own tables Bilbo’s smile dropped and his heart tripped over itself in his chest.

He watched as Gorbadoc approached Mirabella with a lovesick, almost dopey grin, lovingly placing his chosen crown upon his wife’s curls while whispering in her ear. She giggled behind her hand before she playfully slapped at his husband’s stomach. Just a few blankets over, Prisca bashfully approached Wilibald Bolger. She mouthed something softly to him as he happily leaned down to allow her to place her chosen crown upon his head. When he planted a kiss upon the back of her hand, she quickly hid her face into her shoulder.

Drat and bother!

Bilbo attempted to calm the rapidly increasing pattering of his heart, just about ready to run away on him, as Thorin hastily returned to their table. How could Bilbo forget?

He’d told Thorin no creating of flower crowns was necessary for their courtship so early, but he forgot judges, traditionally, chose crowns to later be given to their Sweethearts . In his defense, Bilbo didn’t think Thorin would ever be a judge, and of course Fortinbras had to—

Fortinbras .

Bilbo didn’t think he could do something so tricky, not Fortinbras Took, but his ridiculous cousin had actually done it. Just like the whole thing with being the dwarven envoy’s guide, he was setting Bilbo up. Setting him up for what, exactly? Well, the fool of a Took wasn’t thinking things through because he was setting Bilbo up to fail .

As Thorin grew closer, Bilbo didn’t know how he was to tell him what that flower crown meant, nor did he truly know how Thorin would take the news. Bilbo had his suspicions, though, and unfortunately none of his imaginary scenarios played out well for him. They kept ending with an enraged dwarf ready to start the first of the Hobbit-Dwarf wars.

Dramatic, yes, but not out of the realm of possibilities!

His time and luck ran out as Thorin coasted to a stop beside him, and Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest before he keeled over. Still cradled daintily in those large hands, the flower crown stared up at Bilbo, daring him to say something.

It was made by inexperienced hands, he could tell that much. Most likely, the little faunt chose flowers they liked and simply put them together in a pattern they thought looked pretty; whoever it was had no intentions of trying to win. And yet here it was, sitting within the palms of the Crown Prince of the Mountain, waiting expectantly to place itself atop Bilbo’s head. The flowers, though…

Bilbo turned his eyes away lest it cause his face to spontaneously explode.

Forget-me-nots, periwinkles, cornflowers, bluebells— it appeared the faunt loved the color blue. There were also mixes of green buds and leaves alongside little white flowers, like myrtles and baby’s breath, but mostly blue.

Bilbo doubted the meaning of the flowers mattered when chosen, but regardless of the original intent of the creator, all of those flowers together spoke quite garishly. It was an easy flower crown to understand. For what reason Thorin chose that crown, Bilbo would probably never know for certain, but the fact it settled itself so comfortably in Thorin’s hands, taunting Bilbo and his foolishly romantic heart, just felt cruel.

Bilbo knew better. He needed to think logically.

Thorin did not know the language of flowers. He did not know the tradition of the judges— it all ultimately meant nothing! Not to mention Bilbo held no such feelings for Thorin, at the very least nowhere near enough to desire a flower crown like that.

Well, Thorin did not give his flower crown to Bilbo.

He did not give it to anyone, as logic would dictate. Why would he? He didn’t know the traditions, and so, logically , he would not give the crown away. Instead, he placed it gently on the table before him as he retook his seat beside Bilbo, speaking no words about what transpired. Even as the dwarves complimented him and commended him for his good choice (although none really know what a “good choice” was), Bilbo remained silent, as well. Even though he knew, logically , why the flowers remained abandoned on the table, he could not stop stealing glances at the delicate blossoms. His want for it was irrational, he knew that , but that didn’t stop him from wanting it terribly.

Logic found itself fighting the good fight for a while after the competition ended and into the rest of the day as Bilbo valiantly tried to not think about the crown— he won most of the time.

Most of the time did mean, however, that he caught himself occasionally daydreaming of blue crowns and blue eyes, of large hands and large fingers, of what-ifs and would-could-bes. It was during one of those moments, chin perched on his palm as he stared off into the treetops, when someone jostled his shoulder. He whirled around to scold whoever dared to give him a fright, but the culprit already retreated away.

It was a couple of tweens, actually, multiple culprits, but they didn’t seem to notice they’d disturbed Bilbo’s peace. Little wisps of lights drew their attention away, cackling amongst themselves as they chased after their targets. Suddenly, the light blinked into nothingness, but another flickered on just a little ways away. The tweens quickly changed their course.

Ah .

Bilbo hadn’t realized the day got away from him. So deep in his thoughts, he missed the way the sky faded from blue to pink to orange to a bruised purple. Dusk settled a gentle blanket over the excitement of the festival, just in time for the final event of Faunt's Day: firefly wishes. It wasn’t necessarily a sponsored event but more so a nice ending of the day, a summer activity all could participate in. It also tuckered out whatever energy faunts might have had left, to the delight of the parents. Many families had already left to return to their homes or the homes of nearby relatives, no doubt many faunts carried in arms and on backs to dream in their little beds.

As he surveyed the empty tables, Bilbo belatedly realized his own table was entirely abandoned. Not a single dwarf was left, including his brooding betrothed. Stomach twisting anxiously, Bilbo tried to think back to any exchanges he might have missed— did they wish him well and return to the inn? Did they wander off to get lost? Were they currently getting up to no good, starting problems while he was off in lala-land, thinking about things that definitely wouldn’t happen?

Bilbo promptly began his pursuit of wrangling dwarves.

Luck blessed him as he didn’t need to search far for one of them. Bofur was finishing off the last of an ale barrel near the food table (goodness, did Bilbo miss afternoon tea? Dinner? He can’t remember), looking incredibly tipsy. He waved lightly in Bilbo’s direction, although Bilbo couldn’t be certain it was in greeting. It was far too flappy to tell.

“Hey, Master Baggins! Good to see ya,” Bofur slurred, far beyond tipsy. He carried himself quite well for someone so sloshed. Bilbo was a little impressed, but he needed to not get distracted.

“Yes, hello Mister Bofur. Erm, how was the end of Faunt's Day for you? Enjoy yourself?” Bilbo held his hands together in what he hoped looked polite, even as he strangled his fingers in a death grip. Pleasantries felt pointless, but he also didn’t want to make it obvious he lost his charge when he was supposed to be a guide.

“Aye, very well indeed! You Shirefolk know how to brew a right good drink.” Despite his drunken state, Bofur squinted his eyes suspiciously at Bilbo. In the face of Bilbo’s tightlipped smile, Bofur beamed knowingly. He lightly tapped his finger to his nose as he looked off towards his left.

Following his line of sight, Bilbo could barely make out the shape of a lump in the distance, far away from the rest of the festival-goers. The sun casted shadows like ink as it sank, but that solitary lump looked terribly familiar.

“The fellows and I will be right over there, Master Baggins, so just send him our way,” Bofur said as he fixed his hat, that conspiratory gleam making Bilbo feel awkward, “gotta keep a better eye on that one, Master Baggins. He’s quick to get lost if left to his own devices for too long.”

And then, Bofur stumbled away. Bilbo considered worrying about him for a moment, but figured there was more to Bofur than he suspected. Dwalin, Ori, and Dori were probably around to make sure he didn’t wind up asleep under a table, anyway.

All about him, hobbits of all ages quietly observed the growing numbers of fireflies, some catching them, whispering into their clasped hands, and then releasing their ball of light to float up and join the stars beginning to twinkle. The atmosphere held a calmness that no one wished to break, Bilbo least of them all. Softly, he approached the lump in the distance, allowing it to take shape into the regal prince he knew it to be. The grass rustled under his feet in a muted murmur as he slowly came to a stop just behind Thorin.

Bilbo wasn’t sure if he should speak, or really what he was to say if he did speak. Thorin hadn’t turned to acknowledge him. He remained frozen in his place, back to Bilbo, head tilted down. Somehow, the remaining sunlight caused his hair to shine ethereally, and Bilbo thought it was unfairly beautiful.

In that space of silence, Bilbo examining Thorin, cataloguing anything he could, Thorin finally shifted. His arms came up as his head went down, and Bilbo realized he must have something in his hands. He held his breath for as long as Thorin held his position, and then he released it deliberately as Thorin’s head came back up and a little firefly carried itself away from the dwarven prince. Bilbo, no longer under his spell, stepped up to stand beside the dwarf.

“Make a wish?” he asked meekly.

When Thorin turned, Bilbo thought there was something different about him. The frown was there, the crease between his brows, that permanent scowl— but Bilbo considered it less abrasive and more contemplative. He also happened to notice the bothersome flower crown wrapped carefully around one of Thorin’s palms, not a single blossom crushed. Swallowing, he willed himself to ignore it.

When Thorin did not respond, Bilbo continued nervously.

“Well, usually, at the end of the first day of Lithe, we hobbits participate in firefly wishes. It is where you catch a firefly, whisper your wish to it, and then release it back to nature. The idea is it will carry your wish back to the Gods where they will hear your request and hopefully grant it.”

Thorin’s face twitched into a grimace. “Yes, I know.”

Bilbo’s heart plummeted as he quickly wrung his hands together. Those blue eyes burned like flames, straight through Bilbo. He squeaked, “you do?”

“Yes. You are the one who told me.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Twice, in fact.”

Bilbo couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. He quickly dropped his head and rubbed a finger into his temple to stave off a panicked headache. Did he really? He can’t remember if he did. Was it when he was daydreaming like a loon? Yavannah save him, he prayed he didn’t say anything he’d regret. Knowing Bilbo, he wouldn’t put it past himself. May Eru strike him dead if he said anything about that dratted flower crown.

While reflecting on his eminent demise, Bilbo practically jumped out of his skin when a large, warm hand clasped him by the shoulder. It was heavy but not oppressive, like Bilbo feared it might be. Bilbo’s gaze flickered up, uncertain about what he’d find in that deadly glare.

Thorin’s grimace still sat on his face, but it looked different in the shift of the light.

“I believe it is time to turn in. Goodnight, Master Baggins.” Thorin said, his voice like the distant rumble of thunder. It sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine. He didn’t have much of a chance to respond, his mind reeling, before that singular point of contact lifted away and left him strangely cold. As Thorin withdrew, back towards the main event area and a group of large bodies, a few things clicked together in Bilbo’s mind. He repeated them on loop as he mechanically trudged back towards Bag End, unsure if they truly happened:

It was the longest Thorin had ever spoken to Bilbo, he had called him by his name for the first time, and he was not actually wearing a grimace.

Bilbo realized he had been smiling.

Chapter Text

Bilbo watched on as a yawn bubbled up inside him, the early morning sky bleeding into itself like ruined watercolors. As he covered his mouth, a roar of flames erupted before the crowd, hot even from afar. The flame’s crackling and the crowd’s cheering drowned out his yawn just as it drowned out Fortinbras’ announcement. Bilbo assumed he knew what it was, regardless as it was the same script every year.

With the lighting of the bonfire, Midyear’s Day had officially commenced! The fire set the party field ground aglow with orange brighter than marigolds, and it would not go out until the next morning’s sunrise. Around the fire, Bilbo spotted many young faces still attempting to wake up. They would have their hands full today, tending the bonfire. Goodness, he remembered being tasked with keeping the bonfire lit; a very taxing yet boring Midyear’s Day. He wished them luck in their endeavor.

“A grand display,” Balin declared. He stood off to Bilbo’s right, hands clasped in front of himself as he admired the fire. The lights flickered across his white hair like strings of gold plucked from a wheat field, a gentle smile adding to the delicate words spoken. Bilbo, unable to help himself, inflated a little at the praise— any hobbit would do the same to have their festival complimented as such. Lithe was a beautiful time of the year, their celebrations even more so, if you asked him. It was an honor to show the dwarves such a beloved holiday.

Off behind Balin, Ori had offered a hum of agreement as he jotted something down in his little notebook. They were a small party of three so far for Midyear’s Day with a promise of more arriving later. 

Thorin would be a part of the late arrivals, much to Bilbo’s disappointment. With how the night ended yesterday, Bilbo would be lying if he said he hadn’t received a burst of renewed hope for his effort in their engagement. Perhaps Thorin will begin seeing him as more than an annoying insect. He’d aspired to start immediately lest the night give the prince enough time to reconsider his actions and revoke them.

Alas, the prince was sleeping in.

Balin informed Bilbo that Thorin took on a late night shift of Bounds patrol— something all the dwarves of the entourage helped with. Bilbo was a little surprised a prince would do something a common warrior would, but it appeared normal if the way Balin talked about it was anything. He spoke about it as though Thorin regularly engaged in plain work, dirtying his hands like any average dwarf would.

For hobbits, it was unheard of for any of their leaders to help with fieldwork. Truly, Gorbadoc probably hadn’t set foot in a field since he was a lad.

Bilbo snatched up every little tidbit he learned about Thorin and sneakily stored them away, to ruminate over later. Each small puzzle piece added to the larger picture that was the enigma Thorin Oakenshield.

As the flames shrank into a more manageable size than their first flare, the crowds parted around them to go and prepare themselves for the rest of the day’s merriments. Bilbo, happy to host two very amiable dwarves, invited Balin and Ori to enjoy some breakfasts with him at Bag End. Seeing as Balin had firsthand experience with Bilbo’s cooking, he jumped at the opportunity while Ori enthusiastically agreed, eager about the idea of trying more hobbitish dishes.

Bilbo entertained them throughout breakfast and second breakfast, even if he was the only one eating by then.

They shared stories amongst themselves; some were subdued while others were boisterous! One in particular had Ori accidentally snorting milk out through his nose when Bilbo re-enacted the time his mother caught him trying to put himself inside the plumbing to figure out where everything went when one finished. Even Balin had to dab delighted tears from the corner of his eyes. It was an embarrassing story, yes, but Bilbo loved bringing joy to his new acquaintances more.

Eventually, with his guests’ help with the dishes, Bilbo led them back to the party field where everything had begun in full swing.

Just like yesterday, hobbits from all over The Shire enjoyed themselves— tables, chairs, and blankets teeming with families of momentous sizes. Bilbo thought he even caught some Bree hobbits floating about. It was incredibly congested as they fought their way through the mobs. Luckily, Bilbo planned ahead! He purposefully threw a checkered blanket over a table to claim it early that morning, before Balin and Ori arrived. No other hobbit contested the blanket dibs, so they quickly took up their seats, Bilbo on one side with the two dwarves sitting opposite him.

They whiled away the hours by continuing their conversations, occasionally accepting a wayward interruption by Bilbo’s family relations popping over to say hello, or a stray fauntling curious of seeing the prince up-close— the little dears hid their disappointment terribly when Bilbo informed them the prince had yet to join them.

Eventually, Bilbo was convinced to offer a quick lesson in hobbit families as Balin and Ori began to lose track of who was and wasn’t related to Bilbo, quickly growing more confused as it appeared there were very few who weren’t somewhere in his family trees. It was after luncheon, in fact, while extrapolating the difference between the Tooks of Tuckborough and the North-Tooks of Long Cleeve, that their party of three grew. It wasn’t hard to notice the large group of beards attempting to part the sea of hobbits, seeing as they stood taller than all of the curly heads around them. Bilbo spied Thorin immediately amongst them.

As Dwalin sat beside his brother and Dori took up a seat beside Ori, their table crowded quickly. It could easily seat eight hobbits with room to spare, but as Thorin provided a wide berth of space between himself and Bilbo, Bofur and another dwarf ended up squished on Thorin’s other side. Perhaps Bilbo should have saved a larger table.

With their arrival, Bilbo couldn’t help swiping a quick glance at Thorin, or maybe several. Nothing new, really, past his usual stiff posture and expression, but Bilbo couldn’t help but catch the noticeably less layers adorned on His Highness. While still more covered than any hobbit around them, Thorin decidedly left behind his lovely hides, draperies, and furs. His lavish tunic appeared much more muted in fineries, too.

Bilbo wished his stomach didn’t somersault when he realized Thorin’s sleeves were rolled, exposing his forearms. It was the most skin Bilbo had seen from the prince, and he wasn’t sure what to do with such information.

Hair was not designated to just a dwarf’s head and chin, apparently. Before his mind begged to question if hair grew elsewhere, Bofur caught his attention with an introduction.

“Master Hobbit, allow me to introduce my cousin Bifur, Son of Kifur.”

As he leaned around Thorin, Bilbo’s greeting stuck itself in his throat when he noticed a very interesting… piece sticking out of Bifur’s head. It looked like a shard of metal, an axe, but Bilbo wouldn’t say he’s well-versed in weapon identification. He tried not to react, he assumed it would be rude, but he must not have done a very good job if the snorts around the table told him anything. Bifur said something Bilbo could not understand, but Bofur was kind enough to translate.

“He says to not worry about him, Master Baggins, and that he’s at your service.”

“Nice to meet you, erm, Mister Bifur,” Bilbo replied, still eyeing the protrusion from the salt-and-peppered head. If he said not to worry, who was Bilbo to question him? Clearly, Bifur would know better. “Well, cousins! Perfect timing, if I do say so myself!”

“Master Baggins was just telling us about his own extensive family history,” Balin added sagely, to which his brother scoffed.

Bilbo cleared his throat, “oh, yes. Although, I’m not too sure everyone will be as captivated as you two were. We can always discuss more at a later time.” Bilbo suspected if Thorin wasn’t a fan of his flower ramblings, he wouldn’t much enjoy the lengthy lectures of hobbit names and branches.

“Now, don’t be modest! Family lines are incredibly important to us dwarrow as it is to hobbits, Mister Bilbo,” Dori chimes, puffing his chest proudly. Ori smiled widely at his brother, and Bilbo wondered if they’d had a lengthy discussion over Shire manners. Bilbo appreciated the effort.

Balin chimed in, “aye, indeed. While perhaps not as intertwined as hobbits, many of our entourage are of the line of Durin, as it so happens.”

“Line of Durin?” Bilbo asked. The name certainly rang a bell. The dwarves had spoken it in passing, but he also remembered reading it somewhere, as well.

“Prince Thorin is the direct descendant of Durin, the oldest of the Seven Fathers—” Right! That’s where he’d heard the name, “— as is why the throne of Erebor is his birthright, but Dwalin and I are distant relations. Cousins, coincidentally!”

Bilbo gasped, choking on his air. All looked at him as he hacked, worried.

He held his hand before his face, a truly poor attempt to hide, as he realized he made toilet humor towards Thorin’s relations, crass and entirely not very proper. Not a very good start, and before they were even courting. He should have been more careful! Bilbo scrambled to his feet instantly, startling Balin with his erratic movements.

“Forgive my familiarity earlier! If I had known you were His Highness’s cousin, I would never have mentioned that story of—” Bilbo couldn’t finish, flashing his eyes over at Thorin. He was staring right back. Absolutely mortifying.

Balin lifted his hands before him as if to placate Bilbo, not dissimilar to calming a spooked animal.

“Oh! Now, now, Master Baggins. I assure you, you made no transgressions with your family stories. Please do not worry yourself over it! It did not overstep any boundaries of propriety.” Bilbo begged to differ! As he wrung his hands, Balin continued, “I believe there is a small misunderstanding. While we’re cousins, that does not place me in any special standings.”

“But, are you not—”

“I am the royal advisor, yes, but that is not due to blood. It is through accomplishments I gained my title. Same for my brother.”

Bilbo tried to gauge Thorin’s expression from his peripheral, but his curls got in the way. Hesitantly, Bilbo moved back into his seat, hands in his lap.

“Well, if you are certain I did no harm to the, er…” again, he did not finish his statement. The echo of Míli and Gíli’s advice reminded him of the taboo subject. Thorin seemed to tense beside him, but Bilbo was very jumpy. He could be overthinking His Highness’s usual up-tightness for an even more wound up up-tightness. Fortunately, Balin swooped in to save the day once more.

“No, Master Hobbit. No harm done.”

Bilbo simply nodded.

Within the awkward silence that followed, Dwalin’s harsh voice boomed, “By Mahal’s beard, what kind of story did you tell to make you go off like that?”

He sounded amused, having a go at Bilbo, but Bilbo guessed it wasn’t from a friendly place. Bilbo suspected Dwalin didn’t hold a very high opinion of him, and he honestly couldn’t blame him; honestly, he didn’t hold Dwalin to a high opinion, either.

So, Bilbo refused to answer his question, but his face flushing a few degrees warmer. Dwalin, with a vicious smirk, propped himself closer across the table, as if to goad Bilbo further, but Balin’s slicing glare did the trick. Dwalin grumbled something under his breath, settling back into his disgruntled posture and not-so-confrontational neutrality… if Bilbo could even call it that.

“Well, what exactly are we supposed to be doing here, Halfing? You’re the guide. Guide us,” sniped Dwalin.

And, oh! Bilbo bristled. He knew he couldn’t go toe-to-toe with the large dwarf without losing a few teeth in the process— probably a few fingers, too— but he did not appreciate the tone taken! Not one bit! Putting the possibility of losing limbs aside, Bilbo assumed being rude to Thorin’s cousin would not fly even though Balin said their familial relations didn’t factor. With a huff, Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

“Well, Master Dwalin, to answer your question: enjoy yourself. Today is the celebration of Yavannah’s good graces and her bountiful fruitfulness. The goal is to eat and drink until you can’t eat and drink anymore!”

Now, the looks on all of the dwarves’ faces was an absolute pleasure! While a little underhanded to use their titles against one of them like that, Bilbo thought it a nice reminder of the respect that should be between them. If some of the dwarves have the wherewithal to adhere to his culture, then so can he (and so, too, can other more notably rude dwarves). It rolled quite easily off the tongue, anyway.

Apparently, Dwalin didn’t need to be told twice on indulging himself. As Bilbo learned, the sour dwarf enjoyed both the misery of others and a bottomless mug, although not necessarily in that order. All dwarves present also took Bilbo to his word, happily leaving behind the dour mood to instead partake in the bounty provided by The Shire. Bilbo found hobbits and dwarves were really not so different, outside of the few observable factors. His new dwarf companions occupied themselves with emptying and stacking plates, splashing ale across their beards, and engaging in quite aggressive physical affection. Bilbo winced with every vicious crack of foreheads between the merry band. So long as they didn’t get too drunk and start thinking he was a beardless dwarf in need of a good cracked skull, Bilbo cheered them on good-naturedly.

Even Thorin participated in the revelry, although in a more contained way. It was a far cry from his first day in The Shire, that was for sure. Bilbo preferred this prince to the one brewing a perpetual storm, salting Bilbo’s wounds with awful insults. Of course, it wouldn’t do to stare like an idiot at Thorin the whole time. Instead, he showed considerable discipline as he turned his eyes outward, past his rowdy table.

Everyone in attendance did their part in enjoying everything offered. There were plates of food in every open hand, and if not a plate then a cup, or a shoulder, or a waist, or a hand, or flowers.

He couldn’t ignore the number of colorful wreaths hung around some hobbit’s shoulders nor dainty crowns in the hair of others. Peek romance for any hobbit was offering your prospective love a well-curated, thoughtful flower creation on Midyear’s Day. From long married couples to newlyweds to awkward tweens, and everything in between.

The weeks after were rife with weddings, too, as Midyear’s Day was prime time for proposals. Bilbo definitely spotted a few proposal crowns on heads to match the flushed complexions of lasses and lads hopelessly in love. He wished them well.

Now, he almost missed it, but Bilbo did a double-take when his scanning caught a very interesting sight indeed. Primula found herself separated from her family, as was not unusual. Faunts of her age preferred the company of their peers over family during Midyear’s Day, after all. The unusual part was who she happened to find company with. It looked to be a group of tweens, older judging by the height. There were a couple heads of chestnut, maybe a sandy blonde or two, but he definitely noticed one head of black.

Drogo Baggins was considered a very handsome young hobbit thanks to his Baggins genes— Bilbo’s mother had always spoken about how Bungo made all the lasses swoon back in the day with his practical habits, quiet voice, and hair as dark as his ink-stained fingers.

Baggins by name, Bilbo never did outgrow his Tookish looks like his grandmother hoped for.

As Bilbo watched, words were exchanged between Drogo and Prim along with something else between their hands. Bilbo couldn’t see exactly what it was past the bustling crowd. He assumed it was all well and good, though, seeing as Drogo patted Prim courteously on the head before she raced off. Just a bit down the way, a gaggle of giggling friends welcomed Primula back into their ranks, and judging by the hopping and twirling about, Prim gave them good news. They looked like they were having fun.

Ah, to be young again.

Before Bilbo fell into a nostalgic, almost melancholic, train of thought, a thick stomach blocked his view. Through a second sense, Bilbo’s gut told him to be weary. Honestly, the pompous stance, hands on hips, and cocked leg was all Bilbo needed to see for him to know that it was Sigismond, come to personally get under his skin.

Irritating dwarves Bilbo could handle— Sigismond Took was in a league all on his own.

“Bilbo. Happy to see you,” Sigismond drawled, disinterested.

“Sigismond. Likewise,” Bilbo shot back. Around him, the dwarves continued their celebrations without much of a care for the new hobbit in their midst. They’ve lost track of the many who’ve already visited Bilbo. When Sigismond did not take his leave immediately after his lovely greeting, Bilbo’s suspicions grew like a weed. He waved his hand dismissively. “Well, wonderful of you to drop by. Give Aster my regards.” Yavannah knows Bilbo wouldn’t do it in person. How Sigismond found a hobbit just like his mother was anyone’s guess.

Sigismond hadn’t caught the hint to leave. He huffed impatiently, crossing his arms before jabbing a thumb to his left.

“The lads wanted to know if you’d be joining us for the competition or if you’d continue being a wet blanket, dearest cousin,” Sigismond sneered. That got the attention of some of the dwarves. Bilbo tried not to sigh and cover his head with his arms as he heard them steer their attention to the hobbits. Rather, he forced a smile he hoped conveyed a proper decorum; judging by Sigsmond’s twitch of the lip, it didn’t quite reach.

“No, thank you. My decision remains the same as it did last year.” May that be the end of the conversation! Well, Bilbo should have known better.

The derisive scoff he received in response was anything but respectful. Bilbo just about let the Took know, in very choice words, that his attitude was unwarranted and to leave him be. He didn’t want to waste time having their usual back-and-forth! However, those words weren’t proper in polite company, so as the heat settled like flames on his tongue, he pressed his lips together in a tight seal. His eyes were another story, unfortunately.

Whatever Sigismond saw there made him smirk like a hare in Bilbo’s vegetable patch. It was exactly what he needed to push further, it appeared.

“Come on. You don’t want your dwarf friends to think you're a weak little hobbit, now do you?” He coaxed.

“Of course I do, darling cousin, seeing as I am a weak little hobbit, you know.” Bilbo demurely tilted his head, which never failed to make a vein pop on Sigismond’s jaw. Whatever his goal was with this asinine conversation, Sigismond wouldn’t win. Bilbo refused to act like a brute in front of Thorin, not when he’s finally made some progress. Sigismond stepped closer, threatening if a hobbit could ever be such a thing, and Bilbo just about stood up to meet him, but an arm hooked itself about Sigismond’s shoulders and yanked him back. From underneath Bilbo, his bench creaked as weight shifted back onto the old wood, although he hadn’t moved. One of the dwarves, perhaps.

“What’s this about weak?” Jago’s jolly tone cut the tension in Bilbo, allowing his shoulders to fall, Dear Sigismond found himself thoroughly uncomfortable, however, with a Boffin’s arm pinning him to Jago’s side, no way of escape. Serves him right, thought Bilbo.

“I was simply reminding Sigismond my stance on my participation with the drinking game,” Bilbo informed, tone light despite the unease dripping down his spine; the conversation was growing longer than necessary, and the longer it drew, the more likely his companions will grow unnecessarily speculative.

Jago, ever quick-witted, picked up on exactly what happened. He let out a quick burst of a laugh, shaking Sigismond in his hold.

“I knew you weren’t going to convince him,” Jago laughed again, longer and from the gut, as though he heard a good joke. “Weak, indeed! If Bilbo’s weak, then I’m afraid to know what the rest of us are. Wasn’t it last time Bilbo joined the game, Siggy, you got a broken nose and a hangover a week long?”

If the table hadn’t been listening in by then, their total silence was sign enough they were now. Sigismond’s face burned an embarrassed pink as he sputtered under Jago’s headlock, but Bilbo considered himself the more humiliated one. The back of his head felt like he had eight suns trained on it, including the one in the sky, burning straight through his skull; goodness, if the dwarves stared any harder, he’d probably spark worse than kindling. His nose twitched as he combed through his curls, hoping to stop them from singeing right off.

Eventually, Jago dropped his arm from Sigismond, who clucked vehemently to himself. He fussed with his clothes before retreating a step back. Ha! Put in his place. Bilbo was just grateful he wasn’t the one who had to do it— again. Not in front of company.

“Now, Bilbo,” Jago said good-humoredly, “we all know how you feel and all, but why not give it one final go? What with this being your last year and all, I would think you’d want to go out with a bang!”

If Bilbo was afraid his face burned brighter than a poppy, well, Jago’s words drained any and all color straight from it. The taboo subject, and he wasn’t even the one who brought it up. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder, trying not to wince. As he suspected, all the dwarves had trained their eyes on him, all except the one he wanted to see. The prince faced forward, sparing not even the briefest of looks his way. Bilbo thought the small space between them had grown wider. It certainly felt wider— wider than an entire ocean, in fact.

He regarded his cousins once more with a final refusal, a definitive answer. Unable to hold back the gloominess in his voice, Bilbo hoped the others thought it related to denying the invitation. He thought he played it off well enough, anyway. Jago took his answer easily, no harm done he’d said. Sigismond wore quite the sour expression, but he said nothing more. They waved themselves goodbye, venturing into the endless sea of hobbits, to the Took tables assumedly.

They left quite the void in their wake— tense and reserved. So opposite to the celebrations the dwarves relished in earlier, and Bilbo couldn’t help but blame himself. He picked nervously at the stitching of his waistcoat, mind reeling on what to do. How could he turn it back around without making it worse?

“So, how’s a ‘weak little hobbit’ like you go about giving bloody noses and hangovers, ay?” A voice, wholly unknown to Bilbo, declared right into his ear.

Bilbo yelped, jumping away from the tickle as a satisfied chuckle echoed him. His heart raced faster than a pony’s gallop, and he implored the Gods to allow him to survive the rest of this courtship before he keeled over from stress. Across the table, while Bilbo calmed himself down, Dori immediately reprimanded the new prankster, white beard contrasting the upset red underneath.

“Nori! By Mahal’s Beard, leave the poor thing alone! Have you no shame?” He said.

Nori— Bilbo assumed there was some family relation what with that name. With the worry of his heart popping out of his ribs assuaged, Bilbo observed the new dwarf as he settled himself snug against Ori’s other side, on the very edge of their bench.

Really, he should have found a bigger table.

If Ori and Dori looked nothing alike, Nori wasn’t really the missing link between them. Bilbo thought Dori’s braids were elaborate, but Nori’s styling blew him out of the water! The three-pointed star on his head and the three stiff braids of his beard put the other dwarves to shame, almost. Bilbo never knew hair could go straight up like that! And with each hair in place, not a single piece frayed. Incredibly impressive.

“I didn’t mean to scare him! Not my fault halflings spook worse than a troll at dawn,” Nori objected, snatching the opportunity to grab at an unsupervised mug. Bilbo realized too late it was his mug. The two brothers argued back and forth over Ori’s head, who simply crouched down over his plate. He looked not too concerned. It must be a common dynamic between the two. Eventually, Dori acquiesced, shaking his head and sighing heavily in a practiced motion, like anything he said would do nothing to change Nori’s actions.

“Mister Bilbo,” he said eventually, “my brother, Nori.”

“Son of Zhori, at your service,” Nori finished, although the way he mumbled it into his drink told Bilbo it may not be entirely genuine. Dori, and even Ori, let out exasperated groans. “Now, you didn’t answer my question.”

Yet another round of chiding from Dori as Bilbo couldn’t stand it anymore. He groaned and hid his face with his hands.

“Must I say?” Bilbo quietly lamented. The resounding replies were mixed.

There was of course Nori, who seemed to have no care about decorum and was the loudest to demand Bilbo spit it out; Dwalin was right alongside him. Bilbo knew right then those two were echo chambers of awful ideas, dangerous for his sensibilities. Dori and Ori, at least, were quick to defend Bilbo, assuring him he had every right to not share if it clearly made him uncomfortable. Balin and Bofur agreed with them, too, although when he peeked through his fingers, Bilbo recognized a glint of curiosity playing in their eyes. Balin seemed to have an affinity for interesting stories, and Bofur held a boundless love for new information of any kind. They didn’t mean anything malicious, though. Bifur growled underneath everyone, but Bilbo had no clue what side he was on. He couldn’t understand him.

“Master Baggins.”

Bilbo’s heart really couldn’t take any more sudden palpitations. Thorin spoke quietly below all the arguments, but Bilbo heard every word clearly. That deep voice, like a far off rockslide, demanded Bilbo’s attention without even saying so. Between his fingers, Bilbo chanced a look to Thorin. Endless blue received him.

“Do not speak if it is not something you wish for us to know,” said Thorin. More like commanded, if Bilbo were to be honest. He spoke with an air of “do-as-I-say”, even at an almost whisper, as though his words were law and to not be disobeyed. Honestly, his tone was quite rude for something that was meant to be comforting, or at least what Bilbo assumed was meant to be comforting. It was kind of him, though, in his own royal way. Of course, Bilbo couldn’t ignore that same glimmer of curiosity he spotted in Balin and Bofur where it shined like a beacon in His Highness’s eyes.

Bilbo let out a resigned sigh.

“I… do not mind,” he murmured. All at once, every mouth buttoned itself shut and the quiet lull fell over the table once more. Bilbo wasn’t a fan of the smug smirks playing on Nori and Dwalin’s faces. Admiring a whorl carved into the table, he dared not fall prey to Thorin’s blue eyes again as he took a deep breath. “During Midyear’s Day, the Took relations hold an annual drinking competition. It’s not official by any regards— just drunk fools getting together to get even more drunk and even more foolish.”

He paused, and they waited. By that point, he refused to meet any of the gazes. His Baggins propriety was screaming at him to stop before he fully disgraced himself before a royal prince. He was already low-born— well, compared to royalty, anyway. But to act as such? Certainly Thorin would snub him, and Bilbo couldn’t afford that. He weighed his options.

“And? You knocked that prick on his arse, or what?” Nori chimed in unhelpfully. Bilbo hid himself further between his shoulders, so much so one might compare him to a turtle.

“Sigismond Took,” Bilbo ground the name between his teeth, “and I have never seen eye-to-eye, I’m afraid. Ever since we were faunts. When we’re around one another, I’m… reluctant to say I lose my temper. Just a bit.”

Bofur snorted, “Well, if he’s like that all the time, I certainly wouldn’t blame you!” There was a consensus of agreement from the rest of the table. Bilbo gave up a halfhearted chuckle.

“Actually, he was quite tame today, if you’d believe it. I had an unfortunate fighting streak back in the day, and he simply knew how to, erm, push my buttons, you could say. While I’ve learned to ignore him, back in my younger years… well.” Bilbo shrugged. “The drinking competition gave me reason to let loose, and with Sigismond around, letting loose also meant… uh…”

“Letting fists fly?” Dwalin supplied. Bilbo groaned, embarrassed once more by the memory.

“It was the last time I participated!” He swore, “I felt absolutely terrible about it when I could remember it clearly the next day. Mind you, he did goad me, but I could hardly blame him. He had the right to complain about me not giving him and the others a chance at winning—”

“Now, now, hold on! What do you mean ‘have a chance?’” Dwalin interrupted.

When Bilbo mustered enough courage to look at his audience, he was startled by how captivated they all were. They had all leaned closer to him, and Bilbo thought he noticed the smallest bits of approval behind Dwalin’s smirk. Nori too, although his smile was wide with delight, teeth and all.

“I— erm. Well, I had a little bit of a winning streak going before I quit. For a… few years in a row,” Bilbo said cautiously. Hands splayed across the table, Ori jumped forward.

“Years! How many?” He asked in awe.

Bilbo, wide-eyed and unsure, grew flustered under their intense attention. “Five years, before I decided enough was enough.”

Somehow, Bilbo had gained a bit of respect from the group of dwarves around him. They huffed and puffed, reaching over to clap him across the arm and back. If they couldn’t reach, their loud words of praise were a good substitute.

Certainly, they all loved to indulge in the drink, and he saw how they loved a good wrestling amongst themselves, but he assumed they wouldn’t want that from a hobbit. Hobbits are polite and mannerly! Bilbo was raised to be the very best, to uphold the propriety every Baggins should. It was why he looked back on his young years with such mortification. It took almost a decade to rewrite how others saw him— he had to work double hard to prove he was every bit Baggins as his father before hobbits stopped seeing him as a rough, strange Took.

And yet, he didn’t see any judgement from these dwarves. Even Thorin seemed to enjoy the story with no signs of disdain or disgust.

Suddenly, Nori piped up, “can you prove it?”

Bilbo was caught off guard. “Prove?”

“Aye. You said you won for five years straight— I wanna know if you can prove it. I ain’t calling you a liar, but I just find it hard to believe a little fellow like you can out drink anyone.”

Bilbo bristled. The nerve to insinuate he was small in any regard! He was of average height, thank you, and his belly was well fed and quite plump if the extra notch he added to his belt just a couple months ago had anything to say. But, then again…

Dwarves were larger than hobbits in every aspect. Even Ori, smallest of them, made Bilbo look petite. Put Bilbo next to someone like Thorin and—

Nope. He wasn’t going to let that thought derail him.

“Well,” Bilbo attempted, “I’m no spring chicken anymore, I wouldn’t say—”

“Oh, aye. I get it. You’re just chicken now,” Nori teased.

“I didn’t say that,” Bilbo replied quickly, to which Nori’s smile spread wider. He looked like a cat that got the cream.

“Wonderful!” At the same time, a great many mugs were slammed to the tabletop. Bilbo barely avoided the ale that sloshed over the full rims. Bifur and Bofur returned to their seats on the other side of Thorin as everyone happily took up a new cup. Bilbo thought to turn them down, but when Balin and Thorin both reached out for a mug (thanks to the insistent harassment of Dwalin) Bilbo wondered what the harm would be. And so, he also claimed a mug of ale, to which all of the dwarves cheered.

The rest was a bit of a blur. Bilbo wasn’t sure how their supply never ran out as he didn’t think he saw anyone stand up and get more, but the drinks were free-flowing! With the amount of amber liquid that spilled throughout, Bilbo wondered if anyone was really drinking or if it was getting lost in their tunics and beards.

So, they carried on. Bilbo hadn’t a clue how long, but eventually dwarves started dropping from the competition like flies, either because they knew they reached their limit, or one more sip would make them sick, and they didn’t need to add more mess to the table.

Ultimately, Nori was the final winner, and Bilbo watched as little bags of coins flew between hands. There was a squabble, of course. Dori, Bifur, and Dwalin were certain Nori did not win through righteous means, and Bilbo had a feeling they were probably right. He also felt they’d never prove themselves with evidence. Nori’s patronizing grin told him as much.

Bilbo had not been the winner, not by a long shot, and he was fine by that. Despite indulging in the competition, he didn’t really make an attempt. Still, a couple mugs of ale were more than enough to leave him pleasantly buzzing. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed the lightheaded joy of being a bit sauced. Beside him, Thorin, too, had held back. He hadn’t chugged drink like the others, but Bilbo recognized the signs of being a mug too deep. Bilbo especially enjoyed watching a rosy color creep across His Highness’s cheeks like spilled ink across parchment. It was quite enchanting, and it made the pale color of Thorin’s eyes pop even more.

The day walked on, filled with merriment and fun by all in The Shire. Hobbits danced and sang bawdy songs, faunts played games amongst themselves, and Bilbo found himself thoroughly enjoying his place amongst dwarves. They were rough, yes, but whenever they included him, they were very kind and gentle. Oh, to be included, too, was very nice, indeed! He’d grown so used to living in the solitude of Bag End, visited occasionally by (mostly) well-mannered family, he’d forgotten what it was like to laugh with others he didn’t need to impress. Perhaps Bilbo should have been more focused on impressing them, but he didn’t care at that moment. The alcohol helped release him from his worries, but there were other things. Over the course of the day, the distance between Bilbo and Thorin shrank. Bilbo wasn’t sure when it happened, but when he had laughed too hard for his inebriated balance to catch, a sturdy shoulder held him upright. Even through fabric, Thorin was warm— like a blanket heated by a fireplace. Comforting and enticing.

Bilbo couldn’t pull back, didn’t have the strength, and Thorin didn’t mind. So, they sat side by side, arms touching occasionally. It was a type of thrilling Bilbo had never experienced.

As dinner zipped by and supper next after, the dancing picked up as the sunny sky’s palette began to melt with the sun’s gradual retreat. Hobbits migrated to the dancing space, dancing as one amongst themselves as flowers and petals flew about them. A pang echoed hollowly between Bilbo’s ribs at the sight, another reminder of a romance lost in the years. It was bittersweet, as it always was. Even the soft warmth from Thorin’s proximity couldn’t quite chase away the longing.

From across the table, Ori’s voice startled Bilbo, “What are those flowers for, Master Baggins?” He pointed a wobbly finger off towards a pair of hobbit lasses, one who had just accepted a lovely crown of something pink and white. Bilbo’s vision was a little too blurry to be certain what the flowers actually were.

Bilbo looked confused for a moment, then he realized. He stated, “the flowers are a gift of courting, or of affection for ones so young. You give flower crowns to express intent, usually made by yourself, but not always— remember the Flower Crown Competition yesterday? Then, you’ll dance until your feet just about fall off, I’d imagine.”

Immediately, Bilbo felt Thorin’s arm tense as it brushed against him. Before Bilbo could wrap his head around it, though, Ori’s finger whipped around to a new target.

“And what of those off by the trees?”

Once the distant hills stopped tilting, and Bilbo realized what he was looking at, he blushed up to his ears.

He hastily averted his gaze. Where Ori pointed, several sneaky tweens melted into the tree lines— into the woods, their colorful clothing and flowers disappearing behind thickets and shadows.

“Those, ahem, er— ah. Well.” Bilbo considered lying, but Ori asked in good faith. It would be rude to not answer properly. “They are… most likely off to frolic. As one does at that age.”

Obviously, Ori didn’t understand. His lip popped out into a pout, trying to decipher Bilbo’s statement.

“And that entails…?” He prodded.

Oh, how to explain! It was such a common thing in The Shire, to discuss amongst adults simply wasn’t necessary. You’d be considered a dirty old lecher for prying! What one does in a frolic was between you and your partner, and it was no one else’s business. But, Bilbo mustn’t hold it against Ori. He was only a dwarf, after all. How was he to know? Bilbo found an interesting pattern in the bench to occupy his attention. It felt dirty to make eye contact while explaining something so intimate.

“Oh dear… it’s a, erm, not-so-official tradition of Midyear's Day that the tweens engage in… their own celebrations off in the forest. It’s where they— well. It’s when they… uh, you know…” he mumbled, barely loud enough for the others at the table to hear under the cheer around them.

“I know?” Ori asked incredulously. He sounded like he had no clue.

“Certainly! You know… they’re…” Bilbo flapped his hand about as if that explained the details. Ori seemed only the more confused. It was with an exacerbated sigh that Nori shoved his brother lightly on the shoulder.

“They’re tuppin’, Ori,” he snorted, far too loudly.

Bilbo instantaneously shot up from his seat, hands slamming on the table. All the dwarves spared him strange looks. It was the biggest emotion Bilbo expressed to them, something not quite so soft and deferring as was his usual. He couldn’t help it, though! His body was on fire, his face practically flaming as he tried to even process such a… a… licentious word! And in public! It was as if his brain shut down, broken and replaying that word over and over again until, finally, he let out a baffled noise to explain all of his thoughts on the matter. The noise, in and of itself, was embarrassing. 

“Master Nori, by Yavannah, they are doing no such thing!”

“No? You made it seem like they’d be coming back with more of those lil’ pebbles leaping about.” The things coming from Nori’s mouth were worse by the minute! Bilbo covered his own mouth in disbelief.

“It never escalates to that, goodness!” He squawked. “That’s… no! Never! A little bit of necking and touching, surely, but never—!”

“Do ya know from experience, Mister Bilbo?” Nori taunted.

Bilbo slumped back onto the bench, completely worn out as laughter rang out around him. He felt lightheaded, like he’d run from Bywater and back. He almost fanned himself, but he felt foolish to be so overwhelmed by something barely worse than some bawdy songs he’s heard at the Green Dragon. It was as if he were a tween again, his cousins teasing him for being so easy to provoke— except that hadn’t happened in ages. 

As all the dwarves twittered and teased Bilbo, clearly relishing in his reactions— Balin saying something about youth while Bifur shouting up a phrase that had Bofur almost doubling over— Thorin shifted. He barely moved, really. The smallest roll of his shoulders, although Bilbo only knew because of their point of contact. Quicker than thunder after lightning, all the cackling was cut short.

As though nothing had ever happened, Dori prompted Balin on his business from the previous day. Bilbo was immensely grateful when the good times rolled on, bypassing the mortifying conversation all together with no follow-up questions, thank Eru.

He savored the opportunity to sit silently and listen. And if his weight was pressed a little closer to Thorin’s side, His Highness made no moves to displace him.

It was as the sun sank deeper and deeper, the sky beginning to bruise, that a yelling snagged Bilbo’s attention from his cozy bubble. It yanked on his thoughts, drawing him towards it. As he swiveled around, he caught sight of Mirabella. She had her hands cupped to mouth as she yelled again, eyes jumping about from hobbit to hobbit, searching for something within the crowd. When her eyes glimpsed Bilbo, she made an urgent beeline towards him. Her clear distress made Bilbo’s stomach flip, and his brain fog wiped itself away instantly.

“Bilbo, Your Highness,” she greeted nervously, barely keeping up her etiquette, “forgive my interruption. I won’t be bothering you long, I just. Has Primula been over to visit? Have you seen her around, at the very least?” Her eyes were large and glassy, a frantic hope playing across them, but when Bilbo frowned, the hope shriveled up.

“No, she hasn’t come by, and I haven’t seen her in hours,” said Bilbo. He sat straighter as his aunt’s shoulders shuddered through a hiccuping breath. “Why? What’s going on?”

Mirabella made considerable effort to not panic, although barely. “We can not find her! I knew she’d wander off, she always does, but Amaranth and Asphodel haven’t seen her since luncheon, and Dinodas said he saw her last with her friends, but they said they haven’t seen her since before supper, and I— she’s not here! She’s not anywhere in the Party Field. She knows better than to just leave on her own, but I don’t know where— but she’s—!” the longer she spoke, the shorter her breaths got. Bilbo scrambled up, reaching out to hold her shoulders.

“Now, now, Aunt Mira! It’s like you’ve said, yeah? She knows to not go far on her own. She’s around here somewhere. She always is! She probably just found a little nook to hide herself in, right? We just need to keep looking,” Bilbo comforted. Mira’s wet eyes had yet to drop full tears; she quickly swept them away as Bilbo spoke, steeling herself and nodding. Bilbo was right! They would continue their search together, and they would find her soon.

Bilbo forgot about his little pack of dwarves as he followed impulsively behind his aunt, asking her to recount where they'd already checked. He only remembered when someone barked at him from behind and demanded he hold. When he turned and found Thorin glaring down at him, Bilbo held back a sigh.

He didn’t have time to play what-did-Bilbo-do-to-piss-off-royalty right then! Just when he was about to put his foot down, and perhaps none-too-kindly, Thorin cut him off.

“I will help,” Thorin grunted. It left Bilbo struck mid-chastising, finger poised, staring shocked at the prince. Something flashed over Thorin’s face— Amusement? Annoyance?— before Bilbo shook himself awake.

“Yes! Right! Aunt Mira said she’ll go back to the Brandybuck tables to update Gorbadoc. Rory and Saradas are by the party tree, Asphodel is double-checking the food tables, and Amaranth is going through all the tents with Dinodas. I planned to go through the dancing space—”

“Then, I will follow you,” asserted Thorin. Well, no arguing with that! With a curt nod, they were off.

All parties involved in the search scoured the grounds, if not double-checking then triple-checking every inch of the party field. Gorbadoc and Mirabella even took to knocking on nearby smials, but to no avail. Primula was nowhere to be found, and the longer she remained missing, the worse the pit of dread grew inside Bilbo. If Bilbo was feeling terrible, Mirabella was on the verge of something far worse. She was a mother who had known the loss of a young faunt before, one of the few who experienced the very worst thing any hobbit could feel. No one knew of someone who could handle another devastation like that and remain intact. The clock was ticking down as the sun settled into its basket of hills and trees.

Dangers were on the decline, yes, but that didn’t mean The Shire was completely free of it. Orcs never made it far enough to reach Newbury, let alone Hobbiton, but wolves were always around. The dwarven warriors did their best to keep wolf numbers down, but they were still out there. A group of hobbits were safe enough, but a lone fauntling lass? It was a threat that pressed on the back of Bilbo’s mind, growing larger and louder as his and Thorin’s search came up empty once more.

However, as Bilbo reported back to a distraught Mirabella, who had been interviewing with Prim’s friends once more, a couple approached them.

“Cousin Bilbo!” One of the hobbits called out, leading the other by hand. It was Drogo Baggins and a lass with fluffy flaxen curls and full, red cheeks. If Bilbo was mistaken, which he rarely was when it came to his fellow hobbits, he was certain she was a Goldworthy girl. Hydrangea, he thought was her name.

As they drew closer, their hands dropped.

“Cousin Bilbo,” Drogo said again, quieter as they came to a stop before them. Bilbo squinted as he studied the young Baggins, something strange about the lad. He was a little weary for air, as though he’d rushed to reach them, and there was an apprehensive fidget to his stance. He kept shifting between his feet like a faunt ready to take a scolding.

Bilbo stood taller, hands on his hips. 

“Drogo! What is it? What’s the matter?” He prompted. Drogo scratched the back of his neck.

“We heard about Primula. We, uh, we saw her. Earlier.” Even though he gave the information willingly, it sounded like he wasn’t very thrilled to share it. In fact, he sounded guilty. Before Bilbo could pry further, Mirabella immediately jumped forward.

She clasped her hands in front of herself, desperate. “Oh, Drogo! Where? Where did you see her?”

As if struck by a palm, Drogo’s head dropped. He couldn’t look Mira in her eyes, and his restlessness grew more animated. Bilbo’s heart stuttered. Something wasn’t right. Did something happen? What did Drogo know?

It took far too long for Drogo to answer, especially when he carried such precious information, but a whisper from the Goldworthy girl forced him to begrudgingly continue. He took to scratching angry lines into his arm.

“About two hours ago, I think, Primula— ugh. Erm, Heidi and I were in the, the woods. Primula… happened upon us there, and she— b-but she ran away! I thought she came back here, Cousin Bilbo, I swear! If I had known she didn’t come back, we would have—”

Mirbella’s voice was shrill as she cried, panicked, “the woods? The woods? No, why would she— faunts aren’t allowed in the woods! She knows better, it’s Midyear’s Day! She knows that—”

Suddenly, one of Primula’s friends, a tiny Grubb, jumped out of her group, a wild-eyed rage fueling her. She would have charged at Drogo if it weren’t for the other faunts frantically pulling her back.

“She only went because you accepted her crown, Drogo Baggins!” She hissed viciously, so furious that, if she was released, she might’ve actually bitten Drogo’s head clean off. She threw some explicit names in his direction before breaking down into a crying fit. With gentle coaxing, her friends dragged her into a gentle circle of cooing and shushing.

A fiery heat singed itself through Bilbo, lighting up his nerves like lightning cracking a tree in two. Connections zipped through Bilbo in rapid succession, from one to the next.

Primula’s special someone. A flower crown of dog violets and periwinkles. Primula and Drogo together. Primula giving him something. Drogo patting her on the head. Ori asking about frolics. The woods. Primula in the woods with Drogo—

He came to the same realization just as Mirabella did, but Bilbo was moving before either could think. Catching Drogo by the ear, he yanked the tween to his knees in the matter of seconds. The yelping cry from Drogo was barely registered as blood raced beneath Bilbo’s skin. He was running on emotion rather than rationale.

“Drogo Baggins,” Bilbo spat, tone icy but measured, “no Baggins are you, you absolute degenerate. You mean to tell me you accepted a crown from a faunt and, and what? Intended to lure her out into the woods? If Missus Brandybuck doesn’t string you up for the birds, and I don’t put you in the dirt right here and now, I dare not wonder what your poor mother would do to you once she—”

Before him, Drogo whimpered. He had lost all color in his complexion, his blood pounding painfully in the ear under Bilbo’s fingers. His face was scrunched into a painful grimace as he crumbled further when Bilbo wound his hand tighter, but Bilbo didn’t care. What Drogo had done was unspeakable, unforgivable. Faunts were a blessing! Young and naive. To take advantage of that innocence was a punishable offense across many races, and Hobbits were no different in that regard. Children were sacred, of any age, and the crime was not taken lightly. As the head of the Baggins family, Bilbo was forced to take matters into his own hands.

Just as Bilbo felt his fury burned brighter, unoccupied hand balling into a fist, someone grabbed frantically at his arm. When he shrugged it off, it came back twice as urgent. A head of blonde and tear-tracked red cheeks blocked his view of Drogo, just when Drogo looked on the verge of passing out.

Hydrangea Goldworthy cried, “Mister Baggins, please! It was only a jape! Drogo didn’t mean it, really he didn’t! He was just humoring her, honest, Mister Baggins!”

Bilbo barely understood what she was saying; he was so incensed. His mind, body, and soul demanded he gain retribution, but he reeled it in enough to wrench Drogo forward.

“Is that true?” He hissed. The tween had no words, for his throat could only produce meek little whines, but he nodded as best as he could in Bilbo’s unyielding grip. Bilbo stared at him for a long moment, assessing. Drogo dared to stare back, but only because he feared what would happen if he didn’t.

With a grunt, Bilbo released Drogo, who immediately crumpled to the ground and held a soothing hand to his ear. Hydrangea comforted him, although he didn’t seem to hear her.

Bilbo felt a pang. No one liked seeing young ones so upset, but it had to be done. The two tweens huddled themselves within Bilbo’s endless shadow as it stretched under the sun’s decline, making Bilbo stand heads taller. Since his blood still sang, he took a moment to regain some of his senses.

Finally, he spoke, no longer cold, but simply exhausted— frustrated, “So, playing with her feelings was the goal? A degenerate you may not be, Drogo Baggins, but a scoundrel is no better. You will tell Missus Mirabella right this instant where, exactly, you last saw her daughter and return to your parents before I change my mind about knocking some sense into your thick skull.”

As Hydrangea helped Drogo to his feet, albeit unstable, Mirabella waited and listened. Her eyes still blazed as she glared down the tweens. Mordor hath no wrath like a mother scorned. Drogo stammered through his words, eventually explaining where, approximately, they were in the woods. He described two oak trees covered in moss. Vague, but at least it was a starting point.

Mirabella dismissed all the young hobbits— Drogo, Hydrangea, and Primula’s friends— as Bilbo stepped away. If anyone heard him cursing about “daft tweens”, they did not! Whatever he said was between him and Yavannah.

The Brandybucks were rounded up, all old enough to be out on their own, along with Bilbo and Thorin. As Gorbadoc explained the new game plan, fanning into the woods to cover as much space as they could, Bilbo briefly glanced over at the dwarf.

Goodness, what a terrible Midyear’s Day for royalty to visit! He can only imagine what Thorin thought about hobbits now, losing a child when there were eyes everywhere. As always, the prince gave up nothing through his face— stoic as always. It appeared he wasn’t ready to abandon the search, though. He had stuck by Bilbo’s side throughout the entire thing, and it seemed he had no plans to change that.

Oh no, Bilbo thought, dismayed when he remembered the absolute scene he had made earlier. The prince had been there the entire time. If there weren’t more pressing matters to worry about, Bilbo would dig himself a hole and bury himself right then and there. A terrible Midyear’s Day, indeed, he sighed inwardly.

He would apologize for it later, once Primula was found.

The search party adopted chunks of the woods to survey, calling for Prim all the while looking through every tree, shrub, and patch of weeds. The sun had set; darkness overtook their vision worse than a blindfold. A full moon was no help when the light struggled to penetrate the thick canopy above. Bilbo wiped at his forehead, heaving a sigh.

Bilbo hadn’t heard the calls of the other party members in a while, so they must have been quite a ways away into the forest. And yet, still no Primula. Bilbo’s heart threatened to drop him to the ground like lead, but he trudged on. He couldn’t give up— not when she had to be out there somewhere.

Oh, Primula, sweetheart, where are you?

Thorin, up to that part, hadn’t spoken a word outside of the occasional yell for Prim. His voice carried, a boom through the tree line, and Bilbo could imagine it filling a throne room. It was where such a voice belonged. Not in a backwards country (to dwarves, anyway), searching uselessly for a child he barely knew. As the thought to send Thorin back to the party field— to return to his entourage— crossed his mind, Bilbo heard Thorin’s breath catch in his throat. Suddenly, in the stripes of faded moonlight, Thorin rushed at Bilbo. The sound of his boots tramping through underbrush and the intense look in his eyes sent Bilbo’s heart rate skyrocketing, frightened. Just as sudden, Thorin stopped moving, practically inches from Bilbo. When the dwarf leaned forward, Bilbo was very aware of how close their chests were to touching. He held his breath.

“A tree,” Thorin gasped. Blinking through the haze of his brain, Bilbo shook his head and gave Thorin a confused look.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A tree. Primula spoke of a tree,” Thorin said, irritated, like Bilbo was the idiot between them. Bilbo huffed at his audacity. In case he hadn’t realized, they were surrounded by trees! What good would knowing about a singular tree do in this situation—

Then, it clicked.

“... it’s where I always go to blow off steam and just think. So big I can fit inside pretty easy, and I bet you could, too! If you, you know, hunched your shoulders a bit. You’re more than welcome to use it, Your Highness, if you ever need to get away from Cousin Bilbo and his peculiarities.”

“... I was just telling Prince Thorin how lovely the oaks were in the autumn times, he’s so very lucky to stay in the Shire long enough to see them! The ones to the south of Bywater are some of the loveliest, wouldn’t you agree?”

“... Oh!” Bilbo gasped then, waving his hands about as adrenaline coursed through him. “That tree! Why that’s— brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of that, her tree! Of course!”

Bilbo thought he spotted a snarky eye roll from Thorin, but he pretended like he hadn’t.

“She told you where it was, yes? What did she say? I’m sure I’ll recognize it if you describe it!”

Then, they were off.

Thorin mentioned a twisted oak, large and old, with a giant hollow within. It sat beside a tiny pond that glowed beneath the moon, like it swallowed starlight. Bilbo knew exactly where that was. It was difficult to traverse through roots and thickets without proper lighting, and Bilbo stumbled more often than he would have cared to. He was also saved by thick arms more often than he would have cared to think about, because he knew for a fact it was something that’d plague his mind once this was all over.

Finally, they arrived at their destination. Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest as he caught his breath. As he knew it would, the tiny pool of water before them sat still, twinkling like stardust where the moon bounced across it’s surface. Thorin stood beside him, head whipping around like she’d be right there in the open. They called her name several times, but when only silence met them, it was like they were doused with a bucket of cold water.

Bilbo bit his lip to hold back his frustration, but that’s when he heard it— it had been easy to miss. A hiccup, a heartbreaking sniffle, muffed like a mouth was pressed to cloth. Like a small faunt hugging her knees to soothe herself.

Thorin, somehow moving through the brush like it was a breeze, found her first. Bilbo stumbled after him, finding the large dwarf kneeled before a much larger mangled oak. It sounded like he was speaking in a hushed voice, but his deep tone made anything he said disappear on the wind. Bilbo carefully approached, taking a knee beside him. In the tree was a large hole, carved by time, and within another hiccup could be heard. Thorin readily moved back as Bilbo scooted closer, a devastated noise leaving him.

They found Primula.

Poor thing looked so incredibly tiny, curled in on herself. Within the darkness, the moon barely offered any light, but she appeared physically unharmed. Emotionally, however…

“Oh, my darling,” Bilbo cooed sadly, opening his arms. Immediately, he had a whole lapful of hobbit, Prim pressing her face into his shoulder and sobbing with such strength it shook her whole body. He cradled her tightly, whispering gentle words to calm her down. She must have been so scared.

After what felt like an eternity, Primula’s shakes died down to little shudders and her breathing was stable enough that it didn’t seem like she’d fall into another fit. She mumbled something, but Bilbo didn’t catch it; She didn’t repeat herself. Instead, her body grew heavy in Bilbo’s embrace. Within seconds, Primula had fallen asleep, exhaustion finally catching up to her. Crying for hours, alone in the dark, was terribly draining. Bilbo was very intimate with that fact.

Of course, now that left him with a faunt almost his size, weight like a dead log, a far ways away from the party field. Bilbo didn’t think he had even the strength to roll her a few feet. He was exhausted in his own right. Disrupting him from his contemplation, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Above him, Thorin offered a hand.

He murmured softly, “I can carry her back.”

“Oh, thank Yavannah— Primula!”

Gorbadoc and Mirabella gathered their daughter from Thorin’s willing arms, holding her tightly between them as she returned it with a fierce embrace of her own. The rest of the Brandybuck children rushed in to join the pile, and Bilbo watched on with a content smile. Of course, he and Thorin were thanked ten times over, but he simply waved it away. No thanks were needed, after all. Sure, lethargy pulled at his eyes as an ache bloomed in his body without all the excitement keeping his blood pumping, and he was ready to fall into bed and not wake for another day, but he would have done it again in the blink of an eye.

Thorin, too, appeared more interested in a happy, whole family than anything offered for his good deed.

All around them, many hobbits had been clued in on the situation. There was much sighing and relieved whispers among the crowd, especially as the family was reunited.

Amongst the crowd, three hobbits broke away to approach Bilbo. Immediately, the fatigue fell away as he saw Drogo being prodded forward by his parents. Bilbo set his shoulders and held his hands in front of him, chin high as he looked down his nose at them. While the crisis was averted and no harm was done, none of this would have happened if things had been handled appropriately in the beginning. Bilbo waited patiently for their next move.

Fosco cuffed his son upside the head, and Bilbo held back his wince as he noticed how red Drogo’s ear still was.

Drogo drew himself up, body stiff but eyes bright as he met Bilbo’s glare headon. “Mister Baggins, I wholeheartedly apologize for causing all of this. I knew better, and yet I did not think of the consequences for my actions, and that hurt my fellow hobbits in the process. I regret my actions— will regret them for the rest of my days as I try to make it up to those I have wronged, like a proper Baggins should. Please, if you can find it in yourself to forgive a scoundrel, I humbly seek your forgiveness.” At the end, he bowed so deeply his nose just about struck the dirt at his feet.

Well, he was definitely a Baggins. There were no other hobbits quite so long-winded. With a sigh, Bilbo allowed himself to deflate.

“Stand up, lad, just looking at you is hurting my back.” Once Drogo was upright again, Bilbo threw a thumb over his shoulder. “While I appreciate your words, and I’m sure you’ll stand by them, I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologizing to, hm?”

With an understanding nod, Drogo was off in the direction Bilbo pointed, where the Brandybuck family had just released Prim from their cuddle pile. He was sure he’d be fine… probably. Now that that was out of the way, he directed his attention to Fosco and Rose, who looked just as remorseful as their son, if not more so. Fosco, ringing a cap between his sweaty hands, stepped forward.

“Mister Baggins, I formally apologize for my son’s actions. Clearly, we did not raise him right by the Baggins name. We are incredibly troubled by what has transpired, and we will do everything in our power that nothing like that happens again,” Fosco claimed, and Bilbo knew a groan and an eye roll would not be the best choice of action. Best to keep that to himself.

“You’ve been a Baggins longer than I have, sir, and know the reputation better than most, I suspect. I suggest you remind that son of yours before it becomes an issue of the family,” warned Bilbo. It was tame, really, but Bilbo wasn’t in the mood for family drama and retributions. He was in the mood for his favorite pillow under his head. Luckily, Fosco didn’t push, smiling gratefully for Bilbo’s mercy.

“Oh, absolutely, Mister Bilbo! Thank you, Mister Bilbo!”

Once they were gone, Bilbo turned around to check on how Drogo was faring. It seemed all words were done being said, as Drogo was presenting Mirabella and Gorbadoc, with Primula behind them, his impressive bowing technique. Everything seemed to be in order, then, at least he hoped so. He was done handling things for the rest of the night. And the next day, if he could help it. As he moved to retire for the night, he was caught off guard when a large body blocked his path.

It was Thorin, which should not have been as surprising as it was. He hadn’t left his side all day, after all.

Bilbo blinked up at him. Then, like a flash, Bilbo remembered how appalling he acted in front of his guest. Not only did he act like a fool during their Midyear’s Day celebration, he also acted boorishly by reprimanding Drogo in front of him, and he made him tramp for hours on end, only to make him carry Primula like a pack mule in the end.

Bilbo really didn’t have the energy, but he knew if he didn’t fix this it would come to bite him right in the arse later. He already didn’t have a good streak with the prince, so he couldn't avoid any more mistakes.

“Your Highness, I sincerely apologize for—” But before he could even begin, Thorin held up his palm to silence him.

“There have been enough pleas for forgiveness for the night. I believe I shall retire, as well.” As Thorin spoke, Bilbo thought he saw a small quirk of his lips. Well, Bilbo couldn’t really argue with that.

Bilbo hid his own smile in the night as Thorin walked him home.

Bilbo sucked in a much needed deep breath, basking in the gentle early afternoon air still tinted with Lithe’s florals. It mixed wonderfully with the Old Toby floating about from his pipe.

He was enjoying the second day of Lithe as many did: relaxing alone. It was largely accepted as a “recovery day” after Midyear’s Day, and with Bilbo’s little escapade yesterday, he thought he well deserved it! Goodness, he slept an extra four hours past his usual time, well past second breakfast. He was more than happy to spend the time catching up on his empty stomach, of course.

With the recovery day, Bilbo hadn’t seen any dwarves, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. His stress levels certainly appreciated the break, but his thoughts wouldn’t stop wandering to Thorin in his moments of quiet. While he wasn’t absolutely certain where he stood in the prince’s eyes, he could definitely confirm it was better than when they first met! That was progress, yes? Only eight more months to go! Whether that was a good thing or not, only time would tell.

Eventually, the Old Toby in his pipe burned too low to smoke, and that was Bilbo’s cue to return to the kitchen for a much anticipated luncheon.

And what a meal it was! His favorite comfort food of pork pie coupled with a nice bowl of porridge. Nothing too extravagant, but it filled him up and left him handsomely satisfied. The rest of his day looked much the same: lazing about, enjoying his time to himself, occasionally breaking his train of thought to put together a delightful meal to satiate any of his cravings.

Bilbo felt quite content for such an ordinary day.

However, something strange happened at the end to make it not quite so ordinary.

After supper (crispy chicken with butter-glazed carrots, as well as a wonderful apple tart with clotted cream for dessert), Bilbo stepped back outside for one final smoke before he turned in early for the night. He settled comfortably on his bench and casually pinched some pipeweed from his stash— he was running quite low. He’d need to make a run sometime the next day. Of course, before he could light up his pipe, something caught his attention.

He wasn’t alone on his bench; a little flower crown found itself as his companion where it laid beside him. Bilbo almost dropped his pipe at the sight of it. Blinking and rubbing his eyes confirmed that, yes, a flower crown sat beside him, and not just any flower crown, either!

It was the sassy little flower crown Thorin chose on Faunt Day. Bilbo would know. The darn thing had taunted him all that day, so he would recognize it anywhere.

Certainly, the petals looked a little crisp and wilted— as it happened when one didn’t care for them properly to be preserved. They were a few days old. Still, Bilbo thought it looked beautiful. Those flowers whispered to him as he gently scooped them up, and while Bilbo knew better than to listen to them, he blushed bashfully anyway.

He’d never received a flower crown before, not in such a context. Parents and friends and family, of course, but not this. While a certain someone absolutely didn’t know what forget-me-nots and periwinkles and cornflowers and bluebells— nor myrtles and baby’s breath— meant, especially when placed in a crown together, Bilbo still accepted it. It didn’t hurt anyone, right? After all, it was left there for him.

As Bilbo pressed the sweet buds to his nose, sniffing them delicately, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to fantasize. Only just a little.